Our Compost Bucket -- "Party Mix - For People You Hate"
My husband decided to customize our compost bucket. He’s a good one for covering all contingencies, such as finding oneself burdened with undesirable company. Just offer them a delightful assortment of rotting lemon rinds, coffee grounds and slimy egg shells with an ever-so-delicate sprinkling of half-chewed toast!
Reminds me of when I was a kid and my father would just happen to take out the compost bucket while I was eating dinner (my parents like to pretend they’re European and eat at 9 or 10 o’clock at night, but I, being comfortable with my Americanness, preferred to eat at the more civilized hour of 5 o’clock, so it was always me dining solo.) He’d sneak up behind me and waft the bucket under my nose, inquiring politely, “You want some of this?” then chuckle as I squealed in horror.
Come to think of it, my husband and my father have pretty much the same sense of humor.
I’m not going to extrapolate the available information and consider the possibility that my father saw me as an unwelcome guest. After all, there was nothing written on his bucket.
But if you’re visiting my house and you think my husband’s about to take out the compost… you might want to brace yourself.
My first compost pile in a few years, not going fancy with any kind of contraption yet. Maybe ever. I’ve had success with just-laying-it-all-out-style, being able to turn things in easily. Why mess with easy?
But I’ve added so many seedy bits that now I’ve got sprouts growing out of my compost. Birth and death in one mound of dirt. Food from food. Do not pass go, do not collect $200 (that would be the grocer who isn’t collecting…)
On the one hand, the beautiful cycle of life unfolding effortlessly is such a sweet surprise – uplifting, hopeful, fulfilling.
On the other hand, hang on! I need to be able to be rough with this mess, chop and dig and turn, cultivate decay. How am I supposed to ruthlessly recycle when I’ve got lovely delicate greenness volunteering out of the soil, offering a future bounty in selfless sacrifice?
Of course, I have a hard time thinning the things I’ve planted on purpose, too. Seems so cruel. Yeah, y’all are gonna have to die because your buddies here need some elbow room.
Gardening is a solemn affair at times, I tell you! A gardener is often inspired to consider philosophically that power of life and death being wielded, even with strawberry juice running down the chin…