I find a quince so imbued with it's own heady fragrance it really needs little embellishment. A little sweet, be it sugar or honey, brings out the floral notes so redolent of Arabian evenings, cardamom and rose water sweet. A quince is nothing if not an introvert, hiding her perfumed beauty beneath a downy fur and presenting a hard exterior to the judging world. She certainly requires perseverance, a slow and tender touch. But our patience is rewarded with soft and yielding rosey hued flesh.
Every year I witnessed the ritualistic production of quince jelly by my mother and father. Like Süskind's Grenouille they worked on a mountain of the yellow fruit. Chopped, boiled, strained, separated and variously adulterated into the pure essence of quince. The alchemy of cloudy juice transformed into liquid gold is a magic of which I will never grow tired. However, in the absence of a muslin bag, a hook to hang it on or a spare weekend I prefer to bake them simply and slowly. Halved and cored, knobs of butter and spoonfuls of honey, nestled in a baking dish with a little water to keep them moist, covered for 3 hours in a low oven, they are perfectly tender and blushingly pink. Served warm with a splodge of sweetened and cardamon flecked yoghurt, drizzled with the syrupy honey juices, nothing could be simpler or more luscious.
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