My wife can’t ever leave me. I’m serious. I could tell you a million reasons why, but for now, I’ll shed light on only one.

She was off at a hair appointment tonight, and while I’m not necessarily around to be the parent that participates in the bedtime rituals with any regularity (at least not as much as I’d like), I remain confident in my ability to keep the household humming in synchronous rhythm toward the Sandman’s hour while the grandest of Architects is away.

Behold, under my watch, the hordes were showered, enjoyed a nighttime snack of freshly cut honey crisp apples, brushed teeth, cleaned up the bathroom, gathered up the laundry, presented their completed homework assignments and then returned said coursework to their backpacks while I made lunches. After this, the troops laid out their clothes for the coming sunrise.

“Daddy,” Madeline called from her room, “would you iron my shirt and pants, please?”

Wait. Iron your clothes?

Every time I try to iron something, I end up redesigning the garment altogether, being sure to impose permanent creases in all the wrong places. I just can’t ever seem to get it right.

I started to sweat.

“Okay, honey. Bring ‘em here. But just so you know, I’m not making any promises on the quality.”

Sure enough, it took me no less than ten minutes to iron my ten-year-old daughter’s pink polo and khaki pants, and so that she isn’t embarrassed by the wonderfully new fashion statement I’ve created, Mom will most likely need to fix it when she gets home.

Sheesh.

Needless to say, after tucking the kids into their beds and then settling myself into the couch in order to await the return of a freshly groomed Grand Architect, this poor perfectionist found a kindly solace with The Arran Malt, namely, the Port Cask Finish.

With the scent of the steam iron still haunting me, I was so glad to have its swift eviction by the port wine bouquet most evident in this particular edition’s nosing. I should add to this the sense of warmed malt. Very nice.

The palate was a bit aggressive at first. It didn’t exactly roll over the tongue, but rather seized it with the malty wine and then loosened its grip with a syrupy chocolate and berries mix. Not what I expected, but still quite nice.

The malt stayed through to the finish, gently easing into my immediate past, cementing a delightful awareness that if ever I failed at a task again and needed consolation, I would always have The Arran Malt to reassure me that all’s well. Just sit back and give thanks that the Architect will be home soon to save the sartorial day.