Pot-Roasted Quince

Behind our farmhouse was a single tortured old quince tree, its trunk covered in moss and lichen. For most of the year it resembled a grumpy old man and stood wretched and solitary, its spindly branches bare until spring when it would transform, covered with beautiful apple-like blooms followed by the most exquisite, aromatic fruit in autumn.

To a curious small child like myself quince was the most horrid fruit. How could something with such a beautiful form and charming scent be so