Quince apple (bum choont)

 

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.