Quince

Poach quince in rosé with a dash of cocktail bitters and a few warm spices, then assemble into a tart with almond paste using an upside-down, Tatin-style method.

This version of the flaky holiday pastry is made with a cream cheese dough and filled with quince paste, walnuts, and demerara sugar. It’s simple to make—and perfectly buttery.

If quinces are unavailable or you want a shortcut, purchase quince paste at a specialty shop and heat it slowly to create a syrup, then simply spoon it over the custards.

Spicy chorizo, sweet membrillo, and nutty manchego bring Spanish flair to everyone's favorite finger food.

My mother-in-law makes this stew almost every Shabbat because it is my sister-in-law's favorite! Whenever I buy quinces, I have to hide them because my children love to eat them raw! This fruit is not really meant to be eaten raw…it is meant for jams and stews. I guess my kids must be "hard-core" Persians! The quince tree originates from Iran and Caucasus. The Romans used its oil for perfume, while the Greeks enjoyed it cooked.

From Lecce and its environs, quince paste—a deeply bronzed jelly molded into plump squares and tucked inside wooden fruit boxes—is our favorite Puglian treasure to take back to Tuscany. Here follows a lovely sort of pudding made from quince that, though it offers a less-dense dose of the fruit, yields one with all its beautiful, apple-wine sort of autumn savor.

This is not your mild-mannered pork chop! The pork porterhouse is two cuts of meat in one—just like its better-known cousin the beef porterhouse. From the short loin of the pig, the pork porterhouse (porkerhouse?) consists of the soft, luscious tenderloin on one side of the bone and the meatier loin on the other. The classic American accompaniment to pork is, of course, apples. But in place of the traditional applesauce, I like to serve these hefty chops with the time-honored duo of apples and potatoes. Called deux pommes, or two apples—one from a tree and one from the earth—the two are sautéed together until crispy and golden brown. To show off more of fall’s cornucopia, I’ve added quince, “Eve’s apple,” to the mix. Slathering the chops with quince jam (membrillo in Spanish cuisine, cotognata in Italian) is a sophisticated nod back to that applesauce. Be sure to cut the quince, apples, and potatoes into similar-sized pieces, so when they’re cooked they all look the same. The mystery is part of the fun; there’s no telling which bite will be which pomme.

References to quince pie date as far back as the 1400s; the dessert later garnered a mention in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Quinces look and taste like a cross between an apple and a pear; in fact, they are usually paired with one or the other, as in this recipe. Here, peeled, halved quinces are first poached in dessert wine with the reserved peels (for their signature rosy color) and a split vanilla bean (for flavor). Baking the pie in a cast-iron skillet helps the crust turn a deep golden brown and gives the pie a truly home-style appeal. You may substitute four additional Granny Smith apples for the poached quinces; soak the raisins in one-third cup of warm Calvados in place of the poaching liquid.

Season: September to October. The raw flesh of the lumpy yellow quince is dry and disagreeably sour. However, once cooked, it becomes pink and highly perfumed. Lightly sweetened and combined with good fluffy cooking apples, such as Granny Smiths, it makes a delightful accompaniment for roast pork or duck. I also love this aromatic fruity sauce on a home-baked rice pudding.

Season: Late September to October. A fruit cheese is simply a solid, sliceable preserve – and the princely quince, with its exquisite scent and delicately grainy texture, makes the most majestic one of all. It can be potted in small molds to turn out, slice, and eat with cheese. Alternatively, you can pour it into shallow trays to set, then cut it into cubes, coat with sugar, and serve as a sweetmeat. A little coarsely chopped quince cheese adds a delicious fruity note to lamb stews or tagines – or try combining it with chopped apple for a pie or crumble.

贴梗海棠的树木在我们的河农场产权just delivering their first harvest at the time of the Workshop. Many chefs are captivated with these uncommon autumn fruits, which are rockhard and astringent when raw and must be cooked to release their floral perfume. Chef David Everett made a memorable quince chutney for duck breasts when he attended the Workshop in 1994. Brian likes to serve the same chutney with brined pork chops. Cooking the pork on the bone enhances flavor and seals in the succulence imparted by the brine. Accompany the pork with braised escarole or Tuscan kale, or with Brussels sprouts and chestnuts. Any leftover chutney will keep for at least a week in the refrigerator and would be delicious with blue cheese. Note that the chops need to rest in the brine overnight.

