The first recipe in Cal Peternell’s 2014 cookbook Twelve Recipes is, no joke, “Toast.” If that seems eye-rollingly, obviously undeserving of page space, then I beg you to consider the many different types of toast there are and the purposes they can serve: Is this toast a breakfast you’ll eat before you rush off to class, or is it thick-cut, buttery toast that you’ll serve to friends at a dinner party, underneath a shmear of white bean spread or on top of a steaming bowl of soup? There is a basic technique to each form, and Peternell wants you to nail those techniques so that you can respond to each future toast-requiring situation in turn, with savvy and aplomb.
And the reason he wants you to nail those techniques is not just because he was head chef at Chez Panisse but because he’s your dad, and you’re about to leave home, and he’s worried that you won’t be able to feed yourself out there—or rather, that was the origin of this collection of recipes. The summer before Peternell’s oldest son went off to college, he suddenly began to worry that he’d not provided enough explicit “how to cook” lessons. And so, notes toward those lessons, and then the resulting recipes, began to accrue. He’ll need to know how to roast a chicken, at the very least! And how to cook rice, of course; while we’re there, we might as well cover risotto. And a handful of salad dressing recipes, all of which can, with minor modulations, become a pasta sauce or a marinade or whatever else you might need it to be. In his introduction, Peternell calls the book “a meal manual for my sons leaving home, all sons and daughters, to learn to cook and eat simply and well, with pleasure and good health.” What more could we want for our progeny, going out into the world on their own?
The utter basicness of each of the twelve recipes (all of which, like “Toast,” include plenty of variations, tips, and technical advice) belies their usefulness and versatility. There is the consummately practical side, such as the “Cake” recipe, which includes a version specifically for those “oh, their birthday is today?” situations—when a cake is needed, promptly, with what you already have in the pantry, and it must be good. If you have more time and less budget, turn to the recipe for “Beans,” which includes sage advice delivered with the kind of wit that makes this book immensely pleasurable to read: “Soak some beans now or as soon as you get home. It will give you a feeling of accomplishment for the next 12 hours; no matter what else you’re doing, you’re also home cooking. You are a responsible, cleverly frugal, mature individual who knows what he wants to eat for dinner tomorrow night and has the foresight to make it happen.”
I bought this book for myself when it first came out, back when I was fresh out of college and onto a whole new chapter of independence, one in which I had a real (apartment) kitchen and at least a passing interest in using it. It’s in no small part because of Peternell that my repertoire of off-the-cuff dinners has expanded beyond pasta with red sauce and sheet pan chicken (not that those things can’t be great). Now I buy copies of Twelve Recipes for young people I know who are entering similar stages of their lives. Peternell’s wisdom is delivered in a distinctly dad tone, yes, but it never comes across as pedantic or overbearing: He’s a proponent of using the very best ingredients you can find, but he won’t chastise you for using canned tomatoes in the summer. And though it’s an especially useful cookbook for those just learning to cook, the foundations it provides offer an unparalleled source of confidence in the kitchen, for beginners and pros alike. As Michael Pollan says in his preface, “One of the best things about this deceptively simple, gracefully written book is just how competent and adventurous it will make you feel, not to mention hungry.”
Who’s Your Source?
As this is a very generalist cookbook, it’s hard to say exactly the best places to shop for any of Peternell’s twelve recipes—besides, you know, your local grocery store or farmers market. That said, one of the things this book emphasizes is the importance of quality carbs as the foundation of, well, mostmeals.
In Albuquerque, tulipani is my go-to spot for fresh pasta of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Want to impress dinner guests with pitch-black squid ink mafaldine or blush-pink beet creste di gallo in your pasta alla Claudia, a recipe shared with Peternell by “the frugal girlfriend of a prickly communist grad student” he met in Florence? They’ve got you covered. Visit their stall at Sawmill Market to pick some up to take home, and get a bowl of their pomodoro while you’re at it—their signature tulipani pasta comes lightly dressed in red sauce, with burrata and pesto on top, along with a sprinkle of crushed pistachios. I’d eat it every day. With Rustica and Sassella closed, we’re on the lookout for a source for fresh pasta in Santa Fe—let us know if you have a lead.
One of the main lessons that has stuck with me from Twelve Recipes is the myriad uses of stale bread. It’s almost an inevitability that you’ll wind up with some, if you regularly buy (or make) bread without preservatives, but—don’t throw it out yet!—this need not be the end of that loaf’s life. The last third of that paisano loaf from Sage Bakehouse in Santa Fe that’s gone a little dry can be sliced thin, toasted in a batch in the oven, slathered with hummus or ricotta, and turned into the perfect pre-dinner nosh for hungry, circling children. If it’s too stale to safely bite into, turn it into some buttery croutons instead, to add on top of soup or salads. In Albuquerque, I also like Ihatov’s sourdough boule for both these uses. For those who prefer to get all their ingredients in one location, know that you can pick up Sage Bakehouse loaves at various supermarkets, including the also locally (and community) owned La Montañita. But I can’t begin to inventory every last excellent bakery in New Mexico, as the list has become entirely too long in recent years. Which is not a bad problem to have.
