Here in the northern reaches of the Commonwealth of Virginia, where drunken British troops once wandered aimlessly in search of heaven, and even well bred boys from Mississippi wondered aloud over the flapping of the star-and-bars why anyone would design the nation’s capital in a swamp, things have been warm. Summer decided, in 2007, not to go quietly into anyone’s damn night.

At least not until this week.

Fall (when it is not, technically speaking, already winter) is the time where those who never wear white after labor day move on to drinks with substance, with gravitas, with more oomph than a perfectly chilled glass of gin (or vodka). They are also the same people – frankly – that really get on your nerves.

 So, in celebration of the coming of fall, the death of summer, the future of winter, and the probability of Spring, we got all anarchoseasonal and fired-up the martini shaker, stuffed some freakish mutant olives with blue cheese, added some gin, some shaking, some rattling, and not too little rolling (although only of eyes) to produce the paean of summer: The Gin Martini.

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