I’m a thief. I admit it freely. The fact that I stole something this afternoon is not really the issue here, the isuue is what I stole and from where. The heading to this blog was spotted whilst reading The Saturday Age, one of the supplements to be precise, and subsequently purloined. I have no doubt that the witty phrase itself has had a rich and varied life in gastronomic panto circles and could quite possibly be considered old hat, or dad humour. You could say that I did quince in horror at such literary confection.
I do, however, possess some doubt as to the publications pedigree of late and am amazed that I would find anything other than a smart cryptic clue to pique my interest.
It is stated in the A2 section that the oddly charming quince is in season, I can only postulate that one must lock up one’s daughters before a pie of a time is to be had. Quince, in season. Does anyone need to know this? I’m sure there are puree fanatics up and down the coast of this dry land chomping at the bit in anticipation of dusting off their trusty fruit pots and filling them with what can only be described as a singularly disappointing addition to the autumnal harvest basket.
With cheese I can’t argue. Simmering beneath the sugary goodness of an apple pie for sure. But is there anything else that this seemingly old world royal suitor can do?
I have tried juicing; oranges are better.
A sample in the lunch box merely brought on indigestion.
Roasted with spiced duck led to protestations of disrespect and indecorous behaviour from the heated canard.
On a well sourced and woody cheese board the troublesome fruit looked decidedly uncomfortable and in fact precipitated a trip to the dentist such was the hardened nature of the flesh, more like bone if the truth be told.
In the end I tried still life. Surely such an awkward fruit would give up it’s secrets under the cover of paint and brush. I found the skin to be a yellowish green and dull to observe. It does however possess a rare ugliness that is next to impossible to beautify without the setting becoming a harem of exotic delights exuding all that is pleasing to the eye of which some might rub off on old Quince Charming. No such luck.
I will leave this ancient fruit to those with old tastes and horses teeth.
I think our suitor is in need of a modern day make over, just like Rhubarb has received in recent times. The red stem is everywhere. Nobody seems to care whether it comes with salt or sugar such is its adaptable nature. Personally I prefer when the sometime poisonous plant is doused with sugar and spice and all things creamy rice, with apples and pastry and custard too.
Defend your honour or be lost to me for ever more or until the next time I attend some corporate wankfest complete with King Island Brie and French Island Quince Paste.
Something is cooking in the oven and I didn’t get the recipe from The Saturday Age.