Summer

The classic triumvirate of tomato, basil and mozzarella is nothing short of divine. I can just imagine Michelangelo snacking on this delicacy whilst carving the David statue. The salad is such a quintessential, Italian dish yet it has become a major part of the American summer menu – especially with the resurgence of heirloom tomato growing!

My Georgia Caprese Salad has a fun origin and pays homage to the old adage “necessity is the mother of invention.” The necessity of mention was supper. A light summer supper for yours truly alone. I was hot. I was tired. I did not want to cook – the thought of being around more heat was as tempting as repeatedly running into the back porch screen – head first mind you – like the bumble bee was doing. My family was scattered with other activities, travel or who knows what and Ol’ Jimmy was home alone – and hungry!

Not only was the thought of cooking with heat unappealing, the thought of eating something hot was equally unappetizing. Enter the “necessity… invention” moment. I rummaged through the fridge and saw I had a block of Pepper Jack cheese from M&T. I said to myself, “Self, you can at least have cheese and crackers.” Then I got to thinking – a dangerous pastime.

You can’t eat rhubarb without strawberries. Sorry. That’s just the way it is. I don’t make the rules; somebody else does. In fact, June 9th has been designated National Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie Day. Check your office calendar; you might actually have the day off.

Growing up on the East Coast, I remember going over my great aunt Pauline’s, where she grew rhubarb along the side of her house. I also remember eating it raw, and scrunching my face up in satisfaction at its impossibly tart flavor. I loved it as a kid, and I still love it as an adult (but not raw, thanks). Just writing about eating raw rhubarb makes my teeth ache (of course it might just be my new whitening toothpaste).

I also remember carrying home bundles of rhubarb that my mom would transform into mouth-watering desserts, of which my family’s favorite was strawberry-rhubarb pie.

The trouble with going to the farmers’ market is that everything looks so gorgeous I buy enough to feed everyone in my zip code. Then I go home and realize that I actually have to do something with all this bounty, as in, cook it, at which point I have been known to utter a mild curse.

Last weekend I visited the relatively new market at the Beverly Glen Circle. The produce and friendly purveyors were so seductive, I found myself leaving with armloads of bell peppers, eggplant, red onions and masses of heirloom tomatoes, herbs, stuffed flatbread, artichoke spread and even some truffle-scented sea salt, although I’m clueless as to its practical use. If you’d seen me schlepping all those bags to the car, you’d have mistaken me for someone who actually likes spending most of the day in the kitchen.

A friend brought me 32 peaches. She’s growing them in her backyard in Burbank. I didn’t think much of anything was growing in Burbank except the Disney coffers, but there you go.

While I was very grateful to my friend, I struggled a little to figure out what to do with that pile o’ plenty. They were ripe, ready to eat, so the Peach Project had to begin immediately. But peaches are just one item on the very long list of foods my husband will not eat, so whatever I made, I’d have to scarf it down myself, unless I can organize a quick Peach Party. (NOT.)

I wasn’t equipped (or inclined) to make preserves, and the idea of baking a pie always makes me irritable. I could give some to Oliver, but my dog will not eat a peach unless you can disguise it as a hot dog.

I finally decided to invent a peach salad, with excellent results, which I am sharing with you here. That took care of two peaches. I will get back to you with what became of the other 30.