Nourishments—

Don’t Wince At The Quince — It’s Delicious

By Nancy K. Crevier

I have always connected the quince with Victorian novels and thought of them as an exotic fruit from a far away land cherished by spinsters in long, taffeta gowns. I’m not sure where that image came from, but imagine my surprise when a friend gave me a jar of quince jelly last fall made from fruit grown on a tree right here in Newtown. She neither wears trailing gowns nor does she hail from anywhere particularly exotic, unless the Borough counts.

George Miller thinks that the quince tree growing in his backyard at 50 Main Street is probably 60 to 70 years old. He and his wife, Shane, have lived there for eight years, and every fall, said Mr Miller, the boughs of the quince tree are bent heavy with the gnarly, oval fruits. Members of the Horticulture Club of Newtown, including my jelly-making friend, have taken him up on his invitation to pick, pick, pick, he said and most years, club members have managed to harvest what they want before the squirrels and raccoons make short work of the acidic fruit.

 At any rate, while the quince is now considered a novelty fruit, at one time it was quite popular in the American colonies, where it was used to make pies, sauces, jams, and jellies. Long before oranges became a regular produce item, it was the quince that cooks used to make thick, fragrant marmalade. It was valued as a digestive aid, and a syrup made from the tart fruit was thought to combat coughs and pneumonia. The introduction of the apple to the New World swiftly cut into the quince market, though, the acidic quince not being able to hold forth against the sweet, crunchy apple.

However, the ancient fruit, which originated in Iran and Turkey and appeared in literature as long ago as 600 BC, has kept a foothold in gardens where heirloom plants are cherished.

Covered in a downy fuzz, the fruit ripens slowly over the late summer, turning from green to a deep yellow color. Unlike the peach or nectarine, the ripe quince remains firm to the touch. Picked just before the first frost, ripe fruit remains fresh in the refrigerator for up to two weeks. Store it apart from other fruits, as the fragrant quince can impart its aroma to surrounding thin-skinned produce. Indeed, so aromatic is this fruit that in pre-Glade days, the fruit was left out in a bowl to act as an air freshener.

Peel the skin before cooking and remove the core — a task more formidable than with many other fruits, for the outer layer of the quince is as tough as a winter squash and defies any blade less powerful than a cleaver.

Several online sources suggest roasting quince in a covered dish for 2 hours to tenderize the tough fruit and make it less of a life and death struggle to slice and core. It is worth investigating, although I will confess I have not put this to the test. Find some solution to slicing and dicing, though, because the delicious fruit, high in vitamin C, riboflavin and fiber, is a treat worth tasting.

This quince jelly recipe does not require peeling the fruit. It might be a good starting point for the novice quince eater.

Dottie’s Quince Jelly

Wash three to four pounds of quince fruits and cut off the ends.

Quarter and remove any discolored or wormy areas.

Do not peel the skin, because that is where the natural pectin is to make the jelly. Wash the fruit again.

Place prepared quince chunks into a large stainless kettle with barely enough water to cover the top layer.

Cover and simmer about three hours, or until mushy. Mash the big lumps with a potato masher. You may add more water as needed. The finished mash should be the consistency of applesauce.

Put two layers of cheese cloth in a large strainer or colander, pour the mash over the cheesecloth, and place the strainer over a large bowl and allow juices to drip through overnight.

Take four cups of the strained juice and add ¼ cup fresh-squeezed lemon juice. Bring to a boil and add 7/8  cup sugar for each cup of juice. (Warm the sugar in the oven before adding to the juice.)

Bring the mixture back to a low, simmering boil for at least 20 to 30 minutes. You’ll know it is ready if you put a spoonful on a cold plate and it wrinkles when you run your finger through it.

Pour into sterilized jars. Add hot paraffin in two stages, but not too thick. Cool. Put on the lids, label and date: you’re done.