When Autocorrect Can't Hear Your Screams

It's not a lie when I say that I kind of adore the blue-bellied lizards who frequent our back patio. It always makes me smile when they stop outside one of the open sliding glass doors and do a round of push-ups to show off their strength and ward off the threat of the two mesmerized cats on the other side of the screen. When I sit outside to work, I'll sometimes greet them with a "Hey Lizzie," as they scuttle past me. 

Lizards who do push-ups are great. Skinks, not so much. 

If you're not familiar with the skink, it's basically a snake with tiny, almost unnecessary legs—likely descended from T-Rex arms. Skinks have pointier faces than blue-belly lizards, giving them a sort of crocodilian likeness. But it is their long, serpentine tails and erratic way of moving through the world that really makes the pee start percolating in my pants. 

I don't think I've ever encountered a skink in our yard without screaming at least a little. Thankfully, I don't see them very often, but in the past two weeks, I've seen two. Monsters. 

Yesterday, I was taking full advantage of my hiatus from a real job and had planted myself on a towel under one of the plum trees in our garden to write in my journal. The temperature was just right. There was a gentle breeze blowing through the weed field to the south. A hummingbird was chirping out commands from the top of an apricot branch nearby. It was blissful. 

Until—out of nowhere—a skink came whipping at me at 100 mph and slither-bolted ON TO MY TOWEL RIGHT BETWEEN MY FEET. I sprang from the towel like a middle-aged ninja and sprinted across the garden, shrieking all the way. 

As I always do in times of crisis, I then texted my trusty husband who was in LA for work. He responded with "HAHAHAHAHA where did it come from?" Thanks for the sympathy. 

After gathering the courage to shake said skink from my towel, I grabbed the rest of my things and headed to the safety of our patio where I immediately discovered a 4" moth perched on my favorite chair. Remind me who signed me up for this whole country living thing again. 

Inside the critter-free living room, I received another text from my Mr. Wonderful asking what happened with the skunk. 

The Wha? 

At first I thought he'd made a typo. Then I scrolled up to my original message. Sure enough, autocorrect had adjusted my spelling so that my note said a skunk had come barreling across the garden onto my beach towel. No wonder he was confused about where it came from. 

Through much amusement, I replied and explained the whole mix-up. He told me that he'd gotten the message as he and his coordinator were walking into a meeting and they both laughed hysterically picturing me innocently journaling in the backyard and then being charged by an angry skunk. 

It's still up for debate whether I would have preferred the skunk over the skink. At least it would have had a cuter face.

That Time We Caught and Nearly Lost a Mouse in Our House

Country living is a critter-filled existence. Gophers in the lawn. Foxes in the back forty. Deer down the middle of the road. Skinks in the shed. Snakes in the driveway. I could go on...

Thankfully, beyond the occasional small creepy crawly, we've only had one giant barn spider, one potato bug, and one baby lizard wander inside the confines of our house during our 5 years here. But Friday night, our relaxing Netflix binge on the couch was interrupted by a new intruder.

The cats sensed him first. Powell perked up and looked toward the ceiling at what I assumed was just a harmless flying insect of some sort.

When I noticed something between the wall and wooden light bank in our living room, I initially thought I was seeing a big, furry brown moth. But instead of crawling, it ducked its head. And then its head popped back up from the edge of the wood.

"Is that a—?!" Mr. W gasped.

"MOUSE!" I shrieked.

I jumped onto the couch even though the thing was basically on the ceiling, not the floor.

Mr. W immediately headed to the garage to get the ladder and a trap. And I immediately told him we were not killing our new visitor. If we were going to catch it in a sticky trap, we'd also be freeing it from said trap and letting it loose in the lower backyard.

Of course when he got up to the beam with his flashlight, he couldn't find it. We waited. The cats waited. And then he heard some sound (Help me?) that indicated it was stuck to the trap.

Mr. W carried the sticky tray into the kitchen where a Rubbermaid bin was waiting. The poor little mouse was teeny and as cute as a brown velvet button. I wanted to cry when I saw his heart pounding in total terror over his predicament.

We had warm water waiting, and Mr. W gently poured it over the trap until the mouse freed himself inside the Rubbermaid bin.

AND THEN HE JUMPED OUT OF THE BIN AND RAN ACROSS THE KITCHEN COUNTER.

Mr. W grabbed a dish towel. I grabbed the cats and shooed them out of the room. And then we commenced a game of mouse-catching ping pong, bumbling back and forth along the counter, trying to whisk him into a cardboard box.

