Dear Neighbor: Are you going to do anything with those quinces?

I have been obsessed with quinces for MONTHS!

Ever since Jane Brocket wrote about them on her blog, Yarnstorm.

She has written about them again, so I surmise it is quince season in England, as it is here.

We have an old quince bush on our property, but we are not going to talk about why the bush bears no fruit. Well, I will give you a hint. I think, a bush can be whacked only so many times with the pruning shears before she refuses to produce. A lesson to us all.

For a good week I have been eying a quince bush down the street.
When the fruit started to hit the ground I could not resist the urge to pounce.

But first, I sent my husband to see if the owners of the bush were going to make use of the fruit or if it was going to be me or the bugs.

He knocked on the door and met the woman for the first time. (the man will do anything for me) And inquired after the quinces. She wistfully told Bill how her mother used to make quince jam. I am trying not to interpret that, as, if your wife makes jam with these please bring me some. I don't do jam, I love jam but the whole putting up thing scares me. I could kill somebody with improperly jammed jam.

She them told him she had just returned from eleven days away and she had figs to deal with. So, home he came with a lovely bag full of quince.

After I figure out how to tell when a quince is ripe I am going to do something stupendous with them. I promise. And whatever I do I will be sure to share, I promise.

Till then, I am keeping the bowl in the sunshine of my kitchen and letting their fragrance take me somewhere I have never been before.