Candied Plums Sequel: A Photo Tutorial

Those candied plums I made last year turned out to be one of the most incredible foods that has ever come forth from my hands. They took on a mystical life of their own, each day growing more delicious and more scarce. I hoarded them. I dreamed about them. When I ran out (in, I think, February or so), I obsessed over them. 

So when a vendor at my farmers market had Italian prunes, I may have gone overboard. This year, I took photos of the whole process, which I’m sharing in the hopes that they will help you make your own candied plums:

Plums split in half, put in a pot, and covered in sugar, before cooking. 

Plums split apart in a (different) pot. 

Sugar has gone over the first layer of plums and a second layer added. 

The second layer fully covered as well. 

Cook, covered, on very low heat. The sugar will eventually all dissolve. 

Keep cooking… Once the sugar is fully dissolved, remove the lid. 

Cook the plums until they look like this:

Ready for the next part. 

Carefully fish each plum out. 

Place on rack in dehydrator. 

Tongs also work. The plums will be hot and sticky. 

This picture is before drying, I think. I don’t seem to have an after drying picture, but they get darker and stickier. 

Roll the dried plums in sugar. 

Pack in sugar and store. Be patient: they seem to just get better and better with age. 

Yes, those are half gallons. I made a lot. They’re all packed up and safely moved to storage (so I won’t just eat these in a single, gloriously regrettable sitting). I have an unholy quantity of plum syrup. 

Funny story, I went out to a bunch of fruit farms yesterday…

…and bought like 4 more pounds of plums. 

This time, I’m following the period recipe a little more closely. I look forward to comparing the different results!


Adventures in Home Dairying: Churn Down for WHAT!

Aleit went on an adventure in Europe, and came across some butter churns. Because we live in the future, she posted about it on Facebook, and I cried out my desperate need for a butter churn.

So now I have one:

Photo by Tullia
In case it’s not coming through in text, I want to say I am INCOHERENTLY EXCITED about the fact that I have a butter churn, a handmade one with beautiful wood hoops no less. OMG THIS BUTTER CHURN! Much churn. Very butter. So excite. Wow.

Once I got my new friend home, I soaked it in water until it swelled enough to seal itself. Then the fun of making butter began.

I’ve made butter before and I have some tips:

  • Use great ingredients. The best butter comes from the best cream. I like Organic Valley personally as I can reliably get it and their cows are pastured. Cows that live on pastures are probably happier, in as much as cows can be said to be happy, and they produce much higher quality dairy. Cows that eat a lot of grass also make prettier, more deeply colored cream. Local and fresh from the farm would be ideal, but that is harder to manage.
  • You need heavy cream. Look at the label of whatever you buy — a lot of whipping cream has mono- and diglycerides added. These aren’t bad, but they are added to help cream turn into whipped cream, not butter, so they can work at cross-purposes to your end goal.
  • Culture the cream before churning. This makes the finished butter taste amazing, it’s more historical, and it makes the butter churning go faster. It’s also dead easy: buy cultured buttermilk and add some to the cream, then let it sit. I usually add a half pint of buttermilk to a quart of cream because those sizes are both easy to obtain and I’m lazy. The half pint of buttermilk could probably culture up to a gallon of cream. I put both in a pitcher or large jar or a jug and drape a cloth over the top or losely seal with waxed linen, then let it sit out on the counter overnight. I have done this at events, too.
    • By the way, quick rant about culturing dairy here: historically, this just happened. Leave the cream out overnight, have nicely soured cream the next day. Leave milk out overnight, have clabber the next day. Dairy is naturally full of lots of bacteria, some great and some definitely not. The tradeoff of pasteurization is you can’t just set your milk or cream out to clabber it like they did in the old days, but you also are much less likely to die from a horrifying pathogen from drinking raw milk. Tradeoffs! If you’re playing around with homemade fresh cheese, the kind that you add lemon juice or vinegar to to curdle it, do an experiment: add a half pint or even a pint of buttermilk to a gallon of whole milk, let it sit overnight, and the next day you can make it curdle by just bringing it to a boil. Pretty neat!
  • Don’t overfill your churn. I usually gleefully ignore this. But the churn should be less than halfway full for minimal splatter.
  • Add lots of salt because salt is delicious ūüôā

With my churn soaked and my cream soured, it was quick work (less than 15 minutes) to make butter:

Everything ready

My “helper” “cleaning” the cream up

A little bit of leakage. A towel helps. (Are you feeling dirty yet? Butter churning was made for innuendo.)

