I haven’t posted a recipe in ages. The other day I saw a Feijoa tree remembering the first time that I came across them. My sister-in-law had a bucket of them from her mother’s tree. I loved the enchanting smell and couldn’t wait to try them.
My family didn’t like them much, more to do with the slightly gritty texture than taste. No one wanted them, so I took them home. not even consulting a recipe book I concocted my recipe for jam. It was a huge success.
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On Thursday evening after a haphazard round of golf on a grey, cold afternoon, I took the Brazilian Guavas out of the fridge, their scent filled the air. The little reddish purple fruits given to me by one of the dietitians at work.
“In Autumn we often drive through the Australian countryside to visit family. From the road I spotted it, an old tree there on its own heavily laden with bright yellow fruit. The ghost of an old home stood by, long forgotten.
Wanting to pick some my husband and I drove along the dirt lane. Soon a bucket full of ripe fruit sat on the boot of the car. The quinces were fuzzy and slightly oily. In no time their aroma filled the car, a smell so unique and rich; it immediately provoked a sense of comfort.”