The tree outside the window is turning tie-dye, splattering the branches with a bright abstract of amber, russet and oxblood. When the wind blows, fallen leaves swirl around the trunk like a flamenco skirt.

I love this bit of autumn. It’s somehow joyful and sad and makes me reach involuntarily for the corduroy. It also gets me thinking about serious Sunday lunch. There’s something about the change in the weather and the flaming palette of the outside world that brings a longing for roast meat and potatoes, and a home filled with warm comfort and rich, kitcheny smells.

For some reason, I think of roast pork as particularly autumnal. This may just be a personal thing, but I wonder if it also has something to do with the burnished gold of the crackling. It’s funny how so much autumn food obligingly plays its part when it comes to seasonal colour. Not only pumpkins and squashes, but rainbow chard, with its brilliant traffic-light stems, and the curious quince, which, in cooking, changes from a rock-hard yellow to a soft and perfumed orange.

Quinces taste quite unlike any other fruit. They’re one of those things you won’t find at a supermarket, but they’re a fixture of Middle Eastern food stores at this time of year and they increasingly turn up at farmers’ markets and delis, supplied by an underground network of secret quince-tree owners. They happen to be a great combination with roast pork, a bit like apples, but with the added pleasure of an elusive scent. Give them a go and you’ll see what I mean.

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