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When I tell people I pick quinces locally, they ask where. I smirk enigmatically and say, ‘I know a tree.’ Then I change the subject. For you, I’ll say a little more.

The tree in question surprised me last fall when I was driving down a busy highway. I spotted it near the entrance to an abandoned restaurant. And my heart started racing the way it does for some women when they see charcoal grey Manolo Blahniks at 1/3 off retail. Golden green fruit was hanging from the tree, so I figured it was either Golden Delicious apples or quinces.

I went back not long after with my stepladder. Even while I was picking them I still wasn’t sure what they were. But once I had them in the car I knew. Quinces have the loveliest fragrance—like their cousin the apple, but sexier. There was no longer any doubt what I’d found.

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This year I brought a bigger stepladder. It was my birthday. I had my long hair down, which I don’t recommend, because when you climb up into the branches your hair will get caught in eleventy-hundred directions, and you’ll have to pry it loose, and afterward go to Trader Joe’s looking like Annie Oakley after the second week of deer camp, not that I’d know anything about that. I picked maybe six pounds of fruit and took these shots in the early evening light.

I’ll admit I was a little nervous walking toward the tree with my stepladder, thinking—despite the fact that it was on an abandoned property—that the people wandering around the car wash next door would hassle me. Then I remembered this:

After people ask me where I find what I find, they often follow up with, ‘I drive down that road all the time and have never seen it. How did you?’ I’m not brighter or more skilled at finding wild edibles than anyone else. The shortest answer is that I’m looking. Consciously or unconsciously, you have to be looking. It has matter to you.

And it’s the same case with the people at the car wash. They didn’t see me because they weren’t looking.

I picked in peace…just the way I like. Happy golden green birthday to me.

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