Old snow is slowly giving way to spring in central New Jersey. I can smell the dirt, even see a bit of it where the sun has concentrated warmth at the stone foundation of the house.

Inside the light grows brighter and stronger day by day, but there really is no rushing the season: It's still winter, still time for slow-roasted pork adapted from "The Cafe Cook Book," and for winter fruits - even past their prime - sliced and sugared and spiced, then wrapped in pastry for a stay in a hot oven till the juices are bubbling and the sugars are almost but not quite too brown.