Alchemy

In a burst of folly, I bought quinces—how often do you see them in a corner grocery?—and thought, I really must do something with them before they rot.

Really.

They are golden as the apples of Hesperides, and slightly pleated, like a sleeve.

My grandmother had a quince tree, and my mother used to make jelly.  (There were plums as well, the size of marbles and the color of Tahiti, as if Gauguin were lurking in the trees.)  I loved the transformation from pale yellow to celestial pink—and the heavenly scent of them.  So I cut these up with her old wooden-handled crescent chopper, which went through them—if not like butter, like cheese.  Nice work:   they’re as hard as green wood, hard and springy.  Their seed capsules are time-proof.  Having quartered and cored, I decided that if I'd gone to all that trouble, I might as well use real vanilla beans and went out for some.  And honey, as my last had crystallized.

Note (7:05 pm):  The resultant is now simmering.  I hope it doesn't burn.  Jammy things do, as soon as look at them.

It didn’t!

The quinces turned only the palest blush pink—not enough anthocyanin in this crop, I gather—but O my!  They do taste wonderful, more fragrant than apples.  The pears of the Peri.

And they have gone on slowly transmuting:  this morning, they were peachy pink.

They’d go nicely with cream.  And a runcible spoon.

Nine

P.S.  I find in myself a ridiculous propensity to sing "Hail, hail Cydonia!"