If I Truly Loved You, I’d Treat You Like Dirt

Posted in Cooking, death, Farming, Feasts, Festivals, food, Gardening, Health, Humor, Nature, Nutrition, Science by Shelley Sackier

One of the best, most desired gifts I received this year during the holidays was a box to hold garbage.

I know, you’re all wondering if I’ve accidentally held my head in the oven too long whilst last cleaning it or, if finally, all those heavily scented, potentially carcinogenic candles from Bath and Body Works that I sniff on an hourly basis to keep me meditatively peaceful have created some cognitive disorder, but I assure, neither have occurred.

That said, my new container truly has me skipping about with a euphoric outlook because Rumpelstiltskin—my big new bucket—turns garbage into gold.

That’s right you clever clogs, I finally got a compost bin.

For the last two months I have been studying everything for its C/N ratio. It’s a beautiful formula for anyone growing closer to ditching their tax ID and social security number to live off the grid, or serial killers studying John Wayne Gacy and making mental notes as to how to improve on his form.

Decomposition can be deadly, but also beautiful. Therefore, for true success, one must know any material’s carbon to nitrogen proportions.

I promise this is not a lesson in organic chemistry, but who doesn’t love the idea of your old food making your new food?

Apparently, most people coming to my house.

Yes, I know, a good chunk of folks visiting my little log lodge leave less than stellar reviews when they begin to realize that a stay with me means you’ll likely be too cold or too hot, there’s a fair to middling chance you may get a teeny touch of dysentery because comestible manufacturer’s expiration dates on packages in the fridge are bogus, and you’ll need to memorize a list of things that go into a) the recycling bin, b) the compost bin, and c) the landfill bin.

The latter is highly discouraged and comes with a free set of annoying questions wondering if we might find another use for that object and an array of facial expressions that clearly cast doubt on whether you’ve truly watched any documentary of Greta Thunberg like you promised you did.

No judgement. She’s not for everyone.

But it’s plain to see I’ve now upped my game in the kitchen. A massive stock pot sits on the counter and is the receptacle to all things that will fortify my soil, enrich my diet, and likely cure cancer. The timeline is somewhat futuristic with each addition, but I’m in it for the long haul.

Basically, I have a new job. I now tell people that I am a terra firma farmer. A sod shaman. A ground grower. An anthrosol alchemist. Maybe the last one goes a bit over the edge, but you get my point. I’m harvesting dirt.

Into the stock pot go greens and browns. Everything from vegetable peels to coffee grounds are tossed in with delight. Egg shells, fruit, tea bags and olive pits. Pumpkins, tofu, peanut shells, and potato eyes. Old paper napkins? In they go. Q-tips and chopsticks? Join your friends. Pencil shavings and Ugg boot fluffage? Step right up and dive right in. Once that pot is chock-a-block full, they’re dumped into that beautiful new spinnable bin outside.

These are just your Joe-Average bits and bobs that fall under the category of acceptable, but Google appears to understand that nearly every day I start a fresh search with my standard question of “Can I put (insert questionable item) into my compost bin?”

So along with the above, I’m tossing in lint and dust bunnies, old match sticks and house plants (RIP, I swear I tried), holey wool socks and burlap sacks. I’m drawing the line at nail clippings. Just can’t do it.

Of course, there’s all the outdoor additions—the leaves, the grass, the weeds, and twigs. Pine cones, and bird’s nests (once they’re done with them), sawdust, and straw. I am finding it all. Picking it up, shoving it in, and swirling it about.

I’m sure my family thinks I’m losing a few more marbles because it then appears that I’m having a conversation with my compost pile, but obviously, they have no idea that I’ve popped in a handful of hardworking worms and are simply offering a few words of encouragement. It’s not like I’m talking to the bacteria or fungi, as that would be ridiculous.

We all know that fungal intelligence is geared more toward spatial recognition and memory, so I just leave them Post-it notes as reminders of where they are and what to do. Duh.

And now I churn, I peek, I poke, and wait.

I check temperatures, humidities, pH balances, and take weekly requests for movie night.

If I find a worm on the ground, I give him a noble Roman name and introduce him to the giant Saturnalia party where all his soon to be friends are closely gathered in the vomitorium.

This huge metropolis is teeming with life and death and decay–microbes, mites, nematodes, and invertebrates.

I encourage gluttony, as they are only doing their job.

I nurture meaningless affairs because reproduction is critical.

I tell heroic stories of their ancestors—those who have cleaned up polluted spill sites and made communities safe to live in again, or of those who went into medicine and actually became medicine.

I inspire futuristic dreams of outrageous proportions. Fungi? You are capable of becoming buildings and replacing concrete. Bacteria? You can become biofuels or gobble up greenhouse gases. Worms? A growing number of people find that it is equally as important to save one of you as it is to save a panda.

I tell my new friends who are feasting on these precious scraps the same thing: You is kind, you is smart, you is important.

I’m hoping they will remain as down to earth as I know them all to be. I am rooting for them because I know them all now. I be-leaf in them, and I feel like we are soil-mates.

Okay, maybe, just maybe, I have held my head in the oven too long.

