The quince crop this year is just enough to fill the house with bowls of fragrance (gorgeous fresh scent for weeks as they ripen); not enough to make jam. Which makes me very happy.
I’m not in a jam-making mood.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
—from The Owl and the Pussycat, by Edward Lear