I don’t usually dumpster dive, but the remains of a Lemon Chiffon yogurt cup in the trash caught my eye, prompting me to snake my hand past eggshells and a cheese wrapper to gingerly lift out my prize. I peered into the cup. Most of its former contents were already gone, but a not-insignificant amount of the creamy pale yellow substance clung to the sides for my purpose.
I rinsed it out in the sink and tossed it in the recycling bin. (What? You didn't think I was going to eat it.)
I’ve been acting this way ever since I discovered that my local trash company is accepting all types of plastic in the large blue recycling can we roll out to the curb every week. The announcement that we were no longer confined to PET and HDPE, but were now free to recycle all rigid plastics regardless of type filled me with childish glee.
I’ve always considered recycling a sort of game. It’s good for the environment, sure, but the ecological benefit doesn’t have the instant gratification of seeing how many things I can keep out of the trash bin every week. This kind of rollicking good fun is no doubt inspired by my Scottish genes.
It’s the same reason I trot out to a black plastic stacking contraption with the improbable name of The Wriggly Wranch several times a week to my 1,001 “pets,” a bin full of 2-inch-long red wriggler worms, to feed them a smorgasbord of vegetable peelings, fruit pits and rinds, coffee grounds (with filters) and miscellaneous produce in varying states of decay that I diverted from the kitchen trash. The worms poop out castings, which gardeners are said to prize as a natural, nutrient-rich fertilizer.
Don’t tell anyone, but I really couldn’t care less about the worm castings. In truth, I don’t garden enough to use all of their, ahem — output. It’s just fun poking around in the bin full of happy little critters, observing the slow decay and disappearance of their fodder and making note of their likes and dislikes. (FYI: cantaloupe rinds are a big favorite. Potato peelings, not so much).
It takes me back to my childhood in the ‘70s, when Ecology was the big word and a friend and I tried to make earth in a baby food jar by filling it with dead leaves and grass and waiting for it to decay. That experiment went down in a shower of glory the day the jar dropped on the floor of my 4th grade classroom. After months of waiting, I didn’t have the heart to start again.
But I retained my childhood love of experiments and the secret thrill of winning at a game you play against yourself. And with these new rules, I am going to Rock.
Photo of yogurt cups courtesy of Jason McKim through Creative Commons
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