An Ode to Tomatoes, And A Caprese Salad

Can I tell you my favorite way of eating tomatoes? Actually, let me qualify that question, because I think we can all agree that eating in-season tomatoes is a distinctly different experience from eating ordinary tomatoes.
I think tomatoes are the emblem of summer cooking, the absolute pinnacle in fact. When produce is as good as this, I use the term ‘cooking’ loosely. What I mean is, in-season tomatoes are perfect just the way they are. Raw. Juicy. With the least amount of distraction possible.
My favorite kind is the miniature variety: cherry tomatoes. They are the essence of tomato, bottled in very compact packaging. Way more potent, and to be eaten like candy. Or popcorn. You know, whatever you like to stuff your face with.
In fact, my mom used to buy pounds and pounds of these ruby droplets every week at the farmer’s market. She’d come home with brown paper bags stuffed full of them, and leave them on the counter for us to gorge on. Which we did.
I’ve continued this tradition into the years since I started buying my own groceries. Except now I have the Union Square Greenmarket to pick from. It’s not a terrible thing, to be faced with so many choices. The other day, I saw tomatoes as big as my head, NO JOKE.
Well, actually, my head is kind of big—they were the size of normal human heads. That’s quite a sinister thought, considering the fact that some of them were oozing juices.
I love the ridged kinds. They remind me of pumpkins and are SO juicy. There’s also a variety that’s shaped like a peach. Amazing. And while I’m sure not all heirloom varieties taste like crack, Green Zebras are quite delightful.
Of course, I’ve got tomato recipes in my “repertoire” as well. I use the term ‘repertoire’ loosely, of course, because caprese salads don’t actually count as recipes, do they? Do they? They’re more suggestions, a recommended tossing together of beautifully complementary flavors.
Personally, I like my caprese salads simple. Simple doesn’t need a recipe.
CAPRESE SALAD
Ingredients:
Tomatoes, the freshest and loveliest you can get your hands on
Mozzarella, preferably fresh
A handful of fresh basil
Olive oil, the finest you have
salt & pepper
Directions:
Cut up your tomatoes. Into slices, wedges, whatever you like and however much you want. Cut up the mozzarella, into slivers, slices, whatever you like and however much you want. Tear up your basil. I like to chiffonade myself. Combine them. Dribble olive oil, salt, and pepper on top to taste. I won’t dare issue amounts. One’s tastes are sacred.
My only suggestion is to let the salad sit for awhile, 10 minutes maybe. The flavors need to fuse together.
Subscribe for New Racipies
Get mental health tips, updates, and resources delivered to your inbox.
Caponata, And the Rainstorm of Rainstorms

Remember how I said that I’d rekindled my love for eggplant? Well, part of that was helped along by some amazing caponata—an Italian eggplant appetizer—I had one tempestuous evening at a little Italian restaurant close to Lincoln Center.
There’s something so glamorous about dining al fresco during a storm. While many restaurant patrons made for drier parts, namely indoors, our table staunchly remained, seated at the threshold of getting absolutely drenched. Lightning streaked spectacularly across the sky, sideways(!), followed by the low rumbling of thunder. And the light of passing cars, refracted by the rain, shimmered like mirages, except their honking sounded all too real. I will never tire of these dramatic shows.
But back to that caponata. There we were, seated outside during a thrilling thunderstorm, sheets of rain spraying at us at oblique angles, and I was downing eggplant like there was no tomorrow. It was so flavorful, so moist! I forgot my manners. I was the only un-glamorous element of the whole setup. At least everyone was distracted by the lightning around us and a leak above one of our heads.

Back at home, I tried to replicate the dish, starting with choice eggplant from the Union Square Greenmarket. I will never tire of the Greenmarket. (But I can’t wait for the damn F train to get fixed so I’m not trudging 12 blocks back to the subway with quickly-wilting plant matter.)

It turns out, there’s no one recipe for caponata. At its base, it’s eggplant cooked until it’s really soft, in a tomato-y sauce. But beyond that, well, just as there are thousands of regional cuisines in Italy, there are endless variations of this classic antipasto.
I stuck with good old pantry staples.

I realize it doesn’t appear wholly appetizing, but please try not to judge it harshly. It does its best. Eggplant just sort of, well, does that wilting thing, where it turns grayish-brown and flaccid, but that doesn’t make it any less lovable. Not to me at least.
And its taste? Well, it’s not the same as what I remember. This caponata didn’t turn out as flavorful or as moist. It’s kind of a different food altogether. Less tang, more… something. I wasn’t sure what to think. But then my friend came over the other night, and we shoveled most of it down. As if there was no tomorrow. I forgot my manners. And I must’ve looked so un-glamorous. But I looked up and saw that she wasn’t noticing, because she was doing the same.

CAPONATA
Serves 6 to 8
From Bon Appetit
Ingredients:
5 Tbsp olive oil
1-1/2 pound eggplant, unpeeled, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
1 medium onion, cubed
4 large garlic cloves, chopped
1 14-1/2 ounce can diced tomatoes with Italian seasonings in juice
3 Tbsp red wine vinegar
2 Tbsp drained capers
1/3 cup chopped fresh basil
Toasted pine nuts
Directions:
Heat oil in heavy large pot over medium heat. Add eggplant, onion, and garlic cloves. Saute until eggplant is soft and brown, about 15 minutes. Add diced tomatoes with juice, then red wine vinegar and capers. Cover and simmer until eggplant and onion are very tender, stirring occasionally, about 12 minutes. Season caponata to taste with salt and pepper. Mix in fresh basil. Transfer caponata to serving bowl. Sprinkle with toasted pine nuts.
Subscribe for New Racipies
Get mental health tips, updates, and resources delivered to your inbox.














