As autumn approaches, my garden is preparing for one final flourish before Day of the Dead (in Seattle that’s, aptly, The End…when my last marigolds will succumb to too much damp, the few remaining roses ‘forget’ to open fully, and quince stragglers, brown, soft and vinegary, lie on the ground).

In these late-August days, I’m thinking ahead: I need to make one more batch of fig-leaf syrup (my Desert King fig tree is so happy it’s two stories high, its leaves bigger than my head) and plan this year’s assorted quince treats: savory, sweet and alcoholic. Our Russian quince tree (Aromatnaya) has so much fruit I’ll be donating some to a pig sanctuary and a weed-chomping, underbrush-clearing goat herd. I’ll also make the final batches of rose jam.

I didn’t grow up eating roses…

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