They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon, And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.
The above is from Edward Lear's nonsense poem The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. You won't find runcible in the formal dictionaries, but the quince you know as the pear-shaped, yellow, delicately-perfumed (divinely-perfumed some would say) fruit, officially cydonia oblonga. You do not eat the fruit raw. It is as hard as the hob of hell, but from it come many delights. You can keep your blackberry jelly, or your composite autumn jelly from the fruit of elder, bramble and blackthorn. They are fine in their own way. But you haven't tasted autumn until you have been given a pot of clear, bright red quince jelly. Delicacy itself.
And, of course, many other things can be done with the quince. A couple of slices in your apple pie or tart, it is said, lifts the taste to a new level. You can bake or roast the quince on its own as a pudding dish, or you can bake or roast it with various meats - beef, lamb, or, say some, most suitable of all with game. Even chicken or goose or duck. Above all, the first thing you notice when a basket of quinces comes into the house is the perfume that gently insinuates itself into your senses.
One placed in every room would be the ideal. "What's that?" ask people who come in the door. (Don't know if the foreign ones you buy in the shops have the same effect.)
Jane Grigson in her Fruit Book (Penguin) gives you many ideas: such as quinces baked in the French manner, where you peel and hollow out the cores and then pour in cream, caster sugar, melted butter. A bit much, perhaps. She tells us baked quince was Sir Isaac Newton's favourite pudding. Then there is quince paste. Best of all, say those who have savoured it, is the liqueur made from quince. Out of this world. Don't know if it is sold commercially; never seen it in the shops or pubs. Make it yourself.
Jack and Ann Whaley's quinces up in Meath are usually of a modest pear size. This year they noticed two things. Some of the fruit was large - up to 16 ounces. Secondly they ripened quickly at the end and some even began to rot on the tree. And there was not so much of the lovely soft fluff or down that usually sits lightly on the skin. Still, they are the unique blessing of the autumn. Y