HOMESTEADING

Ahhh, life in your forties.
One minute you're vibing, the next you're spotting gray streaks in your hair, wondering when your forehead became a topographical map, and squinting at your phone like it’s written in hieroglyphics. And THEN? You get this bizarre, undeniable urge to become a pioneer woman — like Oregon Trail–era, but with Wi-Fi and indoor plumbing, obviously.

Anyone else?

It all started with sourdough. I skipped the pandemic bread craze and went full candle witch instead. But then one day, I had a bite of my friend Cassie’s sourdough (shoutout, Cassie — you bread sorceress), and I was like: I must do this. I was born to do this. Thus began my journey.

My first starter was a bacteria-laced jar of shame. My first loaves? Absolute trash — like, “Is this edible?” levels of bad. But I kept at it, and now? I can turn out a delicious, attractive loaf… maybe 40% of the time. The other 60% looks like artisanal cow dung but still slaps with butter, so we press on.

But here’s the thing: I’m pretty sure I have undiagnosed late-onset ADHD, so obviously I needed a new hyperfixation.

Enter: Chickens.

I’m on a high-protein kick, eggs are basically gold now, and I had this charming vision of my boys running a rustic “Garcia Chix” egg stand instead of your run-of-the-mill lemonade gig. I was sold. So I did what any modern homesteader does: I bought four chickens online. (Maude, Millie, Ethel, and Dottie — classy hens only.)

They arrive in late May. So what to do in the meantime?

Clearly, I had to build a greenhouse. Because I, a person who has never successfully assembled IKEA furniture without crying, decided I should build a structure to grow actual food.

I found a cheap greenhouse kit on Amazon (I know, I know — I’m trying to quit my Amazon addiction, but it was a Spring Deal™). Two weekends later, I emerged a broken woman. If you’re ever feeling too competent, might I suggest trying to assemble something manufactured in China with instructions that appear to have been translated by a bored raccoon?

Weekend One: Frame up, front and back panels on.
Weekend Two: A gentle breeze whispered through... and obliterated everything.

I’ve made a few poor life choices: should’ve picked a higher-paying major, should’ve kept my last name, and honestly? Should’ve just flushed that $400 greenhouse kit down the toilet and saved myself the humiliation.

But! Plot twist: I recently discovered I am kind of a woodworker (after successfully Frankensteining a mailbox together), so now I’m building a greenhouse from scratch with pure grit, leftover lumber, and windows I hustled off Facebook Marketplace. I even drew up a design that would make an architect cry — but not in a good way.

So here we are. My dream is that by the end of summer, the Garcia Homestead will be pumping out fresh eggs, fresh produce, and fresh sourdough on the regular.

As long as no one dies of dysentery or drowns while fording the river, I think we’re gonna be just fine.