When I came back from my semester in Spain, I brought home recipes for all my host mother's best spanish dishes - Patatas a la Importancia, Tortilla Espanola, and Pisto - but I soon realized I had missed one: Dulce de Membrillo. Membrillo is the spanish word for the fruit that we know as Quince. And I use the word “know” loosely, because before I looked it up, the only thing I knew about Quince had to do with a vague association with pie. (Does this sound familiar to anyone else?) I was in for two surprises: Number One, Quince was not an exclusively pilgrim-esque food as I had always assumed, and Number Two, there was a real live Quince bush growing in my own New Hampshire backyard. Imagine. My. Surprise.
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| (I stole this picture from the internet) |
Likely most of you are already much better acquainted with this heretofore mysterious fruit, but for those of you still in the dark like I was, here’s the run-down. The Quince fruit grows on a short bush which produces beautiful vibrant red flowers in the spring. Later in the season, it develops small fruits that look something like small, nubby pears. From what I can tell, they never actually ripen, they just keep hanging there like rock-hard little fists. Lame. And THAT is why people came up with the brilliant idea of boiling the little guys down with a butt-ton of sugar, and creating this amazing concoction we call Dulce de Membrillo. (Dulce, by the way, means ‘sweet’ -- Dulce de Membrillo more-or-less-literally means the Sweetness of Quince.)
Aside from the fact that each individual step is totally obnoxious, this is actually a very easy dish to make. Take a bunch of ugly little membrillo fruits, cut and peel them, and throw them in a big pot of boiling water. Cook those suckers till they get soft, but be careful that they don’t disintegrate right into the water. Strain, and blend or food-process the fruit until “smooth”. (Like pears, quince has a natural grit to its flesh, and that quality will carry through to the finished product, creating the unique texture of Dulce de Membrillo.) The last step is to add equal parts quince puree and white sugar to a pot, and cook it on low heat till it just barely starts to caramelize. You’ll know you’ve hit this point when it magically changes from light yellow to a rich orange color. Amazeballs.
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By the way, taste this as you go. The raw (or even boiled) quince by itself is quite bitter, and will make your lips pucker. By the time you add the sugar and cook it down, it should have an indulgent sweetness twinged with a pleasant hint of that original tartness on the back of your tongue. Since I don’t have a scale I have to guess at how much sugar to add. Tasting the membrillo at the end is my way of verifying the proportions - if it’s too tart, add more sugar. If it’s too sweet...well...you probably didn’t save any extra quince, so you better get used to a nice sweet jam! Really though, I don’t see how you could go wrong.
Then you slather it on toast. Or on cheese! Or on toast with cheese!! Just go crazy. After a number of hours it will set and hold its shape as a cube, wheel, star, dinosaur, octopus...or y'know, whatever shape container you have lying around your house. Which means you can cut off slivers for snacks all day! For real though, if you want to get traditional the Spaniards eat their Membrillo slivers with slices of Manchego cheese. (Manchego cheese is a sheep's milk cheese from Spain. It’s on the stronger side, but still a bit creamy. It balances perfectly with the sweet Membrillo.)
In all actuality, the setting process takes a number of hours till it's fully firm and slice-able, but listen - no one's going to know if you just skim a little off the top for your toast right now. You did work hard after all. Which reminds me...
In all actuality, the setting process takes a number of hours till it's fully firm and slice-able, but listen - no one's going to know if you just skim a little off the top for your toast right now. You did work hard after all. Which reminds me...