Butter! That was fast!

Transfer to a bowl and bring the butter together in one blob (I’m using my butter paddles), then (not pictured) drain off the buttermilk, set it aside, and wash the butter by kneading it in ice cold water. 

Buttermilk is great in a lot of recipes, especially baking. My dog loves if. I’ve fed it to my chickens. Medieval people probably just drank it. I once tried watering some down, like oxymel or any of the other vinegar water variants from period. I was not a fan. 

I like to sprinkle on flakes of salt but you can also just salt your butter. Premodern butter probably had up to 10% salt as a preservative — this was washed out prior to using the butter — but you can add as much or as little as you like. 

Butter doesn’t really store well. I mean, it does, but the best tasting butter is fresh. 

If you’re in An Tir, I plan to bring my churn to September Crown and churn butter while I hang out in the Publike House so you can see it in action. 

Playing with Pickling

I love pickled foods. Fermented, briny, tart — I think I like pickled vegetables more than fresh in many cases. Between garden produce and the Farmers’ Market, I had a lot that I wanted to pickle this week. Here are the end results:  

All except the small jar on the far right (containing in-process spicy kimchi made from globe turnips that I grew) are at least plausibly pre 1600. The greens are another attempt at plausible historical kimchi: turnip greens, salt, fish sauce, and lots of garlic. I’m pretty excited about that one. The rest of the jars are variations on pickled onions — whole small “spring” onions and sliced sweet onions two ways. Here are some recipes if you want to make your own. 

Whole Pickled Onions

  • 3 bunches small onions (roughly a dozen per bunch, walnut sized or smaller)
  • 2, 12 oz bottles malt vinegar 
  • 1/2 oz salt (this is about a quarter of the amount the recipe I was working from called for, so feel free to adjust this further yourself)
  • Spices (feel free to experiment!) — one nutmeg broken up, 2 bay leaves, 5 cloves, 1 – 2 tsp pepper corns
  1. Remove roots and tops of onions and peel. 
  2. Bring remaining ingredients just to a boil, then let cool. 
  3. Put all ingredients into a large glass jar or crock. 
  4. Keep in a cool, dark place (refrigerator) for at least 10 days. I shake them periodically to make sure all the onions are under the brine. 

These are supposedly the best accompaniment to pork pies. 

Pickled Onion Rings

  • 2 large sweet onions (where I live, Walla Wallas)
  • 1 1/2 cups cider vinegar
  • 6 T sugar or 1/4 c honey
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • Spices: 2 bay leaves, 6 cardamom pods, 3-4 cloves, 1 long pepper pod, 1 blade mace (I didn’t have any this time), some peppercorns, some juniper berries, whatever else looks good to you (I like a “Viking” variant with caraway and juniper)
  1. Peel the onions and slice into rings 1/4″ thick or smaller. 
  2. Bring brine ingredients to a boil. 
  3. Add onions to brine and simmer about 30 seconds. 
  4. Pack into a quart mason jar or a stoneware crock. 
  5. Store somewhere cool and dark (the refrigerator again) and eat whenever. 

I don’t know how long these keep because they have never lasted longer than a weekend. I like them with smoked chicken. 

For one of the jars of sliced onions, I used honey, fresh sage, lovage seeds, and juniper berries for the seasoning. I call those the “farmhouse” variant because they don’t use imported spices. 

Happy pickling!

The Pie of Destiny

In a world of mass-produced pastry trash, one woman would rise up and fight on behalf of all pie-kind. She alone would have the strength to wield THE PIE OF DESTINY!

At WCCS, I participated in a lamb “breaking” class — cutting a lamb into primals. It was incredibly interesting. I’ve broken a pig before, but not a sheep; the anatomy is basically the same, but I always want more practice. During the same class, we also slaughtered two roosters. The lamb had been slaughtered the night before. I helped pluck the roosters¬†and watched the gutting process. It was all incredibly interesting!

I took one of the roosters and some of the lamb meat. Later in the day, I had a coffin from the class I taught, and I decided, of course, to fill that coffin with meat. But that wasn’t quite twee enough for me, so I gathered wild herbs and greens from the site. I ended up making a pie with meat from animals slaughtered on site and plants found on site and a crust made on site — it felt like the official unofficial symposium pie.

Photo by Wulfric. The pie is topless by this point, which is an accurate metaphor for the evening.

Directions for the pastry can be found in my pie crust class handout, linked in the previous post.

