August 26 2008, 11:36 PM Fruit of Labors

The quince turned out disastrously.

It all started well, if a little painfully. Quince are hard little nuggets, tough yellow things that dislike yielding to the knife. I spent a bunch of good time at the kitchen table pulling them apart, flicking out the seeds from the large seed casings, building up a pile of quarters. Each slice was mostly casing, little fruit, but that was alright: there is fantastic amounts of pectin in the casing: to quince for jelly, I need add none.

Then, into water to simmer for hours. What was supposed to come next was that the fruit would soften, turn pinkish amber, release delicious scents. This last bit happened, and soon enough the simmering pot was making the house heavy with the perfume of pineapples, vanilla, guava. What I had not counted on was that the quince bits would suck up water like sponges, and I managed to burn them when they pulled the pot dry. It was promising, though. I need to find more quince. And for that matter, bigger quince, for more efficient work. There is worth in taking found fruit and making good things of it, but I now have a fuller understanding of values of agricultural selection. Little bastards.

The blueberries fared much better. I had frozen six pints of them some weeks back, and took to using the low-sugar pectin to turn them out into jam. Again, a pot of blueberries simmering with sugar is a mighty thing. For the trouble, I ended up with a dozen half pint jars of well-set jam, dark and deep and lightly sweet. Myself and my house guest descended on them, spooning jam on toast, marbling it into yogurt. Other jars disappeared into the larders of others, given as gifts or sent on in trade. The rest have taken station with the small stack in the cupboard, waiting for winter: blueberry and black raspberry and sour cherry, so far. I am looking forward to the problem in the coming cold days of deciding which kind of jam to open up next.

Yesterday morning, I shuffled out onto the porch to get the paper and nearly tripped of a bushel of peaches that some anonymous donor had left for me. I seem to be gaining a reputation.

I took them inside; I found out who left them later in the day. It does not do to keep ripe fruit waiting: once home again, the evening was taken up with dunking them in a simmering bath, pulling aside the mottled skins, prising the fruit off of the stone. I should not be a choosy beggar: the fruit was found, free, and wonderful besides, but I note for reference that should one want to put up canned peaches that look pretty, one is advised to seek out freestone fruit. These were not.

So I sat at the kitchen table. The door was open, the cool breeze making merry with the flames under the canner, mixing the heat of the room. There was music tumbling in through the doorway. Over and over I pushed my thumb through a peeled and quartered peach, separating flesh from stone, juices pooling on the cutting board, spilling over into the place mat, making a mess.

Someone should be here to seduce me, I said, to no one in particular. Put her there, in the chair across the table, with one leg tucked up under to keep an ankle warm in the cool air around out feet. Put coffee laced with sugar and cream in her hands, steam gently rising from the cup. Have her tell me stories, should she wish to, a smile in her eyes, as I pull these things gently apart and the kitchen becomes dense with the scent of fresh peaches for both of us.

Eventually the bowl of peaches sprinkled occasionally with lemon juice became full. The fruit all tumbled then into a simple syrup for ten minutes of simmering and skimming, and the full power of cooking fruit came again from that pot, not yet failing to surprise nor delight. After this, into jars, then into the canner, then out again some third of an hour later, to sit on the towel, awaiting the pop of the lid that signals all is well.

All told, I ended with seven pints of peaches and (whoops) a good extra quart of peach syrup, which I am adding to things to make them tasty. I was only able to get to half of the peaches! For the person who left them on my porch yesterday, I was able this morning to put three pints of peaches into their hands. We'll see how long it is before we eat them all up.

If you have extra fruit, feel free to leave it on my porch. Please me patient, though; I'm out of Mason jars.