But even if everyone around is begging me to stop with the wordplay and move away from the compost, I will only agree to drop the puns because I’m keeping my ground.

Happy dirt season!

~Shelley

For the time being, the blog is closed to comments, but if you enjoyed it, maybe pass it on to someone else. Email it, Facebook it, or print it out and make new wallpaper for the bathroom. If it moves you, show it some love and share. Cheers!

Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all gossiped about down in the pub. Or check out last month’s post and catch up.

16Dec2012

Saturnalia; good ole fashioned, naked fun.

Posted in Calendar, Feasts, Festivals, History, Holidays, Humor, Mountain life, Party, Romans by Shelley Sackier

Forest on a foggy winter day (Photo credit: follc)

Earth’s darkest days. It’s such a foreboding phrase, don’t you think?

And yet, on the upper half of the planet, it is a time of great merriment, benevolence and outright fuddled intoxication.

Long ago, that joy was attributed to the fact that the sun—a symbol of divinity—had decided not to abandon us. We’d been found worthy enough by the bright god for his return northward to heap another six months of favor upon us. And when one’s gods show munificence, one quickly dashes out invitations to local friends and neighbors to kick up their heels and enjoy a good shindig.

Of course, these long past party animals had to be Roman. When someone mentioned the word bash, it was either in reference to the use of one’s weapons or upcoming rampant Roman revelry. These guys lived life to its fullest—none of this ‘one day only’ deal. When it came to the close of December, a week’s worth of fun was considered cutting it short.

Paris – Musée d’Orsay: Thomas Couture’s Romains de la décadence (Photo credit: wallyg)

And when sizing up all of the year’s fancy feasts and festivals, the blue ribbon winner had to be Saturnalia.

In the earliest of Roman ages, the age of Saturn, a festival was thrown in honor of Saturnus—the god of seed and sowing. The gala at first was held on December 17^th, but because of a few folks fooling around with time tracking, things got muddled. Somewhere between then and Caesar’s changes to the calendar, the exact date grew hazy. Therefore, the Romans covered their bases and stretched the length of celebration to a few days before and after the new calendar’s official date. There were the usual gripes about no mail delivery and closed government offices, but seeing as most folks spent the week in a fog of alcoholic fumes, flaring tempers were easily dampened with an extra swig of grog.

The point of the festival was to recall that Golden Age, when innocence reigned and abundance was the norm. Once Saturn was ousted from his celestial throne by Jupiter, and time marched forward to the darker and despondent periods of the Silver and Iron ages, Romans did their level best to bring back snippets of that shiny era. Determined to experience a taste of the delicious decadence their ancestors once embraced as everyday ordinary, these normally gladiatorial warriors left their weapons at the door and started whipping up big batches of eggnog.

But showing a bit more gusto than their predecessors, these rowdy Romans took the lily-white past and ratcheted the level of excitement to new heights.

Designated Driver (Photo credit: storyvillegirl)

You know how today we exercise caution with alcohol and warn folks not to drink to excess? No Roman would invite you back to their place if you were going to poo poo their fun and order a taxi for everyone come 10:30.

And think about how much time we usually spend picking out jubilant outfits for the many seasonal soirées. The sparkle and glitter, the festive colors of red and green, the merry messages spread across our chests to invite mirth and frivolity? Waste of time for these guys. Saturnalia was a function without formalities in that department. In fact, the dress code called for total nakedness. No black tie, just flesh-toned birthday suits.

Role reversal was a big hit in the party game department. Servants switched hats with their masters and led the feasting, while the lord and lady of the house spent their time serving food and washing feet. Ultimately, it really didn’t matter. They all ended up in bed together. That was pretty much the point. Ah, those rascally Romans.

Presents (Photo credit: Alice Harold)

Unchanged from past to present are the presents. Although those guys partied hard, Rome’s inhabitants were good about saying thank you in the form of sending one another small gifts. I’m guessing some of it had to do with replacing valuables broken the night before.

Thankfully, most of us have abandoned the crowning of a less-than-enviable position—the Lord of Misrule—for the whole bawdy affair. Yes, one can understand the ancient desire to appease the god of the week and make a solid sacrifice of love and loyalty by offering up some unlucky schmuck, but it can really put a strain on the rest of the partygoers. Anyone who’s placed next to the soon-to-be dead guy at the banquet table quickly realizes their efforts at holiday chitchat and cheerful musings are wasted efforts. Hence, we see the justification for the origins of seating charts.

Wenceslas Hollar – The Greek gods. Saturn (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So, eyes open this week. Think about how things have changed. Make a toast to the dusty bones of a long dead Roman with a measured cup of mulled wine. Pull out that reindeer sweater and for once be grateful the weather necessitates head to toe clothing. Show some ancient gratitude for the folks who bag your groceries, bus your table or tutor your offspring. Put a cookie in the mailbox. Hand a stick of gum to the poor chump who has to stand for hours holding the Stop/Slow sign for roadwork. Thank your lucky stars we no longer choose the weakest link as the scapegoat for the culminating event of all December dos.

It may be dark outside, but the future looks bright from right here.

~Shelley

Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery this week (here) and what we’re all talkin’ about down in the pub (here)!