Peach, Burrata, and Prosciutto Salad
Updated: 3 days ago
By Chef Jon Ashton | Published July 21, 2025
Why you'll love it: ready in 15 minutes · sweet, salty, creamy · no-fuss plating · summer on a plate.
Tested in my kitchen · As seen on TODAY and The Tonight Show · Parade magazine's chef for 10 years · About Chef Jon →
Peach, Burrata, and Prosciutto Salad
Serves 4
Time: 15 minutes
Level: Easy
Equipment: Chef's Knife, Wooden Cutting Board, Paring Knife.
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
Method
Dress the peaches: 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. You'll know it's right when the peaches look glossy and you can smell them from across the counter.
Tear the burrata: 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.
Add the peaches and season: 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 and leaves: 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. Tear the basil just before it goes on the plate, so it stays bright and fragrant.
Finish with olive oil: To finish, drizzle the olive oil slowly and without hesitation. Let it catch the light and run in golden rivulets across everything.
How to Store
Make ahead: This salad is best assembled just before serving, but you can wash and dry the leaves ahead and keep everything chilled separately until you are ready.
Leftovers: Once dressed it is best eaten straight away, so assemble only as much as you need and keep any spare burrata and prosciutto wrapped in the fridge.
Key Ingredients
Ripe Peaches: Truly ripe, fragrant peaches bring the juicy sweetness at the heart of the salad, so choose ones you can smell before you slice.
Fresh Burrata: Torn into soft, cloudlike pieces, burrata adds cool, rich creaminess against the sweet fruit.
Prosciutto di Parma: Draped loosely across the plate, the silky prosciutto brings salt to balance the peaches and depth to anchor the cream.
Fresh Lemon Juice: Tossed with the peaches first, lemon juice draws out their perfume and adds a gentle brightness.
Seasonal Salad Leaves: Arugula, baby beet leaves or soft butter lettuce add a fresh, peppery bite to cut through the richness.
Fresh Basil: Torn just before serving, basil brings a bright, fragrant green note that tastes of summer.
Extra-Virgin Olive Oil: A slow drizzle of grassy olive oil at the end ties everything together.
Sea Salt and Black Pepper: A whisper of salt and a generous twist of pepper sharpen all the sweet, salty and creamy flavours.
Common Mistakes to Avoid
Using underripe peaches: hard, flavourless fruit falls flat here, so wait until they are soft, fragrant and juicy.
Slicing the burrata: tear it into generous pieces instead, so the creamy centre spills out across the plate.
Over-arranging the platter: this salad looks best loose and relaxed, so tear, tuck and drape everything where it falls.
Tearing the basil too early: it darkens and loses its fragrance, so tear it just before it goes on the plate.
Under-seasoning: the peaches and cream need a little sea salt and a generous twist of black pepper to come alive.
Assembling too far ahead: the leaves wilt and the peaches weep, so put the salad together just before serving.
Tips for Success
Leave the peaches in their lemon juice for a few minutes, until they look glossy and you can smell them from across the counter.
Use one wide serving platter so everything has room to tumble together.
Tear the basil at the very last moment so it stays bright and fragrant.
Finish with the olive oil and let it run across everything; I like to be generous here.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is burrata?
Burrata is a fresh Italian cheese with a soft outer shell and a creamy centre. When you tear it open, the cream spills out, which is exactly what you want in this salad.
Can I use mozzarella instead of burrata?
Fresh mozzarella will work, but you will miss the creamy centre that makes burrata so special here. Tear it rather than slicing it.
What kind of peaches are best for this salad?
The ripest, most fragrant peaches you can find. They should be soft enough to give slightly and smell sweet and floral.
Do I need to cook anything?
No. There is no stove and no heat, which is why it is on the table in about fifteen minutes.
Why toss the peaches in lemon juice?
A few minutes in lemon juice draws out the peaches' perfume and adds a little brightness to balance the rich cheese and salty ham.
What salad leaves should I use?
Arugula, baby beet leaves or soft butter lettuce all work beautifully. Arugula brings pepper, beet leaves a gentle earthiness.
Can I make this salad ahead of time?
It is best assembled just before serving. Keep the ingredients chilled separately and put it together at the last minute.
What can I serve with peach and burrata salad?
It is lovely on its own on a warm evening, or as a starter before something from the grill. Crusty bread for the creamy burrata is never a bad idea.
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.
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