It's taken me over 30 years to finally grow another quince tree in my suburban backyard and imagine my excitement when the first year's crop started to develop. Six beautiful little fruit, covered in the softest downy skin.
Over spring and summer I watched the six quinces grow from their small beginnings until I had large yellow fruit on my small tree. I hadn't lost one during the year, but when a couple of the quinces showed signs of bird attack, I decided they must be ripe. So I picked them, excited to have such a great first crop from the tree.
Okay - that's the good part. When I started to cut them up so I could poach a couple, to my horror, the insides were brown with the odd litle maggot wriggling around. Obviously fruit fly - despite all my efforts to lure and bait the pesky critters.
I did manage to save some fruit, a couple weren't very affected, so I poached a tiny quantity, determined to have at least a small bowl of quince, all pink and delicious. The trick is to poach them slowly, letting that wonderful colour develop. When I turned them off late at night, they weren't pink yet, so in the morning I popped them back on to the stove, I thought to poach for a bit longer while I started work.
An hour later, shut away in my office, my nose started to twitch - smoke.
Yes, the worst had happened, I'd forgotten about the quinces and they'd burned to a crisp. I remember saying to myself as I walked away from the kitchen after seeing the beautiful pink pieces nestled among the black, that there's always next year's crop. No point crying over burned quinces, but what a disappointment.
