Jennifer and I just bought a king-sized bed.

We committed many years ago to never buying a king-sized bed. We neither needed nor wanted it. We’ve always slept close to one another, so we’ve only ever owned full or queen-sized beds. That changed somewhat recently when I began awaking to find Jennifer asleep in the closet or on the couch downstairs. I’d find myself on a quiet search and rescue mission at 2:00 AM, and each time I located her, she’d say her exodus was due to my snoring.

“But, I don’t snore.”

“How would you know this when you’re asleep?”

“Because I just know. If I snored, you would’ve smothered me with a pillow by now.”

“Well, okay, maybe it’s not snoring. You just breathe deeply and heavily.”

“That’s because I go to bed exhausted every single day.”

“But, If I wake up, I can’t fall back asleep when you’re doing it, so I have to leave.”

“So, what am I supposed to do about that?”

“Stop breathing.”

“So, we’re back to you killing me, then?”

“Well—”

“—Wake me up when I’m doing it. I’ll move somewhere else.”

“But, what about your back? It’ll hurt the next day if you sleep on the floor or couch.”

“Yeah, but—”

“—But if I kill you, all that pain goes away. It would be a mercy killing.”

“We don’t believe in mercy killing, honey. And if even if I did, I’m telling you I don’t anymore.”

“But, remember how you’re always telling me how you’re worth more to us dead than alive? Now’s your chance to help make it look like an accident.”

“How about, instead, we get a king-sized bed?”

“How will that fix the problem?”

“I don’t know. However, what I do know is that we both seem to sleep pretty well when we’re in Florida. That house has a king-sized bed, and there are plenty of other comfortable places in that house for you to hijack if my Vader-breathing was keeping you awake. And when we went to San Diego, that bed in the hotel was king-sized. I didn’t wake up to find the bathroom door closed and you in the tub with a pillow over your head. I’m guessing you slept well in that bed, right?”

“Yes, I slept all night.”

“Then, a king-sized bed it is. You’ll sleep better. I won’t get murdered. All will be well.”

So, as you can see, buying a king-sized bed was essential to our marriage’s maintenance. Do you know what else remains crucial? Whisky. Jennifer and I work together to make it possible for me to buy and review the aqua vitae. This cooperation prevents me from asking the dear woman to assist in staging her death for a substantial insurance payout. Synergy at its finest—just like the Scorch edition from Ardbeg. Indeed, this is a well-match stride between Ardbeg’s masterful elixir and some intensely burnt finishing barrels, all in tribute to “the legendary dragon of Islay.”

I’m guessing that dragon was probably some guy living in a cave because he’d been kicked out of his house for snoring. A few kids probably walked past the cave, heard the guttural resonations, and ran back to town in terror. And so, the legend was born.

But whatever the source of the legend, the nose of its namesake whisky is worthy of Vader-sized inhalations, being a rich breeze of smoke-filled ocean air and smoldering molasses. A sip brings along charred sea salt and rye toast coated by a generous swipe of citrus jam. Its finish takes a while, being sure along the way to remind its imbiber of its ashen oak planks and seaside view.

The Ardbeg Scorch is the kind of dram that can put someone right into bedtime’s dreamscapes within minutes. Although, the remnant scents such a person brings into bed—even if that person brushes his or her teeth mightily—have the potential to keep a light-sleeping spouse awake. No one drinks an Ardbeg and then hides the evidence immediately. Ardbeg whiskies stay with you. The Scorch edition is no different, and this can be dangerous in my house—the kind of danger that not even a king-sized bed can avert.