His Latest Quest: the Noble Quince

This fall I fell for the quince. I’ve baked it in pies, stuck it in stews, made it into marmalade and, best of all, cooked it in compotes. After all that, there is still a case and a half of fruit on the floor in my laundry room, ready for this weekend.

I tend to be an obsessive cook. Once I’m attracted to something--an ingredient, a technique, even a country or style of cooking--I latch on with all the single-minded ferocity (and common sense) of a pit bull. Only after my curiosity has been satisfied, usually well past the time everyone else in my family is thoroughly disgusted, can I move on.

What triggered this passion for quinces is something I can’t readily explain. I’ve cooked with them for years, but in a sensible, sporadic way. Quinces make a nice alternative to the usual autumn fruit palette, a lovely, intense rose color and the scent of musk and spice.

But as easy as quinces are to love, they’re tough to cook. A raw quince is more like a piece of furniture than a fruit. It’s hard and it’s knobby, and when you knock it with your knuckle, it sounds like solid wood.

So hard is a quince that it’s better pared with a potato peeler rather than with a knife. And when it’s time to quarter and core it, a nice heavy chef’s blade comes in handy.

Then it’s time to cook it. And cook it. And cook it. Because its hard flesh is so mouth-dryingly tannic, a raw quince is not really edible. I’m told that there are those who relish a raw quince dusted with salt and chile pepper. I’ve tried it, and to me it seems a terrible waste of a quince’s potential.

Fortunately, the cooking of a quince mostly requires time rather than effort. It’s pretty simple, really. Peel it, quarter it, core it, cut it in pieces and then poach it in a sugar syrup. It’ll take at least 30 minutes to become tender. And then at least 15 minutes more before it begins to develop its characteristic color, which one writer aptly described as “stained-glass red.”

Theoretically, it’s possible to overcook quinces, but in practice it seems unlikely. Even after boiling them at a pretty good bubble for more than an hour to make marmalade, the fruit holds its shape and consistency.

The marmalade is a nice recipe from Catherine Plagemann’s “Fine Preserving,” a forgotten classic originally published in 1962. My edition is a reprint with pithy annotation by M.F.K. Fisher. It was published in paperback by Aris Books in 1986 and is still sometimes available in used book stores. It is certainly worth searching out.

To make the marmalade, Plagemann cooks the quince peels and cores in water to cover until tender, about 45 minutes. She then strains that cooking liquid over sliced quinces, adding just enough fresh water to comfortably cover all the fruit. She adds about 1 1/2 cups of sugar and the juice of half an orange per quart of fruit pieces, then boils it all until the quinces turn a deep sunset red, at least an hour.

At this point, Plagemann breaks up the pieces with a potato masher. I used my handy immersion blender, being careful to leave some chunks intact. Cook it a little longer until you feel the jelly has set; it should be thick and fairly cohesive.

Because of their high pectin content, quinces jell much more quickly than almost any other fruit. Test by dipping a spoon into the mixture, then turning it sideways over the pan. The marmalade should dribble off from several points, rather than running off smoothly from one spot. Alternatively, you can put a spot of the jam on a chilled plate. It should retain its shape rather than running all over.

Fisher didn’t think much of this recipe, or of quinces in general. “I never made this marmalade,” she wrote, “but, honestly, I don’t know why anyone ever bothers with quinces.”

She’s wrong. Quinces are wonderful and so is this marmalade. At first, tasting it right off the spoon, I thought it was too sweet, though its exotic spiciness was wonderful. I planned to reduce the sugar to 1 cup per quart on a second try.

Now I’m not so sure. After a week of having a spot of quince marmalade on my toast every morning, it doesn’t seem so sweet after all. I may cut it to 1 1/4 cups and see how that works.

My favorite use for quinces, though, is in a compote, where its aromatic qualities give a kind of floral aroma to what might otherwise seem to be a rather prosaic assortment of dried fruit.

This compote recipe has the added virtue of being extremely simple to make: basically, you just cook the quinces and let the dried fruit plump up in the cooking liquid.

It is also flexible. You can vary the dried fruit to fit your taste or what you have on hand. You can adjust the amount of sugar to match the quality of the fruit you have. You can even substitute wine or apple juice for the water to get other flavors.

All it needs is a piece of pound cake or a couple of butter cookies to make a nice dessert for last-minute company--or just for you on one of those evenings when you need a touch of something sweet.

Best of all, the compote will keep in the refrigerator for weeks, so it’ll still be there after the obsession passes.

FALL FRUIT COMPOTE

Serve with plain butter cookies or pound cake.

1 1/2 pounds quinces

1 cup water

1/3 cup sugar

1/2 cup Muscat or other raisins

1/3 cup dried apricots

1/3 cup dried sour cherries

Peel quinces, cut in quarters and remove core. Cut each quarter in half lengthwise and in half across, making roughly walnut-sized pieces.

Combine quinces, water and sugar in medium saucepan and bring to simmer over medium-low heat. Cover tightly and continue cooking until fruit is rosy and tender, 45 to 60 minutes.

Add raisins, apricots and cherries, cover again and cook 10 minutes. Remove from heat and let stand until dried fruits have plumped and softened, about 10 more minutes.

4 servings. Each serving:

278 calories; 11 mg sodium; 0 cholesterol; 0 fat; 73 grams carbohydrates; 2 grams protein; 3.55 grams fiber.