I had just done the dishes and that little guy must have run over every spoon and pan that was sitting on our drying pad. He ran behind the upright mixer and when Mr. W tried to grab him, he ran into the sink. I thought we had him but he somehow scaled the wall and was hanging from the metal rack where we dry wine glasses.

It was like a scene out of Ratatouille.

He disappeared behind a frying pan and when we moved it, we discovered he had climbed up the splatter guard Mr. W had used over our pan-cooked salmon dinner. It turned out to be the perfect lid to our cardboard entrapment box, so Mr. W grabbed it and swung it over the box like a tennis pro spiking a ball.

My heart was pounding as hard as the mouse's.

Mr. W took the box outside and relocated our friend about a quarter acre from the house.

I scoured every dish for the second time and he scrubbed all surfaces and items within sneezing distance of the kitchen counter. We'll be re-spray-foaming the light bank in the living room, as well.

Though our visitor was a cute little guy and we do live in the country which seems like it just begs for the occasional surprise rodent, the only furry friends I want in my house are those two spoiled felines.

Let's just hope Mr. Mouse's family doesn't come looking for him anytime soon. Especially on a night when Mr. W is working in LA!

Warning: Chicken Panic Is Contagious

Whoever wrote the story of Chicken Little and his famous "the sky is falling" catchphrase must have been a hen owner. Anyone who has spent even a small amount of time in the company of poultry can tell you that the feathered girls are usually high anxiety. The intensity of their panic is somewhere in the realm of fainting '50s Beatles fans or, if we were measuring it in abs, maybe like 8 Ryan Goslings.

Our new chicks, Agnes and Barb, are especially uppity—I think because we didn't get them until they were about 6 weeks old. The ladies in our first brood have been handled by us since the day they were born, so their neuroses are slightly less (maybe around a factor of 6 Gos abs).

Barbie and Agnes currently live in a sectioned off portion of the big girls' run. And yes, their coup is a souped up cardboard box...

Anywhoo, it occurred to me last week that chicken anxiety might be like the avian flu. Catching. And I'm infected. Mr. W has been away for work (which always depletes any reserves of calm I have) so I've been on chicken duty all by myself and was pretty much flapping around the house squawking like a featherbrain Wednesday when I thought our little Samantha was eggbound. (Teaching moment: Chickens can get eggs stuck between their uterus and ....exit hole....and it they stay that way, they can die).

Sammy hadn't produced any eggs in a few days (or she may have laid in the yard and hidden them from me) so I was keeping a close eye on her. When she finally went into the nesting box, I checked on her about 3 times and when I opened it to find her standing with her beak wedged in the corner, painting and straining, I freaked out.

THE SKY IS FALLING!!

I raced through the yard like a crazy person, looking for some sort of bathtub so I could throw her into an Epsom salt soak. I couldn't find my normal tubs, so naturally I began to blame Mr. W for losing the hen spa box. Finally, I grabbed a mini ice chest, ran into the house to heat water in the microwave and frantically searched for the bag of salt.

Then I realized that I've never actually witnessed one of our girls laying an egg. Maybe Sammy was just doing that. Maybe she wasn't eggbound, but eggbirthing.

I zipped back to the chicken coop and sure enough her pretty blue egg was waiting in the nesting box.

The sky was still intact hovering above my head.

Apparently chicken labor involves standing in a corner, straining and panting. Duly noted.

Though I feel much calmer about the situation, I'm fully prepared to have the avian panic flu strike me again. If only I could get these little ladies to chill out before it hits.

In other farm news, our garden is going crazy. In the last two weeks, I've given zucchini away to I believe 6 different people and I still have more than I know what to do with.

As a result of the overly abundant harvest, the dehydrator has become my new BFF.

I've dried about 7 zucchinis, a dozen or two apricots and a few plums.

Oh my gosh and - happy day - our almond tree is ready to be harvested for the first time! Super excited to roast some nuts. 10 Gos abs on the excitement scale for that!

Full Moons, Wild Hairs, and Creativity in the Closet

They say full moons make people do crazy stuff. I remember once in my twenties, after a night out dancing, my girlfriends and I decided it would be a good idea to drive through Carl's Jr. wearing only our bras and pants. All the cooks filed out of the kitchen to get a look at us. So, naturally, we asked them to take our picture. One of my friends still has it framed in her house, I think. And also...there may not have been a full moon that night. But you get the point. People do crazy stuff when they see that bright light in the sky.

