Quince isn’t for biting — it wants a slow pan

Two quinces have been sitting on my windowsill for three days, and the whole kitchen smells of them — somewhere between apple, pear and honey. Yellow, lumpy, with a grey fuzz on their sides. Anyone meeting one for the first time takes it for a big apple, has a bite and looks thoroughly betrayed. Raw quince is as hard as wood and makes your mouth pucker.

It needs slow cooking. First I rub the fuzz off with a dry tea towel, then cut them into quarters — big knife, steady board, because a quince fights back. I cut out the cores, which are tough and full of pips. You can peel them or not; the skin softens in the long cooking. The pieces go into a pan with just enough water to cover, a couple of spoonfuls of sugar and a strip of lemon peel.

After that it’s patience and the lowest heat. In half an hour the quince is tender, and after an hour or so it starts to change colour: pale, then pink, then amber, and the syrup thickens. I don’t stir it, just lift the lid now and then. Once it’s cooked I leave it to cool, then spoon it into a jar and keep it in the fridge, and we get through it within a few days.

Buying quince is half the job. I look for fruit that is mostly yellow, with only a hint of green, firm and heavy, and with that strong perfume even through the bag. A few brown marks on the skin are normal, but soft, dark or wet patches mean the inside has started to go. Ripe quince keeps for a week or two in a cool place; I keep mine in the kitchen because I like the smell, and cook them within a few days.

The cutting is the part that needs care. Raw quince is far harder than an apple, so I use my biggest knife and a board that can't slide, with a damp cloth underneath. I cut the fruit in half from top to bottom, then into quarters, keeping my fingers well away from the blade. The core comes out with a small knife, cutting a V-shape around it. The flesh starts to brown as soon as it meets the air, so I drop the pieces straight into the pan of water with the lemon peel.

For two large quinces I use about 500 ml of water, two or three tablespoons of sugar and a strip of lemon peel. That is a lightly sweet syrup, not a thick jam. I bring it just to a simmer, then turn the heat as low as it will go and put the lid on, slightly ajar. The quince must barely move in the pan; if it boils hard, the pieces break before they turn pink.

The colour change is the reward for patience. It can take an hour, sometimes nearer two, depending on the fruit. When the slices are soft right through when tested with a knife, and deep pink or amber, they are done.

Cooked quince keeps well in the fridge, covered in its syrup in a clean jar, and we eat it within four or five days. I use a clean spoon each time I take some out, so the jar doesn't spoil early.

If I have more quince than we can eat, I don't try to keep it for months in a jar on the shelf. Proper long-term preserves need sterilised jars and much more sugar, and that is a different recipe.

A couple of slices on morning porridge or yoghurt, a few alongside roast pork, and the syrup by the spoonful in tea. Two rock-hard fruits become a whole jar of winter treat, and the kitchen goes on smelling of quince long after the hob has cooled.