Letter from the Publisher: Obsessive Compulsive Composting
When I spy an unused chard stem left on the cutting board, an eggshell tossed thoughtlessly into the garbage or a filament of parsley left in the sink, I stop what I’m doing and let out a blood-curdling shriek. Only then, after everyone around me is frightened that someone’s finger was about to be hacked off, do I dive into the depths of the drain to retrieve that chunk of organic matter. I scowl at anyone is within scowl-range.
“What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” I demand with utter disbelief. “That,” I hiss, “goes in the compost.”
As personality defects go, OCC isn’t bad. It’s not like there should be a reality show about people like me; I’m simply obsessively compulsively composting. Sure, I look at a sink-full of vegetable peelings while on vacation and I’m tempted to bring them home in my luggage and do you-know-what with them. And yes, I have actually saved thousands of eggshells from thousands of breakfasts and, well, brought them across country with me in a carry-on. And yeah, I shiver at the thought of tossing the tops of carrots into the garbage as if they had absolutely no value at all. Is that a problem?
Lucky for me, my husband embraces my idiosyncrasies. So when a storm knocked down neighbor Wayne’s black locust tree last year, my hubby did what any OCC Enabler would do: He got an idea. It took him days to build the thing. He stubbed his thumb, got some splinters, lost a few pounds in the heat and tweaked out his back. Milled from my neighbor’s hundred-year-old tree and sunk into the ground a few feet more than required, my custom compost bin will likely be standing here long after we’re all gone, after the house has fallen down, after all life forms have vanished from the planet. The best gift an OCC girl like me could ever want.