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Food and Drink

Branch out with your fall tastes

Know that great '70s song about Quinn the Eskimo? Come all without, come all within; you'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn, it goes. Now with quince season upon us, keep on humming, but change that "Quinn" to "quince" for this ancient fruit is equally mighty - and mysterious.

Unless you grew up with them, the quince is pretty much an unknown factor in this neck of the woods. That's partly because most of us don't know what the heck to do with them once we find them, and partly because they're disease-prone, which we'll get to later.

Somewhere between a lumpy apple and a bumpy pear in shape, and similar in size but much harder, the quince sports a thick stem extruding from a knob that looks exactly like a fruit-ish belly button. They become a bit waxy as they ripen, changing from a siren green to a more mellow chartreuse or even golden colour, but they never really soften.

It's worth finding a quince, if only to inhale its glorious scent. (Good chance you'll spy some at your local farmers' market right about now.) Even though they'll be hard as rocks, the fragrance is loaded with a mouth-watering tang somewhere between tropical guava and tutti-frutti.

If nowhere else, you can find mighty quinces at Paulo's fruit stand, which is not far from Whistler, at least as the crow flies. By my reckoning, it's about 125 km east-north-east of the top of Burnt Stew Trail.

Paulo's green orchard and market garden defy the rabbit bushes and sage that normally claim the dusty brown banks of the Thompson River. Orchard, garden, home and accompanying fruit stand all colonize a steep bank on the east side of Highway 97, about 30 km before the crossing to Spences Bridge.

This time of year, you'll find Paulo looking after his little roadside stand, which has withstood the elements and the test of time for 48 years. Perched above it is a distinctively rustic, red and white hand-painted sign that I like to think of as an evil eye protecting all in its sightlines.

If you've whizzed past before and never stopped, do, if for nothing else than to visit Paulo and discreetly marvel at his wizened hands. They resemble branches from an old apple tree.

Eons ago, when he was a young man, Paulo left his home and the sheep he milked twice a day in Portugal to come to the arid Thompson Valley where he and his wife started their little miracle farm. Today, it boasts rows and rows of Bath grapevines, Roma tomatoes (great for fresh pasta sauce) and, of course, a couple of mighty quince bushes, or small trees, if you prefer.

Like pears and apples, the edible quince is a part of the rose family, not to be confused with the much smaller, ornamental Japanese quince, grown on the wet coast for its beautiful, early-blooming carmine red flowers.

The quince, once upon a time, was the darling of cooks in the Old World and the ancient world. It is native to Iran and Turkey, where it remains a big part of Middle Eastern cookery. It's also appreciated in Latin America, especially in Argentina, Uruguay and Chile.

But if the quince was ever popular in North America - they used to grow it in the northeastern States - it has now fallen out of favour and is only occasionally found at farmers' stands such as Paulo's. This may largely be due to its susceptibility to a bacterial disease called fire blight.

Quinces are famous for their astringent taste and their massive amounts of pectin, both of which make them a natural for jams, jellies and fruit pastes.

The word "marmalade" originally referred to quince jam and came from the Portuguese word for quinces, marmelo . So how much more appropriate could it be than to buy your quinces from a fruit stand run by a Portuguese Canadian?

Some varieties of quince in the Middle East can be eaten raw, but not Paulo's. So he suggested I prepare them as his wife does - cut them up and simmer them in water until tender, and then grate them into a mash.

After that, she has two approaches. You can mix one part sugar to two parts mash, and eat it like a compote or fruit pudding. Or you can add even more sugar - try a ratio of one to one - then spread the mixture into a thin layer in a shallow, glass baking dish and let it dry in a slow oven. Keep it at room temperature, cutting away chunks like fruit leather.

However, I decided to take matters into my own hands and consulted my good old Larousse Gastronomique , one of few sources with recipes for quince. Unfortunately, most references relegate quince to second fiddle, suggesting we cut them up and add pathetic bits to an apple pie or pork roast. But Larousse came through with flying quince-like colours, so I ended up combining two recipes, one for a compote and one for jam.

Here's my approach: Wash and quarter your quinces, removing the cores, which contain the most dazzling fan-like arrangements of seeds. Barely cover the pieces in water and simmer over medium heat until the pieces are soft. Remove from heat, drain and retain the water. Let the pieces cool until you can handle them, then dice or otherwise mush them into a soft pudding-like consistency. Add sweetener to taste. I went for a lightly flavoured honey from blueberries, but I'm sure sugar would do. And don't be afraid to taste your quince compote au naturel . It's delicious.

Contrary to Paulo's advice, I only used about one part honey to six parts quince and found it sweet enough, but find your own preference. I then added enough liquid left over from boiling process to create the consistency I wanted (even the liquid was delicious to drink without any sweetener) and, lastly, reheated the whole concoction until the honey was melted.

After it cools, try splitting a ripe banana and adding scoops of your favourite vanilla ice cream and lavish amounts of your quince compote. Top it off with chopped toasted almonds and walnuts, and toasted coconut and what a mighty, fragrant quince banana split you'll have. Even the Quinn the Eskimo would dig in!

 

 

Glenda Bartosh is an award-winning freelance writer who searches for quinces every year at this time.