Spiced Rum & Wax-Dipped Madness with the Kilted Dragon

You’d think I’d have learned from the tequila incident. But no. Curiosity, poor judgment, and the faint scent of cloves led me back into the Dragon’s den—this time, with spiced rum and a heat gun.

The evening began with a simple invitation:

“Fancy helping me dip some bottles in hot wax, petal? Bring gloves. And a spine.”

Her distillery was a converted barn filled with barrels, chains (decorative?), and the subtle ambiance of menace. On the table: 96 bottles of her latest spiced rum, a bubbling pot of scarlet wax, and a playlist that alternated between AC/DC and bagpipe covers of Rihanna.

“I like my rum like I like my men,” she purred. “Strong, complex, and slightly flammable.”

We drank. The spiced rum was ridiculous—infused with cinnamon, clove, peppercorn, and regret. By the third glass, my tongue went numb and I was enthusiastically dunking bottles in molten wax like I was baptizing sinners. She supervised with the precision of a drill sergeant and the smirk of someone who definitely keeps a riding crop next to her mixing spoon.

At some point, I accidentally dipped my thumb. She didn't blink—just handed me a leather glove and said, “Now ye match.”

By midnight, 96 bottles glistened with dragon-red wax, each sealed like a love letter from the underworld. She scribbled symbols onto the labels—part runes, part innuendo—and declared them ready to ship. I suggested one for “special release.” She suggested I shut up and mop the floor.

We ended the night drinking rum straight from the bottle, sitting on a hay bale, discussing the emotional range of Highland cows. I may have cried. She may have comforted me. With a slap.

I left at dawn, slightly scorched, sticky with wax, and deeply at peace.

Lessons learned:

• Never challenge the Dragon to a wax-dipping contest.

• Her rum is 40% ABV and 60% life crisis.

• The hot wax is for bottles. Usually.