During last week's full moon, I totally got a wild hair.

I'd told Mr. W that at some point I wanted to build a little crafting desk in the closet of our guest room. But I planned to tackle that during like phase 14 of our house projects. It was super low priority.

Until the full moon.

Not sure what came over me, but I decided to try to build the desk myself. I found that one of the top  sliding doors of our old bedroom closet made the perfect desk top, and I figured I could rig up supports on the wall and on top of my file cabinet.

As you can see, I'm super skilled with the screw gun. I broke the head off of one screw and couldn't even get another into the wood. Before I could even get that far, Mr. W had to come help me find studs to screw into (there's a dirty joke in there somewhere). My sneaky full moon project turned out to be a bigger undertaking than I thought it would.

So to make matters even more complicated, of course I had to crank it all up a notch with a custom paint job.

I wanted to build a little space that would inspire me to want to write and create. It kind of turned into a shrine for random stuff I love—like Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band the movie and Saturday Night Fever and tiny glass animals and U2. But whatev.

I decided to go with it and throw some candles and a Buddha statue in there so it would be a proper altar.

And at that altar I shall lay my thoughts and words and scraps of glue or fabric. I shall lose myself in the wall paint that reminds me of the cover of one of my sister's yearbooks from the 80s or maybe a sweater Mr. W had in junior high. I will smile every time I open the closet doors. And I will hope that I get a wild hair that yields as awesome a result as this one next time there's a full moon.

Showering With Homer

If you  haven't already heard, California is in a nasty drought right now. Brown is the new green when it comes to lawns. Trees are in distress everywhere. Riverbeds are bone dry. Being a third-generation CA girl, this breaks my heart. So I decided to do something that others have championed during past times of regional dehydration.

I got myself a shower buddy.

And it's not my husband.

He's strong and smooth. My naked legs always brush against him as I step into the tub. He takes up a fair amount of space, but I don't mind.

"Let's do this," he says.

And there in the steam and spray, we do.

He collects the extra water while I wash the funk from my frame.

He is my Home Depot 5-gallon bucket. And I call him Homer. 

It's pretty amazing how full he gets during each shower. Just using him under the faucet when I'm warming up the water allows me recycle a gallon or two. Add that to the drops he catches while I'm washing my hair and bod, and I've got close to 4 gallons after every one of our little trysts.

I was hopeful that if I dumped him on our dead grass (dead, thanks to many subcontractors driving over it for weeks on end...and us not watering it)...anyway, I was hopeful that I'd be able to bring the grass back to life.

Homer has his work cut out for him there.

He's been doing a dandy job of keeping our baby fruit trees watered, though. And for now, we can do without the grass. By the time we're ready to make it green again, we'll be re-landscaping to make things more drought-tolerant anyway.

Even if the drought ends, I might keep Homer around, though.

I'm getting pretty used to showering with my friend.

7-Year Crack Itch

Last night as Mr. W and I stood side-by-side in the bathroom getting ready for bed, he turned to me and said, "You are one sexy woman..."

I'll get back to the rest of the sentence in one second.

Yesterday marked the 7-year anniversary of our first date. I remember that night so vividly, still. It was a Sunday. It was chilly. I carefully chose an outfit that was warm but still seemed kind of chic (black sweater, jeans, and flats). I had my hair highlighted the week before. I tried hard to temper my excitement throughout the night as I realized this guy could be somebody important. I'm sure I made coy facial expressions all through dinner.

We ate fondue. We drank wine. Mr. W put his arm around me to keep me warm when he walked me to my car.

We were on such good behavior, so committed to putting our best selves forward to woo one another.

Flash forward seven years, and this is what my husband said to me last night:

"You are one sexy woman. Polka-dot pajama bottoms under your dress while you're scratching your butt."

Yep. I was scratching by butt in front of him. On the anniversary of our first date.

The old seven year itch.

It's funny how relationships transform over the years.

I cannot express enough gratitude for the fact that Mr. W stays married to me even though I act and dress this way (ask him how many times a week I stay in my workout clothes until bed...) He is a gem and I am so lucky he liked me enough on that first date to ask me on another and another.

Before I climbed into bed, I changed out of the flannel pj bottoms and dress and into something with a bit more black lace on it.

And then, of course, we worked on scratching a different kind of itch.....

