Yard Plan, Interrupted

When Mr. W and I started house-hunting in the Santa Ynez Valley 7 years ago, one of our non-negotiables was the size of our lot. We had to have an acre. No ifs, ands, or buts. In our minds, it was the ideal amount of space for a chicken coop and a veggie garden and maybe some goats to fuel our cheese-making aspirations.

Fast forward to 2016 and we'd scrapped the goats but had a pretty clear design in mind for the half acre of empty land behind our house.

I begged for that yoga platform. I was certain I'd use it to host spirit-restoring day retreats for my friends from LA.

Then, last fall, Mr. W and I went to Sonoma. And we visited the Sunset Test Garden. Which had the raddest greenhouse ever. Immediately, we both knew that instead of the yoga platform (Mr. W was never in love with it anyway) we wanted a nice big greenhouse on our green acre.

We found a kit for one from a local vendor and decided to splurge on the purchase. It took several Saturdays of wood staining and audio book listening in the garage (Sharp Objects—what a thriller), but we got all the boards prepped and Mr. W assembled them with all the glass panels. Pretty sure there were 18 total when he was done. After that, it was time for an old-fashioned barn-raising, complete with help from neighbors on both sides of us. Farm life takes a village, people.

Fully constructed, it feels like we have a little church in our backyard. It's pretty and serene and looks out onto all of spring's natural beauty.

Because we couldn't just revamp one part of our yard plan, we also decided to level the garden we've had in place the past two summers and map out an even larger one near our baby orchard of fruit trees. Of course, this also meant we'd need to build a deer fence around everything.

It's funny how home and garden projects always seems to have a ripple effect. You get a greenhouse, then you want a better veggie patch. You hang new curtain rods and you need to upgrade the decades-old sliding glass doors. You install a pizza oven and then you've gotta plan a trip to Italy...

I have a feeling that my new gigantic vegetable garden will ripple out to keep me boiling and bagging tomatoes and drying plums and apricots all summer long. Which, I guess makes up for the fact that we never got those goats we were going to use for cheesemaking. Interrupting the best laid plans seems to be a pattern here.

Thank goodness we never changed our plan to own the world's cutest chicken.

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!

You Know You've Finally Made It When...

When Mr. W was a youngster, he had three big dreams: To be a Top Gun fighter pilot, to work in the film industry, and to someday own a Porsche. While some guys his age had pictures of Tiffani-Amber Thiessen taped to their bedroom walls, Mr. W had centerfolds of Carreras.

Though his dream of becoming Maverick got back burnered, he chased his film aspirations from St. Louis to Los Angeles and vowed to buy himself that car as soon as his paychecks could support it.

After several years of grinding away in visual effects (and fetching the occasional coffee), Mr. W was established enough in the industry to splurge on the ultimate driving machine. He bought himself a shiny ocean blue metallic Porsche 911 Carrera.

It was a declaration that'd he'd finally made it.

His friends teasingly called him Jake Ryan. Shy guy. Good hair. I think it kinda fits.

Fast forward about 15 years and the marker that represents making it has changed dramatically.

I don't want to say that his double decades in Hollywood jaded him, but he outgrew the Porsche aspirations and moved onto fantasizing about a more practical sports car: The Tractor.

Success shifted from the Hollywood Hills to the Santa Ynez Valley, and included the remodel of an outdated house, the planting of a backyard vineyard, and the purchase of something powerful for mowing and tilling.

Folks, I am so happy to announce that my highly motivated husband has "made it" yet again. He is officially a real farm person now, with the purchase of his Massey Ferguson GC1715.

I've named it Mater after the tow truck in Cars. And it runs like a champion.

Weeds in the back 40: Watch out—he's comin' for you.