There is a line in Plutarch about a new husband and wife eating quince together just before they knock boots. (I don’t think he phrases it quite that way.) Other than this and, you know, all of Latin American cooking, quince doesn’t show up a lot.
But my parents bought this ridiculous house that looks like an embassy and behind it were an apple tree, a pear tree, and a quince. Guess which one flowered and bore fruit. So every fall my stepmother makes quince jelly.
It is a magical process. Quince is this inedible, rocky, half-rotted pitted monster until you peel it, core it and slice it and hit it with gentle heat. Then it turns amber-colored and smells better than anything else. The jelly is perfectly clear and beautiful, and makes the most wonderful fingerprint cookies.
Now I am in Argentina, and I found commercial quince fingerprint cookies in the grocery store that are made with vegetable margarine and no egg binder. They’re not as pretty as the ones at home, nor quite as good, but they do a damn good job of making me feel better about all the dulce de leche I’m not eating.
