They looked—sort of—like lemons. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the fruit was covered with fuzz. Were they furry lemons? No, but they looked just like large fuzzy apple-lemons. I was pretty sure there was no such thing as fuzzy apple-lemons and yet something was so darn familiar about them. I knew what they were. I had to do a little traveling down my (now dusty) memory lane.
I was walking through the forbidden ranch the other day, and I saw strange yellow bumpy fruit dangling from a gnarled old tree.
Then I remembered they are quince.
My mom used to make quince jam. I think it was jam, at any rate, if I remembered correctly, quince really wasn’t edible and that you had to make something like jelly or jam out of them before you could actually ingest them—and even then it was sketchy.
I don’t know if it was the way the sun hit the tree or the fact that I was in one of my favorite places in the world or it could have been my mother’s voice echoing in my ear. “You can’t let all those perfectly good fuzzy apple-lemons go to waste, there’s a recession going on. You should pick them and make quince jam like I used to do.”
Mothers can guilt you into anything, even when they no longer inhabit this earth.