Strange that the things that we love about a season tend to be those things curative to the season itself. Summer people extoll all things refreshing, semi-clothed, ice-cold. For those of us happiest right about now, in a scant ten hours of burnished, muffled sunlight, it’s the love of a good coat, the palliative clasp of slow fire.

"Cozy" -- the word is Scottish in origin. This makes so much sense. Scotch is the invernal spirit: the cable-knit sweater to, say, tequila’s linen blouse. And among them, none are sturdier, burlier, cozier -- none better rampart against the dark weeks -- than the single malts of Islay.