Bitten, not stirred. That’s how I enjoy my Dirty Martini of blood and olives. My favorite olives you ask? Castelvetrano, which are plentiful in my olive grove outside of Lombardy, Italy. I spend my days roosting from olive trees, and sampling the locals tasty olives in their different pickling brine. Lately, something has happened where I’m not allowed in the Italian delis anymore. What could it be?