Here’s how I did¬†the filling: First, I chopped some fatty lamb meat very small, and mixed it with salt and some very finely minced mint. Then I blanched a mix of nettles, redwood sorrel, fiddleheads, and lemon balm, chopped them finely, and mixed them with the lamb. I packed this into the bottom of the pastry. Then, I removed the breast meat from the rooster and put that on top of the seasoned lamb. Finally, I jointed the rooster and put its legs and wings above the rest of the meat and then put the coffin lid on top.

I baked this pie a looooonnnnng time — probably 4-5 hours, all told! — at 325¬įF. This meant that the meat got wonderfully tender, with the coffin acting just like a baking dish. To serve, I removed the top crust and let people dig in. The top crust was actually pretty tasty, even though I made the pastry thick. I would have been interested to taste the side/bottom crust, as a lot of fat and juice from the lamb had soaked into it; however, I was trying to keep things relatively tidy, and it seemed easier to just scoop out filling. I personally thought the lamb and rooster were delicious; I liked the flavor profile, and the meat was just so tender and flavorful. The rooster was what chicken wants to taste like.

I felt like this was a “bucket list” pie — making food from animals killed less than 24 hours before hand and plants I gathered. This pie made me really happy.

Photo by Wulfric, whimsy by Eulalia


Class Handouts from WCCS 2016 are up

If you are here after taking one of my classes yesterday, hi! I hope you had fun and learned a lot! I had a particularly inspiring culinary symposium this year, and can’t wait to dive back into food fun. I’ve posted my class handouts under the files section, or you can click here to read about Grains and Flours of Medieval England or here to read two recipes for standing-crust pies.

A marzipan variant

Recently I made marzipan with orange flower water instead of rose water and then mixed a handful of candied orange peel pieces into it before serving. 

It was AWESOME and got utterly demolished at the vigil I took it to. It’s more of a stretch for historical accuracy (evidence for orange flower water in cooking has eluded me, to my annoyance)  but very, very tasty. If you gave up on making it SCA period historical, you could dip it in chocolate. I wouldn’t tell. 

Repost: Lammas Fayre Flours Product Guide

This is re-posted from my old blog.

When I was in the throes of my pie crust research last year, one of my most significant stumbling blocks was sorting out how to replicate medieval flours using what I could get in a modern world. I lamented greatly that I could not simply walk down to the store and buy some bolted stone-ground flour made entirely from heirloom “landraces” of grain.

Well, it’s the year 2015 and we have this thing called “global e-commerce” now. It turns out that you can, in fact, special order flour that is outstandingly close to the flour medieval bakers would have used, produced by¬†Lammas Fayre Mills:

Lammas Fayre flour by John Letts at Heritage Harvest is a very special range of heritage and ancient English organic flours available online exclusively from BakeryBits.

The product of over a decade of sweat and academic rigour, John Letts has collected an extensive range of historically and botanically authentic cereals. All grown organically on farms in Buckinghamshire and Wiltshire, John grows them the traditional way, that is, in mixed populations (strains) that are well suited to local growing conditions.

I might have literally cried a little with excitement when I read that (I get emotional about ancestral foodways sometimes! don’t judge!) then, naturally, I ordered a whole bunch of flours to play with. Bakery Bits (the UK company that is the exclusive source for Lammas Fayre flour) has been a delight to work with, and shipping, while understandably expensive, was also fast and relatively painless. I’ve made pies using two of the blends I ordered (expect a full report on that in the next week or so, once I can get pictures uploaded). I’m planning to finally get back to my artisan medieval bread experiments, too, although that may have to wait until the summer.

I thought other medieval cooks interested in using these flours may find it helpful to have a guide as to which of these flours will work for which applications, and how they align with what we know about available grains and flour in high medieval England (which is my personal specialty — I’m hoping others can round out this guide for other time periods). Here are my thoughts on four of the Lammas Fayre products, with links to my past research.

Medieval Peasant’s Blend¬†

A mix of wheat, rye, barley, oats, broad beans, and peas. This is a wholemeal flour, meaning it has not been bolted/sieved.

From the Bakery Bits description:

“Lammas Fayre’s Medieval peasant‚Äôs flour is milled from a blend of heritage wheat (Triticum aestivum), rye (Secale cereale), barley (Hordeum vulgare) and oat (Avena sativa) varieties. In time of scarcity, medieval peasants and serfs also mixed roasted broad bean (Vicia faba) and pea (Pisum sativum) flour into their flour to make a hearty, and flavourful loaf rich in protein. Our cereals are grown organically at Colling‚Äôs Hanger Farm in the village of Prestwood in Buckinghamshire, and at Sheepdrove Organic Farm in Wiltshire. As in the past we grow mixtures of varieties that are well adapted to local growing conditions. The grain is stoneground on the farm to produce a unique, and delicious, dark brown flour ideal for baking artisan-style bread, particularly sourdough ‚Äď the staple bread of the medieval period.”

