pungent memories

Still Life with Quince

Right now, the smell of quinces in the house is overwhelming. I just need to get started on the making of quince jam. The recipe is easy, yet daunting. Making my own quince juice is a big step. I'll have to buy some cheesecloth, but I'm up to the challenge.

My mom uses quinces alot for jams, jellies and for certain stews. They are not used much in this country. As a child, I remember my mom being so excited when she could find just two quinces in Seattle, they were so rare in the stores. However, some folks had them in their yards. My mom would boldy spot a quince tree in a neighborhood and start working her charm. In most cases, she would knock on the door of the house, introduce herself and say how much she admired the tree and would love a few quinces as they reminded her of home. In most cases, the quince tree owner would be ecstatic to rid themselves of the quinces and would tell her to help herself. She would pick what she could, without appearing too greedy and share the bounty with other Iranian cooks who would make amazing preserves and koreshts.

They had a mommy network that would pass on the bounty of things such as unripe grapes for "gureh" or verjus, grape leaves for dolmeh, figs from friends who had moved to Fresno, a special kind of raisin that Iranians have with their tea , sour cherries for a special kind of jam and albaloo polo (not just montmorency would work) . My parents would make a pilgrimage to Mt. Baker Vineyards for their sour cherries, Wapato for melons and small japanese eggplants for pickling and koresht badamjoon, St. Michelle Winery for grape leaves. They often went with other couples and made it a day complete with a elegant picnic and always came home with more to share for those who couldn't take the time off. It is a strong and sweet memory for me.

My parents live in California now, their are tons of Iranian stores with quinces, gureh that is already bottled, more japanese eggplants and the correct kinds of Iranian produce. Finding foods that remind one of home is not a challenge nor surpise any more. My parents still drive to a winery in North San Diego county for grape leaves. They let my mom pick as long as she brings them a lunch of dolmeh once in a while. While they still picnic, its mostly at the beach.

I miss my mom's stories of their trips, often spontaneous and community building. We try to do the same thing at least once a year, but for us its blueberries or peppers.

So, when I smell quinces, I think of my mom and I think the memories of a home 10,000 miles away.