Girls like me are more interested in their compact than their compost. That said, I have discovered the joys of a pastime that I previously believed was strictly for the eco-nuts in rubber gardening shoes—I'm now one of them. Yes, I'm thrilled to say I've joined the club.
My husband was appalled when I arrived home with an enormous black composting bin one rainy Saturday morning. "Where on earth is that going?" he asked. "I haven't really worked that out yet," I said as I looked around our small manicured backyard. "Well," he said, "I'll leave that in your expert hands." Did I detect a note of sarcasm? I stood in the downpour, wondering if this monstrous bin would offend our summer brunch guests, staring at it as they tucked into their tofu scramble. Not a good idea.
I finally decided to wedge it down in a corner where it is almost out of sight. The only annoying thing is that I have to walk across our yard every time I want to empty the scrap bucket. I've become so lazy—so accustomed to everything at my fingertips. It is crazy that I worry about extra inches around my waistline and yet am miffed at having to walk fifty yards twice a day to my attractive bin!