Jellies, also known as fruit paste or pâte de fruit, are beautiful bite-size confections with intense fruit flavor. Fruits such as apples, quince, and plums are slowly cooked with sugar to a concentrated purée, then cooled in a mold or pan until set and firm. The jellies can be cut into all sorts of shapes, rolled in sugar, and served as candies. Without a sugar coating, fruit paste is a delicious accompaniment to cheese.

This simple quince preserve is a specialty in many Italian regions. It seems to have its origins in the fourteenth century, when some of the most noted were from Reggio Emilia and Genova. The translucent, pastel fruit in a jellied syrup is a delightful accompaniment to all sorts of sweet and savory dishes. If you have a large batch of fresh quince, just multiply this recipe and make a big pan of cotognata. It will keep for a month refrigerated. Pack it in little jelly jars and give as a gift: cotognata is a colorful and delicious way to introduce others to the pleasures of quince!

如果你以前没煮熟的海棠,这是感伤d way to start. The sauce is tangy, not overly sweet, and because the fruit pieces tend to stay intact when cooked, you will enjoy the distinctive taste and texture. Though it is not as sweet as cotognata (the quince sauce that follows), you can enjoy it in many of the same ways, such as spooned onto buttered toast or stirred into a bowl of yogurt, for a tangy snack.

I love chutneys, for both their concentrated flavor and the convenience. You make them and store them, and whenever you want that special treat you can just pull them from the fridge or pantry. All you need is a spoonful to enjoy the essence of whatever ingredients you put into them. Cunja is just such a treasured condiment from Piemonte. Quince is a primary ingredient (as it is in cotognata, another traditional Italian chutney), but cunja incorporates the indigenous flavors of late autumn in Piemonte: the local San Martino pears, the mosto of pressed Nebbiolo grapes, and its famed hazelnuts. Though these particular ingredients will probably not be in your market, my recipe produces a thoroughly delicious and long-lasting chutney with much of the layered complexity of cunja. In place of cotto mosto, the cooking liquid here is bottled Concord-grape juice (always made from concentrate); organic juice is highly recommended. Unfortunately, we can’t get small sweet San Martino pears in the United States. These are the last pears to be harvested, in early November, at the same time as the Feast of San Martino—hence their name. Our Seckel pears are an excellent alternative, and Granny Smith apples will also work well. Packed in jars and refrigerated, this will keep for a couple of months. As I explain, cunja is meant to be enjoyed with a creamy Piedmontese cheese, but I serve it with pork roast and other meats. I am sure you will find many delicious uses for it.

A cold-weather tradition I remember fondly took place around the fogoler, or open hearth, of my maternal grandparents’ home. When neighbors would stop by to visit, everybody would gather around the crackling fire and talk. My grandparents would serve zuppa istriana, hearty spiced wine, to satisfy and warm their guests. My grandmother would roast some quince in the hearth, and have a pan of wine nestled in the coals, perking away. Then she would combine the two and pour the soup into a boccaletta, a ceramic pitcher. The pitcher was then passed around the hearth, and everybody would fish out a piece of quince with a fork (or sometimes with a thin sharp twig), take a good sip from the pitcher, and pass it on. The ceramic boccaletta was always considered a hospitable vessel, since no one could see how much one drank from it. Today I prepare zuppa istriana when the snow begins to pile up outside and I want to have something warm and comforting to welcome my friends and family in from the cold.

Cheesecake is one of my favorite desserts, and I love the kind that is a little bit sour. This one is made with a little crema and a hazelnut crust. I like to serve it with quince, a natural pairing with cheese. I also gave it a little heat from arbol chiles to showcase the wonderful combination of sweet, sour, and spicy that is popular in modern Mexico.