Life Lessons on Wine Country Livin'

This whole moving-to-the-country thing has been chock-full of lessons from day one. And usually those lessons are learned the hard way—like Don't Do Any Gardening Without Wearing Bug Spray, Check the Tasting Room's Hours Before Driving to the Boonies to Try Some New Wine, If You're Going to a Vintner's Festival Get There Early Or There Won't Be Any Food Left, and my favorite, Always Check the Bottom of Your Shoes After Walking through the Chicken Run.

In the last couple weeks, we've been hit with a few more lessons...some more painful than others. Just in case any of you readers should decide to move to wine country and raise chickens, I want to share my discoveries with you in hopes that I can save you from the agony of learning them yourself. Here's a rundown:

1. If you go to a winemakers' dinner, eat a huge lunch and use the wine-dump pot.
We attended our first winemakers' dinner at Los Olivos Cafe last Thursday night and were so giddy at the idea of finally going to one of the events we dreamed of attending when we lived back in LA. The evening featured winemakers from Qupe, Bien Nacido, and Au Bon Climat, with a selection of 9 different wines and carefully paired dishes.

Knowing my 3-4 glass limit, I was well aware of the fact that I'd have to dump partial glasses throughout the night. I figured I could get away with at least a few sips of each and that the copious amounts of food would absorb most of the alcohol anyway. At the end of the night, I was tipsy but feeling pretty much fine. Mr. and I came home and watched some TV and the next morning I awoke with only a minor headache.

I got myself some water and toast, thinking I'd make a full recovery. And then I became very, very sleepy on the couch. It was only 9:00 a.m. but I needed a nap. Or twelve. And then at about 10:00, my first winemaker dinner came back to haunt me in a very projectilious way. SO not the way to start a day. I haven't gotten sick from drinking since my 28th birthday at the Beauty Bar in Hollywood (too many martinis with my manicure). I now know that if we attend another winemaker dinner, I will need to eat and hydrate well all day long in preparation—and probably take a few less sips with my dinner.

2. Chickens that lay eggs are significantly louder than chickens who don't.
Two of our baby girls (Charlotte and Carrie) have started laying, and we couldn't be more proud. Our fridge is currently stocked with the cutest little pullet eggs you've ever seen. Every day, it's a thrill to go egg-hunting in their coop. However, I didn't realize that their eggy labor pains would include raucous clucking. Sometimes they call out to each other while one is laying—like the non-layer is coaching the layer to push. And the crazy thing is that it often happens several times a day even though they're only laying once. El Pollo Loco got their name right because those chickens are crazy.

3. Hens are bitches.
This whole pecking order business? So not cool. Particularly because one of my favorite chickens (yes, I have favorites) is at the bottom. Poor little fuzzy-faced Samantha gets a forehead full of beak all the time. We're not sure whether the ring leader is Charlotte or Carrie, but Charlotte is by far the nastiest and peckiest. Every time she bops somebody on the head, I want to pick up one of the other girls and use her to peck Charlotte right back. Definitely not a fan of henhouse hierarchies...

I don't anticipate our lessons here to slow down anytime soon. Between the new terrain, being pet parents, and remodeling our house, we're continually being hit with new educational content. I just hope we both get graduate degrees at the end of it all...

Chicks Gone Wild

This was a big week for our girls. For the first time, they got the chance to experience {somewhat} free range in the sideyard. Given that we frequently see hawks overhead, and my neighbor had a coyote run through her yard with a chicken in its mouth recently, Mr. W and I supervised the girls the entire time they were out of their pen. We're still new to this chicken parenting thing and would be totally devastated if anything happened to one of our flock.

At one point as I sat on my chicken stool (it's kind of like a milking stool except it was $6 at IKEA and I use it to sit in the yard and watch the girls scratch at the dirt), Carrie Birdshaw hopped up on my lap and began to pick at lint on my shirt. My phone was in my back pocket, so I thought it was a perfect opportunity to snap a little selfie with the golden retriever of chickens. I leaned my face down next to hers, extended my arm with camera in hand, and just as I was about to snap a shot, she pecked me square in the front teeth. Hard.

Mr. W immediately began cracking up and I didn't know what to do. Bird beak is not something I ever wanted in my mouth. Lord knows what she's touched with that thing. I'm hoping Listerine killed everything. And I will not be trying to take any selfies with her again in the future.  

