He has kind, doe eyes. He looks like he understands: my wants, my fantasies, my upheavals. And he's willing to do his best to pull me through. Brooklyn brown stone and purring tabby be damned, I just know—know in my gut—that my boyfriend James Peterson (he lets me call him Jim) secretly wants to spend some time in a galley kitchen, in a log cabin, in a suburb, in Alaska. I'm patiently waiting for the UPS man to deliver my almond flour so Jim and I can have our next date over macarons filled with apricot jam.
Apricot jam is the King of Jams. It tops my english muffins, marinades my Tofurkey, and defines abricotage. A gentleman and a scholar, it never does me wrong. But today, when it's 2º F and still dark enough that the solstice feels like a snarky joke, it can't do much for me. I don't want royalty. I want a reason to turn on the oven and enjoy a warm kitchen.
Waiting for my date and wanting for my oven, I picked up some quinces and decided to give this recipe for quince paste a try. Mark and I used to buy it with a wedge of manchego from the Whole Foods in Los Angeles and then go home and gorge. It's a thick gel/paste, sometimes called membrillo, that's sweet and quincy, and it's amazing on cheese and traditional with manchego. It's in the oven right now and if it turns out I'm going to cut the pillow of mold off the petit basque I bought last August and feast.
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The quince image above is from the New York Public Library archives.
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