Peach, Burrata, and Prosciutto Salad
- jonashton
- Jul 21
- 5 min read
A Summer Note: Peaches, Burrata, and the Garden in Repose
I drift in and out of sleep on the outdoor sofa, the kind of drowsy dreaming that only a warm afternoon allows. The sort where time stretches, sighs, and turns over in its sleep. The linen cushion beneath me is sun-warmed and gently creased, with a faint scent of rosemary and last week’s sunscreen. My breath moves slow and deep, like the hush of the sea against a quiet shore. No waves here, only the soft swish of wisteria leaves brushing against each other like old friends exchanging secrets.
Eleanor Rigby wakes me with that particular urgency known only to dogs and small children. Her nose is damp against my arm, tennis ball wedged firmly in her mouth, tail drumming against the deck with hopeful insistence. She smells of warm fur, lavender, and a morning’s worth of mischief. I glance at the clock—4:00 PM. Tea time in another life. Here, it’s peach-and-prosciutto o’clock.
I throw the ball toward the lawn, where it lands with a soft thud on the scorched, thirsty grass. As I sit up, the heat peels from my skin like silk. The garden unfurls before me in all its late-July drama. The lilies are offering their final bow—petals browned at the edges, their scent shifting from seductive to sleepy. And the wisteria—lavender, white, soft pink, and a bruised amethyst—tumbles with abandon over the arbor, perfuming the air with a musky sweetness that clings to the back of the throat.
Evenings like this don’t want fuss. They ask only for a few good things and a place to eat them. No flame, no ceremony—just appetite and instinct.
I pad into the kitchen, the wooden floor cool beneath my feet. As I brush past the pot of lavender by the door, it releases a scent—green and minty, almost medicinal. On the counter, three peaches lie slumped against one another like lazy houseguests. Their blushing skins glow with the flush of heat and ripeness. They smell indecently good—floral, syrupy, and thick with sunshine. If Christian Dior could bottle it, I’d dab it behind my ears without hesitation.
The burrata, cool and heavy in its tub, yields under my fingers like silk. I tear it open with a reverence reserved for something sacred. Cream spills out in slow white ribbons, as if it had been holding its breath. Prosciutto di Parma—delicate, pale, and barely-there—is peeled gently from the waxy paper and draped like chiffon. A handful of greens—arugula for pepper, baby beet leaves for earth, basil for fragrance—are pulled from the crisper, still damp from this morning’s rinse.
Everything lands, unarranged and imperfect, on a wide white plate. Peaches, sliced thick and sticky, their edges stained where the blade passed. Burrata, trembling and cool. Prosciutto, curling at the edges. Leaves, tossed like last-minute confetti. A thin ribbon of grassy olive oil drizzled over the lot. A twist of black pepper to finish—sharp, biting, necessary.
And then, the taste. Peaches—soft, dripping, with a perfume you feel rather than smell. Burrata—cold, rich, and languid on the tongue. The ham—salty, velvety, a whisper of something smoky. The greens bring their bite. Everything together feels like a melody composed for the palate—sweet, salty, creamy, sharp.
We eat it outside. No plates. Fingers only. The juice of the peaches runs down our wrists and we lick it off, laughing. Mid-bite, Etta James’ voice floats through the Sonos speakers—“At last…”—and I almost expect a camera crew to appear from behind the hydrangeas. It’s that kind of moment.
Eleanor chases fireflies. A cicada starts up its scratchy song. The garden, having basked all day, begins to soften. The air is thick with the green scent of tomato leaves and the weary perfume of spent lavender. A whisper of cooler air tucks itself beneath the trees, and for the first time in hours, the garden exhales.
I sit back, barefoot and sticky, peach juice on my forearm, the light now a gentle amber. And I think—this, this is enough.
Ripe Peaches: Nature’s Apology for Every Other Fruit
First, the peaches. Ripe. Soft. Slightly indecent.
Their perfume should reach you before the knife does—honeyed, floral, and just this side of suggestive. When they’re perfect, they don’t slice so much as surrender. If they squirt down your wrist and make you lick your arm like a savage, congratulations. You’ve chosen wisely.
Burrata: The Pillow-Lipped Cheese of My Dreams
Burrata is what mozzarella becomes after therapy. Soft, yielding, and emotionally available.You tear into it—not slice—and watch as the cream seeps slowly outward, like it’s exhaling after holding in a deep sigh. It’s cold and luscious on the tongue. Almost inappropriately so.
If mozzarella is the friend who helps you move house, burrata is the one who shows up with wine and kisses your cheek longer than necessary.
Prosciutto: The Salted Silk That Holds It All Together
Thin as scandal and twice as delicious, prosciutto doesn’t so much sit on the plate as drape itself over it. It offers salt to balance the fruit, depth to anchor the cream.
Tear it. Tuck it. Let it curl and twist between the peaches like it’s attending a garden party in Florence.
Fresh Basil, Olive Oil, and Why You Don’t Need Anything Else
A handful of torn basil leaves—nothing fancy—brings just enough peppery green to cut the indulgence. It smells like summer: warm, green, and faintly reminiscent of your first kiss behind the greenhouse.
Then, a thread of grassy olive oil. Don’t measure. Just pour until your ancestors whisper, “That’ll do.”
A pinch of flaky sea salt. A twist of black pepper. And voilà.
Final Thoughts: This Salad Might Just Be the Love of My Life
Is it a salad? A dessert? A religious experience?
I don’t care what you call it. It’s delicious. It’s fast. It requires no heat. And it makes you feel like the best version of yourself—sun-kissed, well-fed, and surrounded by the good stuff.
Make it once and you'll never be able to look at a sad supermarket salad again.
Ingredients:
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1½ tablespoons fresh lemon juice
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 pound ripe peaches, quartered, pitted, and each quarter sliced into four
12 ounces fresh burrata cheese, torn into generous pieces
A few slices of prosciutto di Parma
A handful of seasonal salad leaves (arugula, baby beet, or soft butter lettuce work beautifully)
6 large basil leaves, torn just before serving
INSTRUCTIONS:
In a large bowl, gently toss the peach slices with the lemon juice. Let them sit for a few minutes—long enough to draw out their perfume and coax them into full surrender. They’ll thank you for it.
Place the burrata on a wide serving platter, tearing it into soft, cloudlike pieces. Let them fall where they will. This is not a dish that likes to be overly managed.
Tuck the peaches among the cheese, their sun-warmed edges stained with juice. Season everything with a whisper of sea salt and a generous twist of black pepper.
Drape the prosciutto delicately throughout the plate—no need to be neat. Think ribbons of silk loosely folded between the fruit and cream. Scatter the salad leaves and basil on top, their brightness a welcome contrast to all that sweetness and silk.
To finish, drizzle the olive oil slowly and without hesitation. Let it catch the light and run in golden rivulets across everything.
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