The quince is an unlovely and ancient fruit.
Its origins are in Western Asia, like the apple, pear and rose to which it is related. It was known to the Greeks and Persians, and some of the earliest recorded recipes describe how to preserve it in honey. Scholars have even suggested that the fruit that tempted humankind and forced on us the double-edged knowledge of good and evil was not an apple, but the fragrant quince. It resembles a large, unruly apple – misshapen and unsound. The skin is thick and richly yellow, covered with grey fuzz that grows patchy as it ripens. When fresh, it has a perfumy floral odor, with overtones of peach and banana. When cooked, its aroma changes to a rich scent of apple mixed with pear and almond. The raw flesh is creamy white, dense and hard. It oxidizes quickly, becoming brown around the edges moments after cutting or peeling. Unexpectedly, cooking turns it to the clear, light red of early autumn leaves. Belying their lovely scent, most quinces are too hard, dry and tannic to be eaten raw, but slow simmering or baking transforms them to a lush, dense texture that is slightly grainy on the tongue.
Quinces were once relatively common in North American cooking, but the only recipes I could find were for baked or preserved quince in the original Fanny Farmer, James Beard’s American Cookery and the Joy of Cooking. In the UK, quinces were grown in household gardens, used for preserves, and added to apple pies and puddings to enhance their flavor. Jane Grigson in her book on fruit loving describes how to grow, select and store quinces, adding a stanza of Arabic poetry whose writer compares his lover to the succulent fruit.
Other literary references are scarce, but Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations reminded me that Edward Lear’s Owl and Pussycat,
Dined on mince, with slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon
In a fine pre-internet example of nonsense spawning further nonsense, Lear invented the word runcible and used it to describe ridiculous hats, cats and people in several of his poems. This piece of verbal foolery merged with the Victorian love of superfluous silverware and the runcible spoon took tangible form as a sort-of 19th century spork that was used for eating pickles or small hors d’oeuvres.
In Middle Eastern cooking quinces appear in sweets and preserves, but also in savory dishes, where they add tang to fish, meat and poultry. From the Arabs, southern Europeans learned to make a thick quince paste that is solid enough to be cut into pieces and eaten or used to fill pastries. The Portuguese marmelada, the origin of our marmalade, was originally made with quince until the widespread cultivation of sour oranges supplanted them. In Provence, pâte de coing is part of the traditional thirteen desserts served on Christmas Eve, symbolizing Christ and the apostles. In France and the UK, quince paste is served with cheese courses, along with pickles or chutney as a sweet contrast to pungent sheep cheese or salty cheddars.
In Latin America, dulce de membrillo comes in round flat tins and wedges of the fruity paste are sandwiched with soft mild cheese for a classic home-style dessert. In Argentina this combination is colloquially referred to as vigilante, or night watchman, because it can be tucked in a pocket and eaten to ward off hunger or boredom in the lonely hours between dark and dawn. When I first tried this treat at family dinners with my in-laws I was unimpressed, but I came to love the contrast of the tart-sweet grainy paste with the savory yeasty flavor and soft smooth texture of the cheese. It was a favorite with our children and a consoling remedy for injuries large or small.
Making dulce de membrillo is a relatively simple affair – very similar to apple butter, but with much less peeling because quinces are so large. I get mine at a local Middle-Eastern market where they usually appear in the winter, a lovely sunny yellow surprise when there isn’t much new or different on the shelves.
2-3 large quinces will make a fairly large amount of membrillo. After washing, peeling and coring the fruit, chopped them small so that they will cook faster. Don’t be concerned that the fruit browns when cut, it will change colour as it cooks in any case. Put the peels and cores in a pot with water to cover and simmer until they are very soft, then strain the liquid through a sieve. Measure the chopped fruit into the cleaned pot and add the cooking liquid plus additional water to come to half the volume. Add a few strips of lemon, orange or grapefruit rind and cook until the fruit is tender enough to be forced through a sieve. If the cooked fruit is too thick, add a bit more water. Putting the pulp through a sieve gets rid of stray bits of skin and core, as well as giving it a silky texture. Do not put the fruit through the food processor as this will make it starchy and glutinous. After sieving, measure the pulp and add the same amount of sugar and the juice of a lemon and/or orange. You can flavor the membrillo with a small amount of cinnamon, clove, vanilla bean, ginger (fresh or candied), cardamom or few grains of black pepper. Like jam or jelly, it is usually better to use whole rather than ground spices so that the finished paste will be translucent, not cloudy. Be sure not to add too much spice at the beginning, because the paste cooks down and the flavors can become aggressively strong. Another advantage of whole spices is that you can taste the membrillo as it cooks and remove them when you like the balance. Cook the dulce until it mounds on the spoon and cannot easily be poured off. It should be a dark red-gold color. Spread the paste in a shallow metal or ceramic dish so that it is about 1 inch thick.
In Spain they sometimes add candied orange peel, whole skinned almonds or orange-flower water at the end of cooking. There are many variations, so you can feel free to try your own. Let the membrillo cool and set for several days before cutting. It keeps almost indefinitely in the refrigerator (I once had some for over a year). If a thick preserve doesn’t appeal to you, just add less sugar (3/4 the volume of pulp) and cook until you have quince jam. This has the same lovely aroma and brings a whiff of antique oriental drama and mystery.