"You know, it's almost pleasant up here," the spousal unit reported from the top of the new porch roof as he was setting the roof cap on this afternoon.

"Well, you know, as long as you ignore the fact that one false step and you fall to a painful death."

Yep, it's all in your attitude.

Mother Nature cut us an enormous break this weekend. Last weekend she dumped 10 cm (4") of heavy, wet snow on this place, a stern smack upside the head for our tardiness in getting the new roof started, for underestimating how much time it would take to tinker with trim and soffit work.

This weekend she gave us a warm, wet smooch, blessing us with unseasonably warm temperatures up near 17C (65F). The spousal unit put one very hard push on and now the roof is on. We'll worry about the siding in the front next spring. The important part was to finish the roof so it would shed snow.

Which it does.

Right on our heads as we stand at the front door.

Oh happy day.

Friday was my first taste of things to come as the sun warmed the small clumps of snow still clinging to the first few panels of tin. Droplets of icy water ran down my neck as I fumbled with my key to open the front door. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

The spousal unit knew this was coming and is going to scootch up a temporary roof to shelter us, with something more permanent to be built next summer. Knowing him as I do, I predict a temporary roof of breathtaking hideousness, using odd bits of rusty tin and salvaged boards.

I am trying to be brave about it.

The cats and I gloried in the reprieve from winter. They sat on the hood of my car and soaked up thermal units while I picked up the bits of construction debris from the porch that littered the lawn in front of the house.

You'd think that would be enough fun right there but then I was inspired to mine the composter.

I can feel your envy from here.

I've never quite understood how the composter works. We have a big two liter stainless pail by our sink that I fill to the brim two to three times a week with veggie bits, tea bags, coffee grounds and egg shells which are marched out to the composter. If we were working on volume alone, the composter would be full in a few months.

The deal is, though, that it takes about a year for the thing to fill. The spousal unit claims that's how much things cook down as they change from foodie bits to compost. My personal theory is that worms come at night with teensy tiny wheelbarrows and steal the stuff away.

I much prefer my theory.

For gardeners compost is a thing of almost orgasmic beauty. A smart man wooing a woman who gardens could make her his love slave in a heart beat by gifting her with a load of compost. Oh yes, compost is an aphrodisiac. No. Really. I mean it. I attribute its stunning powers to all that fertility just waiting to be released.

A few years ago in Montreal they had a show of Monet's later works called "Monet at Giverny" and mixed in with his artwork were cool things related to his gardens, the subject of so many of those paintings.

There was one letter to a friend where he said he'd just got a load of the most beautiful compost and he could barely hold himself back from rolling in it. I totally grok that. So you can imagine my delight when I lifted the bottom door to the composter and was greeted by a wall of pure, black flawless compost.

I managed to shovel a whole heaping wheelbarrow's worth out before the weight of the organic goodies above it made the pile collapse in on itself.

My wheelbarrow's worth of crumbly black gold is sitting under plastic now quietly waiting for spring.