Lovely, slim green beans in a mustard sauce with chopped basil; a chilled pasta salad of orecchiette with garlic & oil, tender green beans, roasted red pepper, basil and shaved sharp provolone; a tomato sandwich with thick wedges of seasoned tomato, a few damp and sprightly leaves of baby lettuce, and some glorious, pale yellow homemade mayonnaise.

That’s right. And it’s so damn easy.

Now, I also recently ate a near-perfect panzanella. Let’s talk a little bit about panzanella.

Firstly, it is one of the more perfect summer foods. To put it really simply, it is a tomato & bread salad, but there are bastardizations out there, such as one I like to make with wine-sweet black grapes and goat cheese; also, most recipes call for additions such as roasted sweet peppers, basil and/or arugula, red onion, capers. Anyway, the Italians know their way around stale bread, and this salad, in any of its various incarnations, seriously makes me excited to have old bread lying around. Especially in summertime— when I can make the old classic with absurdly red ripe tomatoes.

But, you see, the problem is that many people don’t know about the glory of this salad. Nor do they want to, and it is because most Americans seem to have textural issues when it comes to food. I think maybe it all stems from the fact that the majority of us have been raised on under-ripe fruit; many Americans, for instance, simply like green bananas— because besides the fact that ripe bananas actually taste like something, they’re unabashedly soft! Think of it this way, friends: silky. Melting. (This under-ripe thing is actually most offensive when applied to two of my absolute favorite fruits— one of which is a subject of the panzanella discussion: peaches and tomatoes).

Fruit should be giving, yielding, collapsing with juices. Regardless, the aforementioned problem is not really about under-ripe tomatoes; rather, it is that most people can’t stand the idea of a soggy bread salad. To which nonbelievers I give, simply, a look of disdain.

Panzanella is traditionally made with old, rock-hard country bread that is soaked in water and torn up; many variations, such as my formula, use croutons (also known as oven-toasted, torn bread, not seasoned pieces of styrofoam labeled Caesar something or other at the supermarket) instead. I highly suggest this; the inherent savoriness lent by a light coat of olive oil and brown-crisped edges lends another dimension entirely. You have a roughly equal amount of bread to tomatoes (volume, not weight), and you dress the tomatoes and let them sweat, and then you toss in the crunchy bread, and you let it sit, and, yes, it gets a little soggy. But it is soggy with summer fruits and vinaigrette, and every time you eat, you get explosions of sweetness and richness; the salad, done properly, is bright with grasshopper colored oil and coral colored juices, all along with the humble, infinitely satisfying chew of bread.

It is a summer experience. And it is incredible. Thought you should know.