Friday evening we arrived at the Ranch and were greeted by this miracle of nature: Mouse turds.

Everywhere. On the counters. In bed. Hidden in cabinets. Even the kitchen sink. It was as if Mickey was suffering an extreme case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome and decided to make our home his maison du respose.

When Mitch started collecting the evidence with his bare hands, I damn near fainted.

"Why are you so offended?"

"Because Mickey crapped on my sofa cushions!"

This is where my "city mouse" comes in to direct conflict with my "country mouse." I am used to the comforts and cats of the metropolis, so it is with great trepidation that I address the dead flies and mouse droppings that accompany country life.

I begin vacuumming like a woman possessed.

"I've got some traps we can put out," Mitch offered.

I looked at him horrified. "But I don't want to hurt them!"

You can take the girl out of the city...

Given that Mitch and I still entertain like graduate students, guests sitting on the floor cross-legged, plates perched on laps, Saturday's meal was a revelation:

We were invited to a wine dinner billed as Southern Colorado and Southern France. To get to the house, we drove nine miles on rutted dirt roads, through rabbit brush gilded with new flowers, spiney sage and bunch grasses trending amber. Cows roam freely in this part of the county--or as freely as landowners allow--so every mile or so, I had to hop out of the truck, my silver sandals raising billows of dust, and swing open heavy pipe gates while Mitch drove through.

We could see the house from miles away, sitting atop a bald ridge. We arrived late and apologizing with a bag of heirloom tomatoes for the hostess and drank in the valley views from the tall, wide windows.

The table was set, placecards slotted into winecorks, with forks for each course, two wine glasses each, for red and white, gleaming table linens. A menu lay at every place, describing each course and the wine pairing.

Permit me to cut to the chase:

Hors D'oeuvres: Tapenade, Tomato Tarte Tain and Radishes with Anchovy Butter

L'Entree: Olate Corn Soup with Garlic Butter

Poisson Cours: Apalachiola Shrimp Provencal

Le Plat Principal: Grilled Veal Chops (Colorado pasture raised) and Eggplant Tomato Gratin

Salade: Local greens in vinaigrette

Le Fromage: Haystack Boulder Goat, Bucheron, Camembert and Roquefort

Le Dessert: Ambrosia Honey Mouse, Pain d'amande, Palisade Peaches and Pears

Each dish was carefully paired with an appropriate Colorado or French wine. The 2001 Dom. Les Aphillantes, Cotes du Rhone-Cuvee du Cros was smashing.

Trust me, we can't stop talking about this meal.

Look at that fat, bulbous globe, ruddy as a drunk. And grown at 8,000 feet. By rights at this elevation it should be a stunted yellow ball.

The tomato comes from Meredith, who's been haying at the ranch. Meredith is the mother of 29 alpacas, seven goats, five chickens and four dogs. She has animals, we have grass, so this week she's been busy raking and hauling hay back to her growing herd. (A couple of the girls got themselves in the family way when "Mother" wasn't looking.)

Enroute to the ranch she stops at a neighbor's organic garden, who opens it to friends to have their pick. She's loaded us up with tender red-leaf lettuce, peppery arugala, miniature cucumbers and porky tomatoes--all tasting like earth, water and sun.

Now if we could only get our recalcitrant green fruits to ripen at home.