5-Ingredient Caprese Phyllo Cups

Second week. I am still at my parents'. I have not gone home. I wake up. I take a shower. I feed the kids. I do nothing. I sit on the porch. I walk to the corner. I come back. I feed the kids again. I put them to bed. I do nothing.

I am not cooking. The meals keep arriving — the neighborhood knows we are here, and people keep dropping off food. My mother says she has not cooked a full meal this week either. She has been reheating. The freezer is fuller than I have ever seen it. The refrigerator is fuller than I have ever seen it. Everyone has sent something.

I have eaten: a piece of toast, a bowl of soup, some pasta, a grilled cheese my mother made, half a sandwich. That is all. In a week. My clothes are looser.

The kids are eating well. My mother is feeding them. Liam ate a full dinner Tuesday. Nora has been eating what she is given. My father has been taking the kids for walks in the afternoon. He takes them to Castle Island. He takes them for ice cream. He is trying. I am not trying. I am doing nothing.

My mother said "Katherine. Eat something." I said "I cannot taste, Ma." She said "Katherine. Eat anyway. Your body knows." I ate the bowl of chowder she set in front of me. I did not taste it. I ate it. I was slightly stronger after. She was right. I am a nurse. I know this. I can tell someone else to eat when she cannot. I am not yet able to make myself do it without reminder.

Father Donnelly stopped by Thursday. He did not expect me to talk. He sat with me on the porch for forty minutes. He drank tea. He did not say much. He said "Kate. You are going to grieve. There is no faster way through. There is only through. I will be here for the through." I said "thank you, Father." He left.

Linda has texted me three times this week. She wrote "whatever you need, whenever." She wrote "do not worry about anything on your end." She wrote "I am watering your garden." I had not remembered the garden. Linda is watering it. The tomatoes are ripening. She has been taking some to her own kitchen and offering to store some for me. I told her to keep them. Use them. Give them away. The garden is still going. Linda is tending it. I did not ask. She did it.

I will be home eventually. I do not know when. The clinic has been wonderful — they have given me three months of leave. The NP program has given me a semester deferral if I need it. I have room to collapse. I am collapsing. I am letting myself.

I am alive. I am not living. There is a difference. Maybe I will find my way back to the second. Right now I am only the first.

Linda texted me that the tomatoes were coming in, and I told her to keep them — I wasn’t ready to think about the garden, let alone do anything with it. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I filed it away: the tomatoes are still there. When I eventually make my way home, or when I’m ready to do something small and quiet in a kitchen again, this is the recipe I keep coming back to. Five ingredients. No real cooking. You just assemble — and sometimes that’s exactly the right amount to ask of yourself.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 6 (about 15 cups)

Ingredients

1 package (1.9 oz) mini phyllo shells (15 shells), thawed
4 oz fresh mozzarella, cut into small cubes or torn into small pieces
15 cherry tomatoes, halved
15 fresh basil leaves, small (or larger leaves torn)
2 tablespoons balsamic glaze, for drizzling

Instructions

Arrange the shells. Set the thawed mini phyllo shells on a serving platter or flat tray in a single layer.
Fill with mozzarella. Place one small cube or torn piece of fresh mozzarella into each shell.
Add the tomato. Press one cherry tomato half, cut side up, gently into each cup alongside the mozzarella.
Tuck in the basil. Nestle one small fresh basil leaf into each cup, tucking it between the tomato and cheese.
Drizzle and serve. Drizzle balsamic glaze lightly over all the cups just before serving. Serve immediately for the crispest shells.

Nutrition (per serving)

5-Ingredient Caprese Phyllo Cups — For When Someone Else Tends the Garden