The Definitive Guide to a Perfect, Offbeat Caprese

Every. Single. Time. (Wherein, I also wax poetic about how I discovered my love of tomatoes)

As I am starting to work on a memoir about my love affair with food, and how it relates to love, parenting, and grief, I’ll be sharing a lot more ‘in-depth’ writing here from time to time. If that’s not your jam, no harm no foul, go ahead and unsubscribe. But there will still be recipes here too! And illustrations from

Marta Spendowska

. I like to think of these illustrations like Zoo Books. Remember those? I think I got to about issue 30, and lost interest. But I coveted that monthly arrival, and kept them all stashed away in a binder. My hope is you’ll feel the same way about the illos. <3

TL;DR? I wax poetic (and wax hatred) about tomatoes. Talk about my love of farming. And dive into how I fell in love with caprese. The writing is for all subscribers, the illustration and the ‘how-to’ is for paid subscribers only.

I didn’t grow up liking tomatoes, whatsoever.

Tomatoes for me, for near eons, were precisely, exactly, nothing I enjoyed. They lacked flavor, texture, and interest. In my childhood household, they were often sliced onto sandwiches (which I still tend to loathe, btw…sandwiches not tomatoes), or found at a Sizzler, or Marie Calendar’s salad bar. Tomatoes were my constant pariah. Mealy. Watery. Messes. They came in one color, a slightly off red-ish pink. And they were not a particular variety, didn't have stems left on, and were cold packed mediocrity incarnate.

My junior year in college, I joined a CSA for the first time. A thing I had never even heard of, but was immediately obsessed with. A little flyer, posted on a bulletin board caught my eye. 12 weeks of produce. For a whopping $220 (I use the term whopping utterly and completely ironically…The share, if you’re curious, is now $385). Quantities were uncertain, and essentially you were supporting a farm and sharing in the bounty and the potential burden, if the season wasn’t quite right. My leftist, socialist heart was on fire with this idea. So I cut a check, and mailed it to Nancy Hanson, the director of the CSA program atHampshire College. (Nancy Hanson was the director of the program at that time, and remained so until 2017. She, to this day, works as the director of Farm Programs at the college I was delighted to learn this while writing this piece. I have such a fond memory of her, because she was there–without fail–every week. And I was moved by her passion for farming, and Nancy was etched into my memory as one of the many reasons I took a keen interest in farming.)

From September through November, I made the drive from Northampton to Amherst, almost always alone. And each week, Nancy and some Hampshire students, graced me with weekly produce hauls that sometimes weighed in at as much as 20 pounds. I felt like royalty, and was awe-inspired by the abundance for what felt like a paltry sum of money.

Those drives were balms during breakups, bombed quizzes, and difficult days. Across bridges, and through farmlands. In breathtaking sunshine, and bone chilling rain.

In addition to the weekly haul, one of the unexpected (and unknown when I signed up) benefits of my produce share was 'pick-your-own’ produce. Raspberries. Blueberries. And….unlimited heirloom tomatoes.

Y’all.

I had never in my life seen an heirloom tomato. Let alone picked one. I had no idea that tomatoes could be something other than ‘hot house pink-ish orbs of doom’. Brandwines, Cherokee Purples, Black krims, green zebras, Mr. Stripeys all clung to plants that towered over even me. (Mr. Stripey, is in fact, the name of a a real tomato. Not the name of a striped-kitten named by my 4 year old.)

My first week of my CSA we weren’t allowed to pick them yet. They weren’t quite ready. But I was able to pick three basketfuls of raspberries. I gawked from afar at the colourful tomatoes beckoned. I waited with baited breath.

The following week, I was allowed to enter these rows of the massive, rainbow-fruited plants, and pick literally as many as I wanted. In my overwhelm, and desire to be cautious, I plucked one of each. I held them like trophies in my hands, and put them in the passenger seat of my car. (It’s a miracle I didn't buckle them in. I was so attached).

I drove home in the same fashion as a new parent. Swiftly but carefully, lest we do damage to the sweet babies. I parked, slung my produce haul of 15-ish pounds of outcasts (I couldn’t care less about the rest of the produce at this point), gingerly picked up my half-dozen or so tomatoes (they of course did not go in the bag, I couldn’t risk bruising them).

I mounted the steps to my house, went straight into the kitchen, and before I could even put the produce bag down, I found a knife. Picked a yellow and red beauty, and sliced into it’s jewel-toned flesh. Sprinkled it with salt. And bit in.

Heaven.

I slice the rest of the beauty, and one other (I think it was a Black Krim. And salted the whole lot, and drizzled over some olive oil.

I recalled that I had herbs in my produce haul. I pawed through my produce bag to find a bushel of basil. A swift chiffonnade later?

I had and almost caprese, missing of course mozzarella. But my interest in cheese in that moment was non-existent. Those tomatoes were one of the most amazing things I had ever tasted.

I took the plate, and retreated to my room. I didn’t want one of my many housemates to witness this, lest I needed to share. And devoured the entire plate, by myself, in my room. In the quiet of solitude.

The only evidence I had was a single AOL Instant Message (my screen name was kiarascura) I sent to a friend.

‘Grace, I have a new religion. Heirloom tomatoes’

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The Definitive Guide to a Perfect Caprese

Caprese is pretty much the world’s most perfect dish. That too often is ruined with a) bad tomatoes b) boring, old hat flavor combos.