Damson Cheese

Damsons arrive at the market for about three weeks at the end of summer and then they're gone. Small, dusty-blue, sharper than plums, almost too sour to eat from the hand. But cook them down with sugar and time and they turn into the most extraordinary thing: a deep, dark, perfumed paste that sits quietly next to a wedge of cheese and makes the whole board feel deliberate.

This isn't jam. It's firmer, denser, more concentrated. The Spanish make membrillo with quinces and the principle is the same. You cook the fruit until almost all the water has gone and what's left is pure, sweet, slightly tart fruit reduced to its essence. It takes a couple of hours of gentle attention. The kitchen smells extraordinary by the end. The colour shifts from bright purple to something closer to old wine, and the spoon starts to leave clean trails across the bottom of the pan. That's the moment.

Make it in late September when damsons are cheap and abundant. Pot it up, let it set overnight, and you'll have something on the shelf that lasts for months and turns any ordinary cheese board into the kind of small celebration that doesn't need announcing. I wrote it down in the notebook the first year I made it: damsons, sugar, time, patience. Nothing else needed.

A word of warning about the spitting. As the fruit cheese thickens, it stops bubbling politely and starts erupting in slow, hot blops. Wear long sleeves and a apron, and stand back when you stir. We're only making dinner, but this particular bit of dinner can bite.