The Unjustified Quince

My praise for the soothing, regular, oblong qualities of justified text in my last post, The Justified Greengage, provoked some people to question my sanity and judgement. Apparently, only justified left, raggedy right, will do. In my defence, I’m teaching myself the art of letterpress on my dad’s Victorian printing press, so it’s only in blog posts that I like slabs of type to look like Swedish crispbread.

If you were horrified by my taste for uniform lines, this post is for you. Its raggedy, ramshackle right-hand edge will, I hope, soothe your raggedy nerves. If your nerves are still raggedy, justified text notwithstanding, the glorious, perfumed qualities of the quince will help no end. In my case, creating sorbets, cordials and jellies from my harvest of quince, came at the end of a week in which I saw Ibsen’s Ghosts, Marlowe’s Edward II and Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. For three nights in a row, I wallowed in hypocrisy, torment, murder, tyranny and pints and pints of blood. (I’d always thought that Titus Andronicus was un-performable, but Michael Fentiman’s production at the RSC proved me wrong. It was startlingly, shockingly funny and very, very messy.)

I’ve written before about the truculence of the quince, but over time I’ve come to think of it as having Pollyanna-like qualities, despite its unyielding, concrete-like flesh. Once cajoled out of its raw state, the quince’s  perky eagerness-to-please puts it in a category all of its own. The fruit looks beautiful on the tree, perfumes the house when it’s brought inside, yields generous amounts of cordial while it cooks and, having done that, it’s still there, at the ready, to be turned into something else. This year, having grown over one hundred fruit, I’ve made jelly, membrillo, quince brandy, cordial and, perhaps my favourite of all, sorbet. Like Mrs Beeton’s instruction, when making pie, to ‘first catch your rabbit’, to make sorbet, first make your cordial. Like this:


  • 12 quince, whole and unpeeled
  • 850 ml water
  • 350g caster sugar

I’ve written the recipe for this before, but to make life easier, here it is again. Preheat the oven to 150 degrees C. Wash the fruit, rubbing off its fluff with your fingers. Pack the quince snugly into a baking dish that is approximately the same height as the fruit. Tip in the sugar and water and place a piece of silver foil over the top, tucking it in around the fruit. Bake in the oven for three hours and then remove and allow to cool before pouring the liquid into a jug. (Reserve the fruit and I will tell you how to use it for membrillo.) The amount of cordial you will get varies from between 500 to 700 ml, depending on the size of the fruit. I freeze mine in small bottles, to pluck out, slightly showily, during the year. Serve it topped up with sparkling water or prosecco. Or, move onto phase 2….. sorbet.


  • Home-made quince cordial
  • Finely grated parmesan

The point of combining the sorbet with parmesan is to drag it in the direction of the savoury. But if you wish to nudge it back into the safe confines of a familiar harbour, match it with mango and blackcurrant sorbet instead.

Pour the cooled, undiluted cordial straight into an ice-cream maker and churn until frozen. It will turn a rather soppy Germoline pink, but has its charms. To make the parmesan cups, heap mounds of grated cheese on baking parchment – about two tablespoons for each cup – and bake in the oven for two to three minutes. When melted into golden discs, remove and shape them over the bottom of an espresso cup immediately. Allow to cool and then assemble.


Next, the compliant quince is ready for phase three – membrillo.

  • Cooked quince left over from the cordial experiment
  • Caster sugar

Like the cordial and the sorbet, this recipe is ridiculously easy. Squish the cooked fruit through a sieve. It’s easier to do this one at a time, discarding the pips and skin from the sieve and then moving on to the next fruit. Weigh the pulp and add it, with an identical quantity of caster sugar, to a pan. Bring the mixture to the boil and then allow to simmer very gently for around one and a half hours. It will become a dark, rich red and is ready when you can draw a wooden spoon across the bottom of the pan, leaving the two sides to stand huffily apart from each other, before reluctantly creeping back over the pan to reunite.

Serve with a hard, salty cheese and crispbread. For those of us who’ve abandoned beautifully uniform justified text for the sake of other people, use nice, soothingly oblong, regular, plank-shaped crispbread, to calm those raggedy nerves. My favourite sourdough crispbread from Peter’s Yard is circular, not oblong. So I’ll cut my cheese into oblongs instead.


  1. A three in one post, it’s my lucky day Charlie! They all look great but the cordial especially stands out for me. As always, the photography is gorgeous

  2. It seems to me that one either has few quinces or more quinces than can be counted. I found myself in the latter category this October. I listed my surplus crop on freecycle where they were spotted by a pig keeper who was on the look-out for treats for his pigs. What treats!

    I have made jelly and quince vodka, baked them, puréed them and put them in cakes, I have also frozen a quantity of quince juice which I think will now be turned in to quince cordial and sorbet. Thank you for the ideas.

    1. Yes, it’s very odd. Last year I had precisely zero fruit. This year I am up to my neck in them. I hope you enjoy the sorbet – I love it.

  3. A top class post, as always. Your unique, almost Surrealist, text perfectly complements your stunning photographs and fascinating recipes. Surely a beautiful cookbook with literary appeal as its USP must one day appear?

    1. You’re such a loyal reader, Jakey – thank you. I do enjoy writing my posts, so it’s particularly rewarding when they’re appreciated – and the photography too. A cook-book with a literary theme sounds very appealing. Perhaps one day.

  4. What an orgy of theatre-going, lucky you. I was thrilled this afternoon to nab a return ticket for Ghosts, as it’s sold out – the Almeida production with Lesley Manville, but I’m guessing you saw the Oxford one?

    1. You’re right – I saw the Oxford Playhouse one. It was extremely good, but I’d love to see the Almeida production which has had such wonderful reviews. How clever of you to get a return. There’s something very satisfying about returns – it was how I got to see the final performance of Titus on Saturday.

  5. Your posts always make my day Charlie and quinces can be lovely. must look at the market must have missed them so far. they sort of appear unplanned and disapeer as quickly. odd! must reread your last post to see what all the flutter was about. great hugs from across the channel xox

    1. I never see them in the market either, although I’ve grown so many this year that I could set up a market stall myself. (I say ‘grown’, but I didn’t have anything to do with it. They just appeared on the tree in staggering quantities – all I had to do was pick them.) I’m so pleased you enjoyed reading the post, Karin.

  6. Indeed – I’d always classified Titus Andronicus as unperformable, but maybe not so any more. “The truculence of quince” – oh what I would do to have written that one phrase! Too marvellous. I adore membrillo but have yet to grapple with a raw quince (justified or otherwise). A delicious post, as always.

    1. You are such a generous reader, Jeanne and always look for the poetry in things. I’m delighted you enjoyed the writing – it means a lot to me.

  7. A lovely post and I enjoyed the perky Pollyanna image of the quince, which had never struck me before, but since you mentioned it sounds perfectly apt.
    I remember quinces from my childhood and my father always hopeful that someone would make them into quince jelly for him. I think we did once as I remember the taste very clearly, but my mother was usually way too busy for jam and jellying.

    1. There’s something rather Pinter-esque about your father waiting for quince jelly! Hopefully, he taught himself how to do it and then didn’t need to wait anymore.
      I’m so pleased you enjoyed the post, Kit – thanks very much for leaving a comment, which I always enjoy.

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