The quinces and pomegranates of autumn teach you a salutary lesson: never judge a fruit by its beauty, or lack of it. Quinces are a bit as they sound: round and heavily dimpled, and hard as rocks. Nothing, in short, to write home about. Pomegranates, on the other hand, are Hollywood stars. Alluring, expensive, a gorgeous colour, but totally lacking heart or flavour. The pair make for a good comparison, coming into season.

Fortunately quinces take on a new life when you cook them. But nothing can save pomegranates. Cut them in half and you are faced with a mass of seeds stuck in a red pulp. Once you get through them, an endless job, they are not worth the trouble. They are a waste of time, an absolute bore.

There are those who like the look of the quince, but they are usually old and grey, wearing thick glasses and filled with memories or dreams of the time they pinched them from the neighbour’s trees fifty years ago. My dear old mother is in this school.

‘We used to pinch them on the way to school,’ she said (I tried not to listen — my mother a thief!) ‘and eat them before getting to class, and the teacher would smell them — they have such a powerful aroma — and rush around shouting: “Who’s been eating quinces?’”

She told me that story after I had been fiddling with this forgotten fruit. All praise to her for trying the forbidden fruit, but the teacher should have handed them all a medal for managing to eat them raw. It’s not easy. I mention this tale because I had been slavishly following a recipe for cooking quinces, one of a dozen references to quinces I had consulted. Each claims the fruit is only decent when it is cooked for ages, and so it is, but… why don’t any of them say: ‘Taste it and see’?

I had cut up three quinces before I thought of tasting. It’s something of a shock: hugely acid palate, with a final sweetness. Something like a sweet’n’sour lolly: only with the quince it’s a case of sour, sourer, sourest and, oh yeah, sweet. And it’s that final sweetness which separates quinces from rocks to throw at avowed enemies. They are great slow cookers and mixers. And, fortunately for us, quinces love the microwave.

Before the microwave I wouldn’t have touched quinces with a goal post. Quinces in the preserving pan were testament to patience, patience and more patience. These days there are few enough of us with patience for anything, much less standing and stirring. Although the oldies and the goldies are still content to do it. One told me that preserving days were days of quiet reflection, days of stirring with a good book, page wedged open at the side of the stove, or times for good old-fashioned radio. Never TV.

So to the microwave, and all the possibilities with quinces: purees, chutneys, jellies, compotes, paste, anything. And the remarkable thing is that when you cook them in the microwave, they stay their original golden colour. None of this delicious pink/orange/magenta, but gorgeous golden.

I have rarely been entirely content with pear souffles, although they are big deals in restaurants; nor apple, nor quince. But if you put the three blood brothers together, cook them down a little to intensify their individuality yet commonality of flavour and texture, then you are in for one of the great souffles. And so simple too.