It was my partner Vincenzo’s great aunt who made cotognata. The youngest of five siblings, all of whom had their own families, it was both her speciality and responsibility. Every autumn, in her kitchen in Gela on the south coast of Sicily, she cooked kilos and kilos of mela cotogna (quince) down to a puree and passed it though a hand-cranked food mill, before bringing it back to a boil with lemon juice and sugar. Once the mixture reached the setting point (a dense, molten state that burped and spat at passing children), it was poured into terracotta or tin moulds and left to set to a firm jelly. Every mould was patterned inside, so, when turned out, the forms had a raised decoration, possibly recognisable as flowers, grapes, swirls or an angel.
Some were dusted with sugar, others not; either way, they were left to dry for a few more days. How cotognata is dried is personal, an everlasting competition the cook has with herself: colour, consistency, how firm, how dry … Some people swear by a sunny table outside, while a cool oven is also an option; Vincenzo’s great aunt used every spare surface in the house for hers.
