I want to plant a quince tree.
(Or maybe Monday, when I have the house to myself again.)
And when they’ve grown,
I want to make quince paste.
(Or maybe some days, I’d just enjoy the blossoms.)
Last week on our holiday to South Australia, we visited Maggie Beer’s farm in the Barossa Valley. We almost didn’t make it, as Mr 7 was keen to stay at home and practice his footy skills before watching the big game in the afternoon. Come, we said. We’re going on an adventure.
After pouts and folded arms slipped into the back seat, we drove for an hour to arrive at this little patch of paradise. We sampled, we tasted. Try this – no try this!
We bought some cute picnic basket lunches for the kids, which they carried to a bright blue bench overlooking a tortoise-dwelling lake. With all pouts well and truly put aside, Mr 7 turned to us. This is just a dream, he beamed.
My brother’s Japanese fiance has a knack of making all kinds of things. She brought over some quince paste she made with brown sugar. Turned out to be very tasty, especially with cheese and wine.
It turns out that the orchard my mother grew up on had a few quince trees. So we will plant a quince tree. Or three. And an olive tree for my charming Greek husband.