Quince It’s not easy to peel the grubby yellow skin from a knuckle of quince and even with a sharp knife the paring is difficult. You stack the slices so they crowd together on pallid pastry, as anaemic as refugees on a forced march. The names of camps pop unmusically into your mind: Treblinka, S-21, Estadio Nacional. What creative impulse turns an orchard into a concentration camp? Will you and I finally turn away from the oven of our own making, to cook something wholesome and sustaining? O long sonnet, late volta, in the ceramic dish the pie is…
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