At one time I had been a faithful eater of leftovers, a thrifty cook, a staunch ignorer of expiration dates. It was the coup de grâce after a long period of deepening disgust at our household garbage situation.
Really, though, it was taking out the trash one stiflingly hot Monday evening that pushed me over the edge.Īs I grappled with a collection of Hefty bags weighted down with our half-eaten breakfasts, empty yogurt squeezy pouches, forgotten leftovers and overripe bananas, one bag sprung a leak, depositing a rivulet of fetid liquid onto my sandaled foot. I wish I could say that, in the face of climate catastrophe, an urgent sense of moral obligation overcame me.
THIS SUMMER, around the time wildfires began ravaging Lake Tahoe and Hurricane Ida turned Queens into a tide pool, I started composting.
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