My Dad used to rave about many of his childhood Calcutta Jewish foods when we were growing up in London, and though he never cooked more than a Spanish omelet or a Welsh Rarebit, one day he decided to have a go at making Quince Luzeena after waxing lyrical about it and realising that Mum was not going to try it. It was a disaster that left Mum with a pile of washing up, and us with the funny, foreign-sounding word "Luzeena" firmly embedded in our - well you might say "culinary consciences!" Thanks for the interesting tour de force! Some shops in Jerusalem have broad flat cans of "dulce de membrillo," which is presumably very close, and I suppose could be sprinkled with cardamom and flaked or ground almonds at a pinch...
Jonathan, your father’s quince luzeena attempt made me smile — that’s exactly how these foods survive us. Even when the dish collapses, the word stays, the memory stays, the identity stays.
And thank you for the dulce de membrillo tip — yes, it’s very close, and I love the idea of sprinkling cardamom over it to bring it back into the Baghdadi orbit.
Did you know about the marmalade connection?
As for me, I will probably remember luzeena forever too — partly because of its history, and partly because Substack decided to trap me in a copy-paste loop. Dianne Jacob caught the quadruple paragraphs. I figure either luzeena is haunting me… or it`s the single malt.
Thank you for sharing your story — it genuinely brings the whole thing to life.
I apologize for the terrible mangle Substack made of the essay. The text got stuck in a copy-paste loop and chunks of the essay are repeated three–four times. I hope I fixed it now.
My Dad used to rave about many of his childhood Calcutta Jewish foods when we were growing up in London, and though he never cooked more than a Spanish omelet or a Welsh Rarebit, one day he decided to have a go at making Quince Luzeena after waxing lyrical about it and realising that Mum was not going to try it. It was a disaster that left Mum with a pile of washing up, and us with the funny, foreign-sounding word "Luzeena" firmly embedded in our - well you might say "culinary consciences!" Thanks for the interesting tour de force! Some shops in Jerusalem have broad flat cans of "dulce de membrillo," which is presumably very close, and I suppose could be sprinkled with cardamom and flaked or ground almonds at a pinch...
I titled the essay "my sweet luzeena", because the name sounded to me like one of a fairytale princess (Luzeena Luzeena, let down your hair...)
Jonathan, your father’s quince luzeena attempt made me smile — that’s exactly how these foods survive us. Even when the dish collapses, the word stays, the memory stays, the identity stays.
And thank you for the dulce de membrillo tip — yes, it’s very close, and I love the idea of sprinkling cardamom over it to bring it back into the Baghdadi orbit.
Did you know about the marmalade connection?
As for me, I will probably remember luzeena forever too — partly because of its history, and partly because Substack decided to trap me in a copy-paste loop. Dianne Jacob caught the quadruple paragraphs. I figure either luzeena is haunting me… or it`s the single malt.
Thank you for sharing your story — it genuinely brings the whole thing to life.
This was a very interesting read. I can only remember having quince once, and many years ago.
I apologize for the terrible mangle Substack made of the essay. The text got stuck in a copy-paste loop and chunks of the essay are repeated three–four times. I hope I fixed it now.
Thanks Sheryl. I found the history of the marmalade more interesting than the quince its apparently named after...