Quoting my own bread research here:

“In addition to maslin loaves, peasants and servants ate a wide variety of breads.¬†Serfs and free peasants were required to work on the lord’s land during harvest time, and were entitled to¬†boons¬†in exchange, typically bread (this obligatory work was thus called boon-work) (Bennett). Boons given during harvest time were often composed of maslin and rye (so, both the wheat and rye that had been grown together and some more rye flour), rye and barley, or just barley, however, this is probably not representative of what peasants ate the rest of the time (Woolgar et al). The¬†famuli¬†(servants) on demesne farms received mixed grain breads, which may be more representative of the typical peasant diet; one late 13th¬†century household provided bread made from a mix of rye, barley, and bulmong (oat mixed with bean and pea) flours (ibid). This type of coarse mixed-grain bread was also called¬†horsebread¬†as it was also fed to horses, and it is possible that wheat bran, presumably left over from the production of wastel, may have been used as well (Hammond). …¬†The late 13th¬†century household record mentioned above provided bread for the¬†famuli¬†composed of 45% rye, 33% barley, and 22% bulmong (Woolgar et al).”

Mixed grain flours were typically made from grains grown together in the field, such as maslin (see below), dredge (barley and oats), or bulmong (see above), so this mix would appear to be made from a mix of all three of these common mixed crops. The Lammas Fayre peasant blend is in line with general trends in peasant grain consumption, as you can see above. If you are recreating bread produced for servants, eaten by peasants, or the least expensive bread available from professional medieval bakers, this is a perfect option. I would not use this to recreate recipes out of extant medieval culinary manuscripts, as those are all from high-status contexts.

I made a long-fermented sourdough loaf from this flour mix, and the result was heavy, but delicious and very filling.

Maslin Blend

From the Bakery Bits description: “Lammas Fayre’s maslin flour is milled from a blend of over 200 heritage varieties of winter-sown bread wheat (Triticum aestivum) and rye (Secale cereale) grown organically at Collings Hanger Farm in the village of Prestwood in Buckinghamshire, and at Sheepdrove Organic Farm in Wiltshire. As in medieval times, we grow genetically diverse mixtures of varieties that are well adapted to local growing conditions. The grain is stoneground and sieved to remove the coarsest bran, creating a delicious, light brown flour ideal for baking artisan-style bread, particularly sourdough, the staple loaf of the medieval period.”

Again¬†quoting from my bread research: “Maslin, wheat and rye grown together in the same field, was an extremely common crop during this period and thus maslin bread was widely consumed ‚Äďone record from the turn of the 14th¬†century shows a Bishop receiving payments from peasants for the grinding of 158 bushels of maslin compared to only two bushels of wheat (Woolgar et al).¬†Maslin bread was most likely consumed by an incredibly broad spectrum of the population, including peasants, workers and other town-dwellers, servants in manor households, and was used by the gentry for trenchers (Hammond).”

I would posit that, for most of the population, maslin was a staple food. I’d be curious if Letts / Lammas Fayre has research to support the sieving of maslin, as that is not something I have ever seen reference too; in all of my research, the only type of flour to undergo bolting was pure wheat flour in high-status contexts. If you are willing to let that slide, this is an excellent choice for recreating the food of commoners, such as bread or pie crusts; again, I would not use maslin to recreate high-status food. If I dive back into my street food research and make some plausibly historical “medieval fast food” pies, I will use this flour.

I made some sourdough bread from this mix as well. It was slightly lighter weight than the horsebread loaf, but still dense and hearty. My somewhat picky wife liked the flavor better than the horsebread.

Norman Blend: Rivet Wheat Flour

My total inability to find any rivet wheat at all last year made me the saddest baker, so finding this particular product made me go a little wild with glee.

From Bakery Bits: “Lammas Fayre’s rivet wheat flour is milled from a rare species of wheat (Triticum turgidum) that was first grown in England in the Norman period, and became popular because of its high yield and exceptional nutty flavour. Our rivet wheat is grown organically from a mixtue of rivet varieties at Collings Hanger Farm in the village of Prestwood in Buckinghamshire, and at Sheepdrove Organic Farm in Wiltshire. The grain is stoneground and sieved to produce a creamy white flour with a unique texture and flavour that is ideal for biscuits, cr√™pes, pizza, pasta and artisan-style bread.”

