The weirdest creature in my wild kingdom is not really a creature, but rather, a collection of them, turning brown together.
Two months ago I started a compost heap. A large, plastic bin sits half-buried in the back of my garden, mostly out of sight. Holes in the bottom allow water to pass through, and gaps at the top let in air. When cooking, I conscientiously store all scraps of garlic and broccoli and olive in a plastic bag. The bag also holds the steady flow of coffee grounds that fuel my writing. Once every two weeks, the contents of this plastic bag are dropped into the plastic bin outside, to join a heap of other plant matter, already inside, decomposing.
Naturally occurring bacteria and bugs eat whatever’s in the bin, breaking it down and turning it into dirt. Behold nature’s glorious cycle: from the earth, back to the earth, passing through my stomach along the way. Dirt from a compost heap is high in nutrients and looks damn good. It’s the gardening world’s version of a power bar. I spread it out on the ground at the base any plants I like, usually the English Ivy. The Ivy roots then eat the new dirt, which used to be plants, like vegetarian cannibalism.
All visitors to my pad are treated to the tour of what I call my “Dinner Uneaten Reintegration Technology” (D.U.R.T., for short). Guests, unprepared for this grotesque side of my life, look half amused, half concerned as I first show them the plastic bin, then open its lid to reveal a stenching, rotting mass of twigs and salad and lots of hungry bugs. For effect, I put on an insane face like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
They all ask the same question. “Do you ever poop in that plastic box?” My answer is always an emphatic “not yet.”
Actually, amateur composters like myself know to only use plant matter. Human or animal waste can cause nasty things like dysentery and cholera. Starting a cholera outbreak in my neighborhood would simply not by in the spirit of a compost heap. Compost should always be used for good, never evil.
The best thing about having a compost heap in the middle of Manhattan is talking about it at work, especially during those awkward moments while waiting for an elevator or washing hands in the men’s room. The faces of my coworkers light up as I launch into yet another descriptive anecdote: “So… the other day … I put some broccoli into the compost heap. I checked in this morning and you know what? It’s dirt already! I figure it would be a great way to dispose of a body if I ever … oh, never mind.”