After lunch on Sunday there was a baked quince that had not been eaten, it was alone in the bowl surrounded by a cushion of whipped cream. I chopped up the quince, discarding its tough core, and stirred it into the cream together with the smudge of syrupy juice there was left. The mess went into the back of the fridge until about 5 minutes ago. I am eating it now. A small perfect indulgent bowl of quince and cream, delicately pink, the sweetness cut through by the sourness left in the cooked fruit.
Listening to Sweet Billy Pilgrim. One of those albums bought during the year and not properly listened to and now being given a second, well deserved chance, a bit like the quince.