A couple weeks before that, I also had a little incident with Charlotte. I was standing in the girls' run—pretty sure I wasn't the least bit hunched over—when Charlotte decided to fly up onto my lower back and claw her way up to my shoulder. I yelled at her and quickly tried to wrangle her off of me. My back was literally covered in chicken scratch. I had to Neosporin myself up for a few days.

When I told Mr. W what happened, he said, "She was probably just trying to show her dominance. She's establishing the pecking order."

With an adult human.

I got dominated by a chicken.

So there's that.

We're expecting to find an egg or two in the coop pretty much any time now. I'm hoping after the girls start laying they'll calm down a bit. They've gotten quite surly with all their prepubescent hormones swirling around in those feathered little chicken butts.

Bathroom Renovation Bloopers

We're deep in the throes of bathroom renovations and like with any good DIY project, there have already been more mishaps than I can count. Because it's still early in the overall remodeling of our home, I still have my sense of humor and although I hope it stays intact until we hang our last picture on our freshly painted walls, there are no guarantees...

But for now, I'm finding the bloopers entertaining.

Our pink bathtub was made of cast iron, which meant getting it out was not going to be easy. Mr. W tried putting it on Craigslist in hopes that some vintage-lover would bring 5 friends and emancipate it from our property, but after a couple days he got antsy and decided he would "remove" it himself.

And out came the sledgehammer.

He did most of the big hits and then asked me if I wanted to take a swing. I waltzed over, whacked it once, got hit in the nose by a piece of flying debris (please ignore the crows' feet and large pores below), and immediately started bleeding. I'm so lucky it didn't get me in the eye because I wasn't wearing safety glasses. (Note: ALWAYS wear safety glasses when you're smashing things. Not only does it make you look more official, it could save you from a future pirate's patch.)

After we got all the shards of tub cleaned up and relocated to our side yard (for eventual transfer to the dump), we were left with a hole in the floor where the pipes connected to the tub. Of course, we lost a cat down that hole a day later... She went spelunking and took her sweet time coming back when we yelled her name into the crawlspace. Finally, with a plate of cat food in one hand, I was able to reach down and grab her by the scruff of her neck with the other hand. She's been grounded all week.

Mr. W successfully installed the new shower valve and was trying to remedy a tiny drip coming from one of the pipes when he accidentally turned the water on and shot it from the shower head pipe right down onto his crotch. I stood by and laughed hysterically like any good helper would.

The latest endeavor was the installation of two retro-looking globe pendant lights over the sink. Of course they presented some sort of wiring issues which forced Mr. W to suit up and venture into the attic multiple times to get everything sorted out. Thankfully he got them fixed up this morning so we (read: he) can move on to the next thing: tiling the shower.

I'm not yet posting any pictures of our latest progress, but I will give you a little tease of the bathroom's new materials, along with some of our inspiration pictures from Pinterest. Enjoy!

Source

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With This Ring, I Promise Thee Never to Cut Off Thine Finger

Although I have a really fun collection of rings in my jewelry box, ever since I got THE ring in 2010, I don't wear my fun ones nearly as much. Last night we had our first double date with locals in our town and, wanting to get properly dolled up for our date, I decided to don one of my fun rings. I grabbed one with a multicolored browinsh stone that I probably paid $5 for at Forever 21. I shall call her Little Streaky. The minute I slid her onto my finger I thought I might be in trouble.

Back in the day, I wore her on my left hand (which is slimmer than my right) but the old ball and chain ring goes on that hand now, so I had to switch Little Streaky to my right hand. I think she was supposed to go on my ring finger...but I stuck her on the middle one.

Our double date was so much fun, I quickly forgot about my ring woes. We were with our wonderful next door neighbors taking advantage of Santa Ynez Valley restaurant week and, in addition to having a delicious meal (grilled prawn and bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin, thanksforasking), we chatted and laughed and drank wine for several hours. But when we returned home and I couldn't get Little Streaky off, I began to panic.

I tried olive oil. I tried soap. I tried icing my hand to shrink my finger. Nothing worked. Finally I decided to go to bed wearing Little Streaky—hoping that my finger would somehow dehydrate and shrivel overnight so I could get her off in the morning.

I had more than one dream that I was able to remove her when I woke up.

But in reality, she seemed to be fitting even more snugly when I awoke.

I Googled "How to cut a ring off your finger" and found this video about using an elastic band to compress your finger tissue and slide the ring off without having to cut it. Eureka.

I retrieved some elastic from my sewing kit and gave it a try. Total joke. Little Streaky didn't move a millimeter.

