Jamie McKendrick

Ignoring the cabbage, the melon and cucumber —no disrespect meant—I concentrate on the quince Juan Sánchez Cotán painted in Naples Yellow, poisonous stuff, mixed with white judging by the postcard someone sent me years ago. It hangs on a string, a world to itself, a quintessence, a quiddity of quince caught between a jaundiced mortal pallor and golden life, a hair’s breadth, a breath apart. To eat this thing raw it must be blotched and bletted, so best boil it down to dulce de membrillo, making red jelly out of that hard yellow —even this size, you feel its density and weight forged from the steel sunlight of Toledo.