Caprese, With a Twist

Hunger doesn’t always start in the stomach. Sometimes it begins in the heart. A quiet ache for something grounding, comforting, familiar. Today, that hunger guided me to my local Sam’s Club. Among the bright produce and the crowded aisles, I gathered what I needed to make a simple Caprese salad.

Caprese is usually the taste of summer: tomatoes, mozzarella, basil. But I wanted something a little deeper, a little richer, the kind of meal that speaks not just of freshness but of longing. So instead of basil, I spooned on a bright green pesto, fragrant and nutty. Instead of simplicity, I added prosciutto, thin slices of salt and tenderness that clung to the tomatoes and cheese. Finally, I drizzled it all with black Mission fig balsamic vinegar, dark and sweet, carrying that balance of sharpness and syrup that lingers.

It was no longer just a salad. It was a layering of contrasts: fresh and aged, sharp and sweet, light and grounding. As I ate, I realized this dish was teaching me something.

Food can’t erase grief or silence old echoes. But sometimes, with a fork in hand, I remember that healing doesn’t come from one ingredient alone. It comes from gathering all the pieces, layering them together, and allowing the whole to nourish me, just as I am.