My fellow Colleagues, Correspondents, and Countrymen; In literary circles irony is often called The English Disease and your author is quite fond of it. He is fond of many things British: Monty Python, hella-quick little two-seater cars, and Stilton cheese being among them. And P.G. Wodehouse. It simply would not do to describe my love of the English and not include Mr. Wodehouse. And so the irony of this past Wednesday did not escape me. On that day the omnipotent building inspector for Benton County came to the farm and gave the tasting room its final blessing. So a morning that should have been noted for its David Niven-esque convivial jocularity at achieving such a goal turned into a rueful Claude Rains-esque half-smile and arched eyebrow at the realization that we don’t know when we’re going to be able to open. “As flies [...]