Quince apple (bum-choont of Kashmir-a remembrance)
I remember
Janki—my father—saying, “Tomorrow is my mother’s death anniversary. Let us
prepare quince with the other dishes.” On the death anniversary of Kudmali, he
would observe a fast, and quince would invariably find its way into the
remembrance meal.
As children, we
wondered why quince had to be cooked on such occasions. Why not a more familiar
fruit? His answer was usually simple, though it often unfolded into one of his
long, affectionate stories about quince—its fragrance, its healing qualities, its
ancient associations, and its place in Kashmiri memory. He believed that
Kashmiri Pandits had long understood the value of wholesome food and
disciplined living. He had experience, an instinctive respect for science, and
a gift for connecting tradition with reason.
The fruit of love
Quince has been
associated with love, marriage, and fertility since antiquity. The ancient
Greeks linked it with fertility and included it in wedding customs. It was
offered as a wedding gift; in some accounts, a bride would take a bite of
quince to sweeten her breath before entering the bridal chamber, and the bride
and groom would share the fruit. Through such associations, quince came to be
known as the fruit of love, marriage, and fertility.
Its scent
itself seems made for celebration. A ripe quince can perfume a room with a
fragrance suggestive of apple, pear, citrus, guava, and sometimes even
pineapple. Leave one on a sunny windowsill, and it slowly gives its perfume to
the kitchen: a delicate mingling of vanilla, citrus, and autumn fruit.
Quince grows on
small trees and ripens in late autumn, generally around September and October.
At first glance, it resembles an apple or a short-necked pear, yet that
resemblance is misleading. It is knobbly, irregularly shaped, and, when picked
early, may wear a soft grey fuzz. The finest ripe fruit is golden yellow,
smooth-skinned, and richly fragrant.
A fruit transformed by fire
Unlike an apple
or pear, quince is rarely inviting when raw. Most cultivated varieties are
hard, sour, astringent, and difficult to eat without cooking. Yet therein lies
its secret. Under heat, its pale, whitish-yellow flesh softens and transforms
into a glowing rosy pink or deep red. What was once harsh becomes fragrant,
tender, and delicious.
Its high pectin
content makes quince especially suitable for jams, jellies, preserves, and
chutneys. Its sharp, distinctive flavour also works beautifully in savoury
cooking. In Kashmiri kitchens, quince may be prepared with lotus stem or
brinjal, where its unusual sweetness and perfume acquire an entirely new
character.
When simmered
gently with sugar and a little water—or perhaps wine—it becomes delicate,
sweet, and richly aromatic. Medieval cooks treasured quince and seasoned it
with pepper, ginger, cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg. At great medieval feasts,
quince jelly was served as a prized dessert. It is a fruit that requires
patience: it does not give its sweetness immediately, but rewards whoever waits
for its hidden richness.
Food and healing
Quince has long
been valued not only as food but also in household healing traditions. It
contains dietary fibre, antioxidants, vitamin C, and minerals including
potassium, phosphorus, zinc, copper, and iron. Its tannins include catechin and
epicatechin, and its high pectin content contributes to its usefulness in
preserves.
In Kashmir,
traditional physicians often recommended dried quince seeds—locally remembered
as pits—for sore throats and coughs. When soaked in water, the seeds form a
thick, soothing jelly-like liquid. Mixed with a little honey, it has been used
as a gentle, alcohol-free home remedy, especially for children. The mucilage
from the seeds has also been traditionally used to soothe minor irritation and
has been applied externally for small burns and bruises.
The fruit and
its juice have also been used in traditional remedies for digestive discomfort
and as a gargle for tender throats, mouth ulcers, and gum irritation. Such
traditional uses are part of folk practice and should not replace medical care,
especially for persistent or serious illness.
An ancient traveller
The quince is
an ancient fruit, known in Roman cookery and cultivated across the
Mediterranean, Turkey, Central Asia, and parts of Southeast Asia. Its botanical
name, Cydonia oblonga, is linked to Kydonia, an ancient city in Crete.
The Greek name for quince, kydoni, preserves that connection.
Crete itself
carries a magnificent history. It was the home of the Minoan civilisation, one
of the earliest great civilisations of Europe, flourishing roughly between 2600
and 1150 BCE. From that old Mediterranean world came many of the myths
surrounding quince.
Some traditions
suggest that the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden may have been a quince
rather than an apple. In Greek legend, Paris awarded a quince to Aphrodite,
goddess of love, as the prize in the famous beauty contest involving Aphrodite,
Hera, and Athena. That choice, legend says, helped set in motion the events
leading to the Trojan War. Whether myth or history, quince has travelled
through the imagination of many cultures as a fruit of beauty, desire, love,
and destiny.
My father often
spoke of sweeter quince varieties—fruit so juicy and mild that it could be
eaten like an apple—found in distant places such as Central Asia and Latin
America. For years, those stories sounded almost legendary. Then, at a fruit
growers’ festival in Los Angeles, I saw one for myself: a fruit with the
unmistakable perfume and flavour of quince, yet sweet, juicy, and almost
apple-like in its immediate appeal. For anyone who loves quince, such a
discovery feels like a revelation.
A tree for remembrance
Quince is not
always easy to find. Perhaps that is why I planted two quince trees about eight
years ago. They have now begun to bear bumper fruit. I planted them with a
small but enduring hope: that as long as my wife and I live in Washington, we
will not be deprived of preparing the favourite dishes of our departed parents
and loved ones.
Perhaps, many
years from now, someone will stand near those trees and say, “Our grandfather
planted these fifty years ago.” They may even complain, with affectionate
impatience, “What use are these hard quinces?” Yet they may not know that every
fruit carries a story—of Janki, of Kudmali, of a fast observed with devotion,
of a Kashmiri home, of autumn kitchens, and of remembrance.
For quince is
not merely a hard fruit that softens in the cooking pot. It is a fruit of
patience, transformation, love, and memory—the Fruit of Love.
