Every year, my cousin sends me an unsigned birthday card. Inside, there’s a sticky note—well, what’s left of a sticky note after you cut it into tenths. The teeny print, which can best be read with a high-power microscope, reads, “Recycle Me.” That’s how I know it’s from frugal Fran.
We’ve been sending the same card to each other for 27 years. It’s not my style, but if the card stops on my end, Fran will swoop in to rate my recycling regime. And we don’t want that.
Between you and me, I have been known to slip an occasional orange rind in the trash when no one’s looking. Please don’t tell her.
The last time Fran pedaled up unannounced, I spied her out back looking for the compost pile I don’t have before she rang the bell. Her overalls were, shall we say, “vintage,” and the only thing holding her glasses together was a pound of earth-friendly duct tape. I recognized the frames from her yearbook photo.
“What have you done to save our planet lately?” Fran asks, while preparing to inspect my kitchen garbage. If there’s a shred of plastic in there, it’s sermon time.
I was scrambling for a plausible defense, when I realized that my kind rarely puts anything back into the waste stream. Creative types would sooner cut off an ear than part with a sardine can that could one day make it to the top of the Christmas tree, given the right nontoxic paint, soy-free glitter and previously owned pompoms. I may not be a world-class recycler, but I’m a fabulous re-purposer.
“Let’s see. I gave up my paper shredder,” I told Fran, who is opposed to using electricity for frivolous things like cooking, air conditioning and lights. “I save energy by soaking my secret documents in Clorox and mixing the mulch with dog deposits. When they harden into meatball-sized identity protection balls, they’re ready to mingle with the organic trash.”
Fran pondered for a moment. “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. You need a compost pile. Bring me your pitchfork.”
It might have been a good time to check the property-owner association rules on composting, but Fran was already in recyclomaniac mode, and it took some time to admit that my idea of a pitchfork is jewelry pliers.
Three trips to the Home Depot later, we had our “Compost 101” supplies. Fran generously allowed me to use a gas-powered vehicle for this special mission.
While she hammered my new worm bin together, I located a spot away from curious neighbors who love local farmers as long as they don’t live next door.
Two hours later, my compost box was ready for residents. The good news is the finest worms run about $25 a pound. More than lobster, but then crustaceans don’t compost.
Fran collected all my banana peels, coffee grounds, apple cores and eggshells—straight out of the trash—and started layering her garbage lasagna. She promised it will only smell “mildly earthy” if I follow proper aeration techniques and treat my worms well. I will do that by never, ever, touching them or getting closer than 10 feet.
After she left, I liberated the orange rinds I’d hidden from Fran. Some year, they might look great on my Christmas tree. And with my new pitchfork, putting them up will be a snap.
Jan Igoe is trying to become a better steward of the planet, but interacting with worms could be a deal breaker. Write her here.