Mr. W tried to snap her with bolt cutters but that didn't work either.

It was time to bring in the Dremmel and saw her in half.

"The doctor is ready for surgery," Mr. W said to me as he entered the kitchen with his tool kit and safety glasses for each of us. Immediately imagined the safety glasses getting covered in a spray of blood as Mr. W accidentally dug the saw blade into my finger...

It's funny how being married to someone periodically requires you to fully renew your trust in them. I was pretty terrified that I might get injured during this "surgery" but I had to just trust that Mr. W would be beyond careful and stop the Dremmel before it hit flesh.

As he pressed the spinning blade against the band, a couple little chunks of metal flew off and hit me in the face. Good thing for the safety glasses... We kept ice nearby to cool the metal as it heated under the friction of the saw. I made him stop at least a half dozen times because I was so freaked out.

Finally the groove in the ring seemed deep enough that he could use pliers to pull each side of Little Streaky apart. When he did, her plastic stone popped off and landed on the counter. As soon as I slid her off, I jumped up and down and threw my arms around him.

My finger is still green from wearing a $5 ring for 15 hours.

And I think Mr. W may have missed his true calling...

Thanks, Doctor McDreamy.

Fruits and Labors

I think this may be the first time since, oh, 2010 that I've written blog posts two days in a row. I just felt compelled to share some of our early farmy gardeny progress—particularly after seeing the sweet Chipoltle video that  seemed to be all over Facebook today.

This past weekend, Mr. W and I hit up a sale at our favorite local nursery and were able to get two varieties of fig trees and an avocado tree all for 50% off. Yes, we were psyched.

We hope this avocado tree does better than the one we planted
in Hollywood. That sucker only gave us 4 avocados in 2 years.

I wasn't super psyched, however, when I went to water the new fig trees yesterday afternoon. Mr. W told me I could just unstake one of our sprinklers (we haven't put in a proper sprinkler system yet) and aim it down the hillside where the trees are planted.

I can't remember what kind of figs these are but they stay greenish yellow. Hopefully
that'll help keep them camouflaged so the birds don't eat all of them.

Now, these are pivoting rainbird-ish sprinklers, so I thought for sure I was going to get wet. I was so careful, directing the arc of water away from myself, even as the sprinklerhead ticked back and forth. Victory.

But then I went to put the sprinkler back in its hole in the grass. And I'm not sure what exactly happened or where the water even came from—the spigot was off—but a huge blob of water bubbled up from nowhere and shot me square in the forehead. Right in the bangs. One eye lost its mascara. Thankfully none of the neighbors were outside to see me in my inept farmgirl glory.

At the nursery sale, we also bought lavender, curly kale, and brussels sprouts. Mr. W planted the veggies near a bunch of seeds he put down the week before. Unfortunately, the writing has disappeared from his markers so I have no idea what's sprouting up over there. Could be kinda fun. Mystery farming.

Drip line sprinklers are much more bangs-friendly than the other sprinklers...

Planting these was so relaxing. They smelled delicious!

Another purchase from the nursery that has my whistle whetter than a mad hen...or something like that...is a cute little hops plant. After reading a couple different articles about people growing hops, we thought it would be fun to give it a try. Perhaps we'll be making beer before we make wine!

We're so brewing garage Guinness.

We're lucky because although all of our new plants are just babies, we have a pretty cool selection of stuff already on the property. Our neighbor planted an extensive garden on some of the land we've agreed to share. Though the tomatoes, melons, and squash have been great, the trees are what I find most exciting for fall. Apple cobbler and persimmon bread, here we come.

These are just asking to be thrown into a dutch oven with a bunch of sugar and butter.

Last Christmas I used persimmons to make bread for a few of the neighbors. Maybe
this year I'll just start a side business.

This is one of my other favorite neighbors. She's all about the neigh.

Our Meyer lemon tree is starting to bloom again, too. I need to find some good recipes for these kinds of lemons. Mr. W made some lemon oil with them but the bottle of yellow liquid looked a little disconcerting, so I haven't tried it on anything yet...

Not quite sure what to do with the pink peppercorns that are everywhere, either. We ate some off the tree recently and they were surprisingly sweet. I'll have to do some online searching. Maybe I can find some sort of Meyer lemon pepper recipe that combines both of our bounties.

It's definitely exciting to be able to walk into the backyard and find ingredients for dinner. The dirt that seems to be under my fingernails more regularly now is a small price to pay for so much good stuff.