This time I’m quoting my¬†pie crust research: “The most abundant grain in these samples [from medieval roof thatching samples from Southern England] was bread wheat, although this study does not specify any specific recognizable varieties of bread wheat or characteristics such as grain color, etc. One significant difference between modern wheat crops and the evidence from roof thatching is the presence of rivet wheat among the medieval samples. Although rivet wheat is no longer grown commercially on any significant scale, 60% of the roof samples contained at least some rivet wheat. (Letts) Rivet wheat tends to produce high quality thatching straw, so it is possible that it was of greater importance historically for this reason. As many of the roof samples are composed of threshed straw and threshing waste, it is reasonable to conclude that these samples accurately reflect food crops.”

Fun fact: the citation in there should indicate why I was so excited to find these flours; the Letts I cite is the same John Letts behind Lammas Fayre. I suppose citing his work to validate the authenticity of his flour is kind of circular, but I view his extensive research as evidence that this guy really, really knows his stuff.

But I find myself in a bind here: Letts’s own findings seemed to suggest that bread wheat and rivet wheat were grown and presumably used together, but this blend contains exclusively rivet wheat. I think to recreate medieval wheat flour, it would be more appropriate to use¬†a blend of¬†both rivet and bread wheat flours; so if you are going for very strict authenticity, this may not actually cut it on its own. I have absolutely no regrets in purchasing this flour and I plan to use it¬†as a “novelty” more than anything; I think there’s some rivet¬†wheat sourdough in my near future!

While you could certainly sully this beautiful heirloom flour with some modern bread wheat flour, Lammas Fayre has a much better solution:

Elizabethan Blend Manchet Flour

From¬†Bakery Bits: “Lammas Fayre’s manchet flour is milled from a blend of heritage bread (Triticum aestivum) and rivet wheat (Triticum turgidum) varieties that were grown in the Elizabethan period for making fine white ‘manchet’ bread for special occasions and the high table. Our manchet flour is grown organically at Collings Hanger Farm in the village of Prestwood in Buckinghamshire, and at Sheepdrove Organic Farm in Wiltshire. The grain is polished, stoneground and sieved to produce a creamy white flour with a unique texture and flavour that is ideal for all baked goods, including pastries and artisan-style bread.”

Although billed as Elizabethan, I actually think this is the best choice in flour if you want to recreate high-status¬†medieval¬†English baked goods.¬†It contains a mix of bread and rivet wheat¬†flours, and it has been stone ground and sieved (bolted) to remove the bran and¬†yield a “white” flour. This is exactly the type of flour that my research supports for both¬†bread (see my notes on wastel bread specifically in¬†my bread research) and pie crusts. If you want to make a fritter recipe out of Forme of Cury (and don’t we all!),¬†this manchet blend is perfect.¬†Basically, if I could only have one Lammas Fayre flour for medieval cooking, this is what I would pick.

I know a couple of other people who have purchased flours from Lammas Fayre, mostly in pursuit of bread making. If you have played around with these flours and have further recommendations for recreating historical foods using these products, please leave a comment or a link!

All Carnevale Recipes

Food for Dragon’s Mist’s Carnevale AS L

By Mistress Eulalia Piebakere

The Vision

A melding of cuisines from Venice and Constantinople from roughly the time of the Fourth Crusade (the very beginning of the 13th century). Both of these places had independent well-developed food cultures, and each also tended to have an early sort of ‚Äúfusion‚ÄĚ cuisine as each city was quite cosmopolitan and a hub for commerce and trade. Also, in my vision we ignore the fact that crusades were nasty, awful things and that the sacking of Constantinople was objectively terrible.

