Burrata with Tomatoes and Basil — When Dad’s Garden Finally Delivers

August. The month that sits between summer and everything else. I can feel September approaching like weather on the horizon — you can't see it yet but the pressure is changing. I've been picking up extra shifts at Subway because school starts in a month and I need money for textbooks, which cost approximately one thousand dollars each, or at least that's what it feels like. My Subway savings account is up to $520. My textbook list costs $380. I'll have $140 left over for the semester, which is not a lot of cushion but is more than zero, and in the Abernathy household, 'more than zero' counts as financial planning. Mom's been quietly slipping twenties into my purse when she thinks I won't notice. I always notice. I always pretend I don't. This is how love works in families that don't have much — you give what you can and you pretend it's nothing and the person receiving pretends not to see it and everyone's dignity stays intact. Dad's tomatoes are finally ripe, which he announced at dinner with the gravity of a man reporting mission success. 'Tomatoes are ready,' he said, and Mom said, 'Finally,' and he looked hurt, which is funny because this man survived actual combat but a wife who's unimpressed by his tomatoes wounds him deeply. The tomatoes ARE good, though. Big, red, warm from the sun. Dad brought them in and lined them up on the kitchen counter like trophies. Mom sliced one, put it on toast with mayo, salt, and pepper — a tomato sandwich, the simplest thing in the world — and took a bite and said, 'Okay, Kevin. These are good.' Dad's face. I wish I had a picture of Dad's face. He looked like he'd been promoted. A tomato sandwich is maybe the most perfect summer food. You need three things: bread (white, nothing fancy), a tomato that's actually ripe (not the pale, mealy things from the grocery store in February), and Duke's mayo. Duke's, not Hellmann's — this is a hill my mother will die on and I will die on it with her. Salt and pepper. That's it. The tomato does the work. The bread holds it together. The mayo is the bridge. Mom made her tomato pie this week too — a Southern thing, layers of sliced tomatoes in a pie crust with mayo, cheddar cheese, basil, and a cracker crumb topping. It sounds weird. It is transcendent. The tomatoes get jammy and sweet in the oven and the cheese melts into them and the cracker topping gets crispy and it's the kind of thing that makes you understand why people in the South talk about tomatoes the way other people talk about fine wine. I ate two slices. Dad ate three. Mom ate one and then wrapped the rest and said, 'This is for tomorrow,' which means she's bringing it to her friend Linda at church and taking full credit for Dad's tomatoes without acknowledging his contribution. Marriage. Three weeks until ODU. The tomatoes are ripe. The books are ordered. The summer is ending. I'm going to miss this — this kitchen, this counter, these tomatoes. Not because I'm leaving (I'm commuting, I'll be home every night) but because summers like this don't last. They can't. They're not supposed to. But the tomato sandwich. The tomato sandwich lasts.

Mom’s tomato pie is its own kind of magic, but when Dad lined up those tomatoes on the counter like trophies, I kept thinking about how little they actually need — just something to let them be the star. Burrata with tomatoes and basil is exactly that: no oven, no fuss, just ripe summer tomatoes doing the work they were born to do, with creamy burrata as the bridge the way Duke’s mayo is the bridge on a sandwich. It felt right for a week when everything — the tomatoes, the semester, the summer — was finally coming together.

Burrata with Tomatoes and Basil

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 2 balls fresh burrata cheese (about 8 oz total)
• 1 1/2 lbs ripe summer tomatoes, sliced or cut into wedges (heirlooms, beefsteaks, or a mix)
• 1/4 cup fresh basil leaves, torn
• 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
• 1 tablespoon balsamic glaze (optional, but recommended)
• 1/2 teaspoon flaky sea salt, plus more to taste
• 1/4 teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper
• Crusty bread or crostini, for serving

Instructions

1. Prepare the tomatoes. Slice or wedge the tomatoes and arrange them on a large serving plate or shallow bowl. Season generously with flaky salt and black pepper and let them sit for 5 minutes — this draws out their juices and intensifies the flavor.
2. Add the burrata. Nestle the burrata balls in the center of the tomatoes. If you like, tear them open slightly so the creamy interior spills out over the tomatoes.
3. Finish and garnish. Scatter the torn fresh basil leaves over the top. Drizzle everything with extra virgin olive oil and the balsamic glaze if using.
4. Season and serve. Add a final pinch of flaky salt over the burrata. Serve immediately with crusty bread or crostini to scoop up the tomatoes and creamy cheese.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 220 | Protein: 10g | Fat: 17g | Carbs: 9g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 340mg