A fruit that rewards patience

Quinces arrive in the kitchen at the very moment the garden begins to wind down. They are the last of the autumn fruit to be picked, hanging on the tree as the leaves yellow, and they bring with them a scent that nothing else in the fruit bowl can match — floral, honeyed, faintly of pineapple and pear. The problem, of course, is that a ripe quince is completely inedible raw. The flesh is hard, dry and astringent, and biting into one is a mistake nobody makes twice.

Cook it slowly, though, and everything changes. The pale cream flesh softens to a tender, slightly grainy richness and turns a deep, glowing rose — sometimes crimson — all on its own, without a drop of food colouring. That transformation is one of the quiet pleasures of a British autumn kitchen, and it takes nothing more elaborate than time, gentle heat and a little honey.

Choosing and preparing your quinces

Pick your own when the fruit has turned from green to golden-yellow and comes away from the tree with a gentle twist; leave them as late as the weather allows, as quinces will not ripen much once picked. Windfalls are perfectly good provided they are not bruised or rotting. A ripe quince should feel heavy for its size and smell richly perfumed even from across the room. Reliable varieties for a British garden include Vranja, Meech's Prolific, Champion and Serbian Gold.

In the kitchen, treat them like the dense, awkward customers they are. A sharp knife and a stable board are essential — the flesh is woody and the core is stony. Work as follows:

• Rub the downy fuzz off the skin with a cloth, then peel thickly; the skin is tough and bitter.
• Quarter the fruit and cut away the hard central core and any gritty patches around it.
• Drop each piece straight into water acidulated with the juice of a lemon to stop it browning.
• Keep the peel and cores — they are loaded with pectin. Wrap them in muslin or a freezer bag for jelly later, or simmer them separately for a few minutes to extract a set.

Poaching for rosy, tender flesh

For roughly 1.5kg of prepared quince, put 1.2 litres of water in a wide ovenproof pan with 200g of honey, 200g of sugar, a cinnamon stick, two star anise, a split vanilla pod, a pared strip of orange zest and four lightly crushed cardamom pods. Warm gently until the honey and sugar dissolve, then slide in the quince pieces in a single layer.

Cover with a circle of baking parchment tucked around the fruit, bring to a bare simmer, then transfer to an oven at 150°C (130°C fan, gas mark 2) for two to three hours. Cooking times vary enormously with variety and ripeness — a soft, late-picked quince may be done in 45 minutes, while a hard, early one can take three hours or more. Test with a skewer: it should slide in with no resistance at all, and the flesh should have taken on that unmistakable rosy blush. The syrup will have reduced to a light amber glaze.

Let the fruit cool in its liquid. It will keep covered in the fridge for a fortnight and only improves after a day or two.

Flavours that suit quince

Quince is generous with other flavours, and it needs a little sweetness to balance its natural sharpness. Honey is the classic partner and seems to encourage the fruit to blush; a dark, robust honey — heather or chestnut — gives a deeper result than a pale blossom honey. Beyond that, try:

• Warm spices: cinnamon, cloves, star anise and cardamom, used sparingly so they do not overwhelm.
• Citrus: orange zest in the poaching liquor, or a squeeze of lemon if your fruit is very sweet.
• Vanilla: a split pod in the pan, or a few drops of extract stirred in at the end.
• A sprig of rosemary or a bay leaf, which gives a faintly savoury edge and stops the pudding tasting cloying.
• Rosewater: just three or four drops, added once the pan is off the heat.

Ways to serve a quince pudding

Warm poached quince with a generous spoonful of thick Greek-style yoghurt and a drizzle of its own syrup is, to my mind, the best of all autumn puddings — light enough after a roast, rich enough to feel like a treat. Clotted cream or crème fraîche are equally happy partners, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream against the warm fruit is no hardship either.

The poached fruit also earns its keep elsewhere. Chop it into a crumble with oats and demerara; fold it through an almond sponge batter; spoon it over rice pudding or semolina; or layer it into a tart with frangipane. Simmer the poaching syrup down further and pour it over the top. And if you have a glut, cook the fruit down to a thick paste for quince cheese — membrillo — set in a lined tin and cut into squares to serve with a sharp Cheddar.

A note from the garden

If you have room for only one top fruit, a quince is a fine choice. It is self-fertile, crops reliably, and its pale pink blossom in May is a magnet for bees when little else is open. In autumn, wasps, red admirals and late butterflies come to the windfalls, so leave one or two at the back of the border as a larder for wildlife — but clear the rest, as rotting fruit encourages trouble.

Store sound fruit in a cool shed for a few weeks, keeping them away from apples and pears, whose flavours they will happily taint. And do not throw away the poaching liquid: strained and reduced, it makes a lovely cordial stirred into hot water, or a syrup to drizzle over porridge on a frosty morning.