Illustration: Erin McPhee
?Mommy, will you make me a kid cocktail"?
My daughter, Avery, started asking me this question a couple of years ago. I write about cocktails for magazines, newspapers and blogs, and I had taken to getting creative with spirits and liqueurs at my ?home bar? (which is really just the kitchen, plus a jigger, shaker and citrus press). The by-products of my mad science?flavoured syrups, freshly squeezed juices and leftover club soda?became ingredients I could combine into child-friendly alcohol-free cocktails for Avery, then eight.
She grew to expect a virgin take on whatever libation I was sampling, and she looked forward to slurping the dregs or chewing the ice from real margaritas, gin and tonics or whisky sours. (Her little brother, Bennett, eschews cocktails in favour of sneaking slurps of beer backwash from Daddy?s unattended bottles.) It seemed harmless at the time. Like trying on my heels or painting her toenails, sipping kid coolers was a way for Avery to ?try on? adulthood. But at some point, I realized that unlike pumps and pedis?harmless markers of femininity that she would grow into?virgin highballs could become a gateway to a dangerous hobby.
My parents never served me mocktails, but they let me sample whatever was in their glasses. I can still picture the curlicued gold band etched onto their vintage lowballs, into which they poured their vodka tonics and Scotch. Those gorgeous vessels elevated the allure of their contents, and thoug...