Continue reading “All Carnevale Recipes”

A Basic Medieval Spice Kit

(This is reblogged from my old blog)

I could write absolute digital reams on the subject of spices in medieval cuisine. No, medieval people did not use spices to mask the taste of rotten meat (don’t get me started), but spices are an integral part of medieval cooking. While individual dishes have their own unique spice profiles, there are two indispensable spice mixes that show up again and again in medieval recipe collections from various times and places: powder douce and powder fort. My basic spice kit to take to events contains these two mixes plus salt and saffron. These four items are enough to get me through most dishes I want to prepare. Here’s some more information about each of the blends:

Powder fort: Fort in this case meaning strong. Mentioned in Italian, French, and English recipes for sure, and likely in recipe collections from other places but I am less familiar with them. So far in my reading of English recipes from the 13th and 14th centuries, I have yet to come across an actual recipe for powder fort itself. There is some evidence (mostly from the Menagier de Paris) that these mixes might have been purchased ready-made rather than prepared by a household or home cook, which offers one explanation for the lack of recipes. Additionally, it’s extremely unlikely that everything called “powder fort” was the same. Think of this as a name for a category of related spice mixes rather than a name for one specific mixture. My practical advice is that you experiment with different mixtures of strong / “spicy” spices to find something you like. Possible spices include black pepper, cubebs (tailed pepper), grains of paradise (also a hot, peppery spice), long pepper (the hottest spice known in medieval Europe), cinnamon (either true cinnamon or cassia), clove, mace, ginger, nutmeg, and galingale. My favorite mix combines approximately

  • 1 part each:
    • Black pepper
    • Cubebs
  • 1/2 part cinnamon
  • 1/4 part mace
  • 1/8 part clove

Grind to a fine powder and mix well.

I like my powder fort to mostly taste of pepper, with the other spices there for balance and complexity. I tend to leave out long pepper and grains of paradise because I think each has such a subtle flavor that they deserve the spotlight. I also generally stay away from the “weaker” spices — I just don’t think ginger, nutmeg, and galingale can hold their own against the other ingredients.

Powder Douce:Douce meaning sweet, these spices are somewhat milder than those in powder fort and more appropriate for sweet dishes. Additionally, powder douce can include sugar. All of the explanatory notes above apply equally to powder douce, except those about the desired flavor and ingredients. Powder douce is often sprinkled on egg and pasta dishes.

Possible ingredients include sugar, cinnamon (here I would stick to true cinnamon if possible), ginger, nutmeg, galingale, and possible small amounts of mace or clove.
My personal combination, again approximate quantities:

  • 1 part sugar
  • 1/2 part ginger
  • 1/2 part cinnamon
  • 1/4 part nutmeg

Grind to a fine powder.

I generally leave out mace and clove as the strong flavors can quickly overpower the other spices. Remember, if you want strong spices, choose powder fort.

I store my powder fort and powder douce in the earthenware jars pictured above, which were made by Mistress Morgaina. As mentioned above, I round this out with saffron and good sea salt. For longer events I often add more to my stash, but these are enough to get me through most camp cooking projects.

Quince Paste from my Garden

My quince tree blessed me this year with much more fruit than I was expecting. Because we had such a warm, dry summer, they ripened earlier than they did last year. That meant I didn’t have to fight off the stupid squirrels, as there were still plenty of things for them to eat so they stayed away from the harder to eat quinces. I ended up with 8 large, beautiful, perfect fruits. I picked them and kept them in my house for several days just to make everything smell delicious.


When I was ready to process the quinces, I cored them and chopped them roughly, then weighed the fruit. The final tally was just over 4 pounds of usable fruit — yay! The pieces go in a large saucepan and get just barely covered with water, brought to a simmer, and cooked until soft.

You have two options at this point: strain or blend. A good historical cook will force it through a strainer (or food mill). I have done this. It works. It’s great. It’s period. Do it once. Then, once you’ve gotten it out of your system, pick up your immersion blender and go to town. (Note: don’t put your finger in the blender. Ask me about my scar!)

Once the quinces are fully sauced, it’s time for¬†the sugar: add an equal mass of sugar to the mass of fruit you started with. I do this over low heat, adding a bit of sugar at a time and stirring to be sure it actually dissolves; I have burned my quince paste by not being careful during this step.

Now: cook over moderate heat, stirring pretty much constantly, until the paste thickens. This takes forever. It is tedious. You will wish you had servants. But watch it like a hawk, or it burns. For this amount, I split it into two batches and cooked it in a big heavy skillet. Over time, the water will cook out, the pectin and sugar will do magical things, and the fruit will oxidize to an incredible deep pink hue. You can decide how thick you want the final product to be. I cook it until it’s thick enough that stirring leaves behind defined troughs where the spoon was. You can do it not so thick and can it, like jam, or go super thick and pour it into a baking pan (well greased or lined with parchment), let it cool, and slice it, which is what I usually do. This batch honestly did not get as thick as it should have, but that’s okay.

Quince paste can be eaten with cheese, added to sauces, used as a component in many desserts, or just eaten for its own merits. I like it in — no surprise — tarts.