Connecticut in the autumn has much to recommend it. Our state, like the rest of New England, is considered by many to be at its peak when the leaves change and the evenings grow chilly. Even we locals lean into the season as soon as Labor Day has passed, panting in the heat of our flannel and wool sweaters as we pick apples and sip cider in the early autumn sunshine.

A couple of years after moving back to Connecticut with my husband, we met up with some friends and their two young daughters for mandatory apple picking, pumpkin patching, and cider consumption. The orchard was just as lovely as one might expect. It was also, as one might expect, completely packed with tourists and locals alike on a sunny autumn Sunday. What I absolutely did not expect was to find, right between the neat rows of apples, a fruit right out of Greek mythology. I had only once in my life seen these golden orbs available for sale and certainly never hanging on the branch. But there they were, quince trees laden with fruit growing from the soil of my own home state.

If you have never seen a quince before, you might be forgiven for thinking it was an apple or pear that had somehow gone terribly wrong. (In fact, the quince, an ancient fruit, predates either of these.) Their shape is somewhere between the two, often quite bumpy and covered with a thick, waxy skin. The fruit is covered by a tawny fuzz, which falls away to reveal a luminous gold color when it ripens in late autumn. The flesh of a quince is extraordinarily hard, sour, and so tannic as to be inedible in its raw form.

But the scent!

A ripe quince has an aroma unlike anything else. As difficult and foreboding as the fruit itself may be, the aroma of quince is beguiling and romantic: sweet, floral, appley, heady, and strong. When cooked, the fragrance mellows and gives way to flavors of rose, honey, green apple, and ripe pear. Ancient Greek society was so enamored of the quince that it became a symbol of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and pleasure. Quince appear as “golden apples” in several ancient myths, and some Biblical scholars argue that the forbidden fruit of the Garden of Eden was more likely to have been quince than apple. Quince is quite literally legendary.

Ever since that fateful moment in the orchard, I make certain to set aside a day, usually in late October, to head up to Dondero Orchards in Glastonbury and pick my own quince. It feels luxurious to pick the fruit off the tree with my own hands, and I never would have discovered where to do it if not by luck. It is rare to find commercially available quince, never mind a place where a person with good timing might come away with pounds of ripe fruit.

When I get home, I love to stack four or five of the prettiest fruits in a bowl and leave them in the living room. Their perfume fills the house, winding from room to room like a silk ribbon. Sometimes, I stash a quince in the recesses of the linen closet for a few days, hoping to permeate my tea towels with the whisper of scent for the darker winter days ahead. Do take care if you’re storing your quince in the fridge —most everything in there will absorb the aroma, including butter, milk, rice, and potato leek soup. I learned this the hard way.

Quince is less forthcoming in sharing its gustatory magic. It is, in short, a pain in the neck to render it edible.

It is also absolutely worth the trouble.

A bit of sugar and some liquid combined with a generous amount of cooking time transform the quince. I like to throw a cubed quince into my apple pie filling to add an extra dimension of flavor. Peeled, cored quince, slow roasted in riesling and honey, is delicious with yogurt, cream, or ice cream. I do my best to save a few for these preparations, but the rest of my quince haul is destined to become membrillo.

This process of making membrillo, a traditional Spanish quince paste, isn’t complicated, but it should be approached with caution. There is a chance that you may come away peppered with minor burns from stirring the boiling paste. But it’s nothing compared to what ancient peoples must have gone through to make this fruit delicious. The wonderful part is that the quinces themselves help you to know when the cooking time is up. The mixture turns a striking rouge color when it is getting close to the right temperature. This cooking time, plus the naturally high levels of pectin present in quince, will cause the membrillo to set up into a sliceable jelly.

Membrillo is one of those recipes in which simplicity leads to a bit of magic. An odd, hard, strangely textured fruit becomes the variable that takes a cheese board to another level altogether. Membrillo is fantastic with Manchego cheese, Marcona almonds, and a nice Rioja or Amontillado sherry.

It’s not part of the traditional New England fall routine, but thanks to the whimsy of a couple of Connecticut farmers in planting quince trees, it can be part of yours. I only ask that you please leave a few of those golden apples in the orchard for me—it just wouldn't be autumn without them.

Pick Your Own Quince in Connecticut: Call for hours and availability at Dondero Orchards, 529 Woodland St., South Glastonbury, CT, 860-659-0294. And Drazen Orchards, 251 Wallingford Rd., Cheshire, CT, 203-272-7985.

Membrillo

Ingredients:

Directions:

Fill a medium bowl with cold water. Juice one lemon into the water. Peel, core, and chop the quinces one at a time, submerging the prepared fruit in the acidulated water as you go. Quince oxidizes very quickly and this step slows that process.

Cook the quince with 1/4 to 1/2 cup water, covered, in a large saucepan over medium heat until very tender. Puree fruit in a blender or food processor until smooth and press through a fine mesh sieve.

Weigh the quince puree and then weigh out ¾ of the weight of the puree in sugar. (For example, 12 ounces sugar for 16 ounces quince puree.) Mix quince puree, sugar, ¼ c. water, and the juice of one lemon. Transfer to a large, deep saucepan or pot.

Cook the mixture over medium/high heat, stirring constantly with a rubber spatula, about 25-30 minutes. Do not stop stirring! Mixture will bubble and begin to turn pink or red. Continue cooking until paste is bubbling and beginning to move as an entity when stirred. (An odd instruction, but you will know when this happens. The paste begins to assert itself against the spatula a bit.) Cook about 2 minutes more, remove from heat, and pour into oiled loaf pans.

Allow to set overnight. Slice and serve or wrap well and refrigerate for up to 6 weeks.