Jackie French: Reaping autumnal harvests from Canberra region

Next year. Maybe. If some devoted marmalade-maker doesn't snaffle them. There are tamarillos, kiwifruit, the late apples and pears, the medlars still waiting for a hard frost, and the birds have eaten all the persimmons, but as neither Bryan nor I like persimmons much, it only means that we miss out on having the deep-orange globes hanging from bare branches while the ground around the base of the tree is flagrant orange from the autumn leaves.

I love autumn. Summer's harvests can be a bit frantic, trying to deal with boxes of apricots or plums before they become over-ripe and squishy. Come to think of it, we still have a freezer tray of peaches waiting to be thawed and stewed for winter crumbles, and tomorrow night while watching a DVD I must peel and core and stew another pot of apples too. Peach crumble is more exotic but apple crumble beats it, or apple and a bit of quince …

And I've forgotten the quinces! Must check out the trees tomorrow, the rare varieties planted down the bottom of the orchard and the ornamental quince that gives fruit good enough for jelly; and the old tree – at least a century old as it was an old tree when I first saw it more than 40 years ago – that is laden with fruit every autumn. Laden, that is, until either the birds eat it in one vast swoop or, just possibly, some passers-by saw it decades ago and assumed it had been abandoned, which it pretty much is, tucked in among the gum trees.

Possibly those passer-by quince lovers have been visiting our tree ever since, harvesting what they think is unwanted fruit. Not that I'd call it unwanted exactly even this year, but on the other hand I wouldn't mind if a tree full of quinces vanished so I didn't have to peel them and slowly simmer them on the top of the stove or bake then in the oven till they soften and turn red, then freeze the results.

There are quite a few wild gleaners around here. Every feral apple tree, grown from a core someone threw out decades ago, bears good fruit, even excellent, with varieties lost to most gardeners, like white-fleshed, red-skinned Democrat (no, I wont tell you which road that one is on – the usual harvesters would not thank me for that).

There are wild peach trees, which for some reason – possibly isolation – never seem to get fruit fly. There is a wild fig, which is a bit of a mystery as it can't have grown from one thrown out of a car. The wild raspberries by the side of the road around here are actually native ones, and some are fatter and sweeter even than domestic ones.

There is something comforting about heading into the cold months with fruit ripening on the trees. If you lack autumn fruit, this is the time to plan for it. I'd go for late-season apples first – Lady Williams, Yates, Sturmer Pippin, or darling Democrat. Crab apples, too, if you are into jelly-making or love spring blossom, and if you don't want to eat them the birds will thank you. Or, rather, not thank you as birds aren't into that, but they will be properly decorative while they guzzle.

Then go for winter pears, hard and brown and wonderful, baked with red or white wine or even cider, or sliced very, very thinly and eaten with cheese, which is one of my favourite ways to eat cheese. Both the late apples and the late pears will last for months, wrapped in newspaper so if one goes bad they won't affect the others, and the ethylene exuded from the ripening fruit won't build up to soften them all sooner than you want them.

Pears tend to be large trees, but their blossom is stunning. Theoretically, you need two pear trees to pollinate each other successfully, but every single pear tree I have known has fruited, even if the seeds are a bit malformed and probably wouldn't germinate. In established suburbs there are probably enough pears scattered around for cross-pollination to occur anyway, but our first lone pear tree fruited over prolifically for years long before we put in others. I say "over prolifically" as it is an early variety, ripening in February when, among the Jonathon apples and late peaches, a comparatively tasteless ripe early pear is not terribly welcome. But with cold weather, somehow, pears hit exactly the spot. Maybe it's also because the later ones are less sweet, firmer but more strongly subtly flavoured.

Add a persimmon, if you are fond of persimmons. The newer varieties don't need to soften before they are sweet and can be eaten a bit like an apple, though they are still a bit too flowery and aromatic for my taste. Medlars are perfect for a jelly maker, though they are beautiful trees in their own right, butter yellow autumn leaves and the fruit hanging from the branches and then giant cream flowers in spring, soon after the soft green leaves appear.

Autumn fruit is delicious, but its trees have gifts for their growers all year round.

My last rose of summer

Bryan just brought me back a rose from town, 'Heritage', a David Austen rose we don't grow here with the most enchanting perfume. It is next to me on the bench as I write, the petals falling but still fragrant, still bright pink and beautiful as they scatter on the bench. The last rose of summer is too beautiful to throw out. We'll keep it even as the petals fade, scattering them on the bowl of potpourri on the dresser.

And the first pot of quince jelly ...

What do you do when after decades of dedicated (OK, sporadic and usually while watching a DVD at the same time) jelly making, your husband calls, "Darling, come and taste this" and gives you a spoonful of what is, possibly, the world's most perfect quince jelly, a gift from Phillip in town? It can be hard to accept your husband prefers another jelly maker's quince jelly. On the other hand, I got to eat that jelly too. And it is glorious, soft and jelly-ish, not syrupy or oversweet, in fact hardly sweet at all, just stunning quince flavour and texture. The perfect quince jelly needs little sugar, because the perfect quince jelly maker uses the jelly's natural setting power instead of the stiffening power of sugar.

Next year I'll need to focus, or all Bryan will have is the lingering memory of jelly that tastes of pineapple and flowers and is translucent ruby red..

To all who have never had perfect quince jelly: plant a tree now, then spend another two decades perfecting your technique – without a DVD accompaniment.

This week I'm:

* examining the lavishly leafed choko vine to see if it is ever going to fruit before the frosts cut it (probably not)

* wondering why the citrus caterpillars are eating one finger lime tree and not the two next to it – possibly because they are smaller, pricklier and not so lush

* cutting down the dead or wilted dahlia stems to leave space for the winter annuals I won't have time to put in

* accepting that I probably won't divide the dahlias clumps, either. Next year.

* Maybe picking the first ripe limes and finding hidden pumpkins as the corn plants wither

* watching the wombats watching us – as it gets colder they are hoping for carrots or wombat nuts, but they are fat and the grass is plentiful. Wistful wombats can wait.

How to celebrate the first limes …

1½ cups self-raising flour
200g butter
½ cup rolled oats
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup coconut, desiccated
¾ cup lime butter or lime marmalade

Rub the butter into the flour, then mix in the other ingredients except the marmalade or lime butter. Press half the mix onto a baking tray lined with baking paper, spread on the lime butter or marmalade, then scatter the other half of the mix much more lightly on top. Bake at 200C for 20-30 minutes till lightly browned on top. Cool before cutting into squares and keep in a sealed container. Squares made with marmalade will keep longer than those made with lime butter – keep the lime butter ones in the fridge for up to a week. The marmalade ones just need to be kept in a cool spot.

200g butter

3 eggs
2 tbsp grated lime zest
1 cup plain flour
½ cup self-raising flour

Topping:

½ cup chopped crystalised peel
¼ cup slivered almonds

Cream butter and sugar. Beat in eggs one by one, mixing well before each one. Gently add the flours and zest. Place in a cake tin lined with baking paper, bake at 200C for 20 minutes, then scatter on the peel and almonds quickly before the cake sinks. Bake for about 30 minutes or till the top is firm and lightly browned. Cool a little before you turn it out, carefully so you don't rearrange the top – made easier if you use a springform cake tin so that it can be released gently and, when it has cooled a bit, slipped onto a waiting plate.