The childhood of cinnamon vodka

As one does, I found a large piece of Egyptian cinnamon in the cupboard last weekend. Too big to be very useful in the day-to-day, I’m marrying it with a bottle of potato vodka. This is a picture of it after a week. This ought to be quite something in another six months or so.

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.