Roast Quinces

I am always happy when I have quinces in my kitchen: their heady, honeyed perfume, mixed with a floral citrusiness that prevents its becoming cloying, is better than the most expensive scented candle in the world.

This recipe is where I propose you start. It could scarcely be simpler. I’ve been cooking with quinces for decades now, but only recently have I done this little to them to such great effect. It is hardly a recipe: all I am suggesting you do is cut these pregnant pears, as the writer Bee Wilson describes them, into long wedges and roast them with some olive oil in a hot oven. The quinces need no spicing: they are poetically perfect just as they are.

The last time I cooked these, I was trying to explain what they were to someone who’d never come across a quince before, and I said he should think of them as a cross between a parsnip and a pear. This makes no sense botanically, but it conjures up the sweet graininess of their flesh, even if it misses the sharpness that is just as much an essential part of what they bring. Indeed, you could so easily roast quinces in place of the traditional parsnips to go with your Christmas turkey or they make a wonderful accompaniment to Norwegian Pork Ribs.

For US cup measures, use the toggle at the top of the ingredients list.

I am always happy when I have quinces in my kitchen: their heady, honeyed perfume, mixed with a floral citrusiness that prevents its becoming cloying, is better than the most expensive scented candle in the world.

This recipe is where I propose you start. It could scarcely be simpler. I’ve been cooking with quinces for decades now, but only recently have I done this little to them to such great effect. It is hardly a recipe: all I am suggesting you do is cut these pregnant pears, as the writer Bee Wilson describes them, into long wedges and roast them with some olive oil in a hot oven. The quinces need no spicing: they are poetically perfect just as they are.

The last time I cooked these, I was trying to explain what they were to someone who’d never come across a quince before, and I said he should think of them as a cross between a parsnip and a pear. This makes no sense botanically, but it conjures up the sweet graininess of their flesh, even if it misses the sharpness that is just as much an essential part of what they bring. Indeed, you could so easily roast quinces in place of the traditional parsnips to go with your Christmas turkey or they make a wonderful accompaniment to Norwegian Pork Ribs.

For US cup measures, use the toggle at the top of the ingredients list.