Kristy Gardner - Cooking with cocktails: 100 spirited recipes

A toast.... This book is written for anyone whos done shots with me, who will share a bottle of wine with me, and who imbibes good alcohol as much as they feast on damn good food. Most important, its written for the dude who abides my bourbon habit, daily. As Julia Child said, You are the butter to my bread, and the breath to my life. Contents This Is a Hard One... Im sitting here.

Hidden away on one of the Gulf Islands, with my cup of Baileys and coffee and a simple omelet, thinking about how to start this book. I keep getting distracted by the crisp morning sunshine, wondering whatll be at the market for dinner tonight, and debating about whether I should put pants on. Writing is hard. Pants are hard. Drinking Baileys and coffee in the middle of the forest with nothing but the birds to keep me company, not so damn bad. I got to this place by accident.

Not the Gulf Island; I drove here. I mean this place of creating a book of recipes that nourish and feed the people in my life. Hopefully now the people in yours, too. Its involved a lot of hard work, support from some really spectacular and generous people, and a bit of dumb luck. But it wasnt what I had planned for my life. I hadnt planned much, if Im being honest.

I hadnt got that far yet. I didnt find cooking; cooking found me. You can say I kind of fell into it. Or if margaritas were involvedand at age twenty-five they usually wereI stumbled into it. Much like most of my romantic liaisons. No shame here, my friends, no shame.

My Origin Story (not quite as dope as Batmans). I grew up in a small town in Alberta of 5,000 people, where bumper skiing, Budweiser, and meat and potatoes were the norm. Parties were down on the farm, cows grazed at the end of my street, and each night my parents, my brother, and I would sit down as a family to eat wholesome dinners. Mom regularly crafted pizza, pierogi, cakes, and cookies from scratch. When she was working late, Dad would assemble one of the three dishes in his culinary repertoire: meat loaf, liver, or spaghetti. We enjoyed home-cooked food, in a well-loved kitchen, in the middle of the Canadian prairies.

I left home at nineteen and lived in Calgary for six years, working off and on in various restaurants and bars, enjoying the social aspects of them and the wads of cash Id walk home with every night. The main star at my dinner table during that time was take-out Chinese food and my infamous KD tuna casserole, which essentially consisted of a drained can of tuna stirred into a bowl of boxed mac and cheese and topped off with a healthy dousing of ketchup. I was a chef in the making! Or not. A lot of great things happened during that time in my life. A lot of shitty things happened, too. On a whim and a bottle of whiskey, at twenty-five I packed up and headed westas do many wayward folks who dont know what the hell else to do.

It wasnt until a couple of years after arriving in Victoria, British Columbia, that I was served the inspiration for what would become my passion for the next decade. I enrolled in college and, in my second year, took a class called Women, Food & Culture. Itand the no-BS professor who taught itwould forever change my life. Not to mention the lives of those around me. Have you ever invited a passionate and newly converted feminist to dinner? Yikes. Once I discovered the politics of gender in our foodways and the issues in our food systems, and learned to love knowing where my food came from (that wasnt always an easy road), foraging at the farmers market and coming home to cook that bounty became something I did daily, with pleasure.

And usually with wine. I also met the love of my life, who just so happened to be a patron of the bar I was working at, as well as a theoretical physics researcher at the university and a TV writer, all rolled into one. John was dreamy. And we relished dining together each night, just as I had with my family when I was growing up. It was about this time I started working in a swanky restaurant that epitomized the kind of food I loved. Seasonal ingredients.

Locally raised. Organically produced. Small plates meant for sharing. It also served good wine and made damn fine cocktails. I began to appreciate liquor for more than its ability to get me into trouble. Time went by, and one weekend, John turned our home into a movie setactors, producers, videographers, and their assistants took over every corner of our house.

I promptly locked myself in the office (otherwise known as the big closet) and started a blog. It began partly as a distraction from the banging and clanging outside my little room and partly from passionI wanted to document and share what I was learning in school with the world; I wanted to make it better. Over the last six and a half years, SheEats.ca has morphed into a variety of different things, including a forum for real food advocacy, a farmers-market-friendly recipe resource, and an opportunity to connect with people who like to eat and drink as lustfully as I do. But its central focus has stayed the same: Local. Seasonal. With booze.

And the community around it has nourished me in ways I never expected. Both literally and figuratively. If youre part of that community and I havent heard from you, Id love to: kristy@sheeats.ca. I dont know whether I succeeded in making the world better through the blog, but it and all those who have taken, do take, and will take the time to let me know theyve made a recipe, commented on a blog post, or shared their love of good food and drink with me on social media or via e-mail have certainly made mine better. Im surrounded by good and inspiring company and am grateful for it. A few months ago I was contacted by Ann at The Countryman Press, asking whether she could commission my photographs for the covers of two books the company was publishing.

She also asked whether I wanted to write one myself. I was speechlesswas this a dream? Was it real? I didnt know. A year later it seems it was, because now Ive found my voice and get to share my very long-winded, roundabout story, bad jokes, and favorite recipes with you. Sometime during my journey from small-town Alberta, where I thought a bottle of ketchup and dried pasta was the epitome of high cuisine, to this porch on Salt Spring Island, where I fumble to articulate what this book is truly about, mealtimes have become something more than just foodtheyve become an adventure. A story. A shared experience between the people who produce our food, the people at our tables, and ourselves.

From the planet to plate to glass to tummy. I believe the best memoriesthe ones that nourish us, touch our heart, and evoke spirited laughter from the deepest parts of our bellyare forged through good food and drink. Put the two together, and you undoubtedly have a recipe for intoxicating deliciousness. Not to mention wild stories for years to come. And it often starts with an onion, an idea, a little courage, and a shot of tequila. You Are What You Eat If youre into really good food cooked from scratch with fresh ingredients, drinks with a little somethin somethin, and enjoying what you put in your mouth, this book is for you.