Frank Molnar's one-and-a-half-acre spread in the hills of Orange is perched above the suburban equivalent of a tree line, just beyond where the housing tracts stop. It still feels like old OC up here—clapboard house, vegetable garden, horse, dogs, chickens, terraced vineyard, even indigenous plants. As long as you're not checking out the view, anyway. Because then you feel like Moses looking down from Mt. Sinai, arms full of fresh-baked Ten Commandments, while the... More >>>