Practically every one of my New Zealand friends has a beautiful garden, and coincidentally, they all have some sort of scheme for composting. While we were there, I admired home-built composters and heard how they were layered (like lasagna) with horse poo, the secret ingredient. I also checked out a couple of heavy duty, plastic compost systems including a very intriguing worm composter that reduced organic waste to compost and potent "worm juice". (At least that is what my gardening friend called it as she checked on her hundred-or-so red wigglers and their outputs.)
Tonight, as my husband and I went for a walk, I broached the possibility of replacing our bottom-of-the-yard rubbish heap with a proper compost bin. I enthused about the ones I had seen in New Zealand--especially the worm composter.
I should not have been surprised by his response. We both made that trip, but I was the one who admired various gardens, peering into compost bins.
"Worms would not survive a Canadian winter", he pointed out.
"But we can take them inside", I offered.
That did it. He abruptly stopped walking and even in the dark, I could tell he looked appalled.
"You can look after the compost", he said, "and I'll bake".
I like a man who accepts his share of household responsibility. So now I have a new retirement project: set up a compost system in the back yard . And it should not involve worms -- not if I want a piece of cake.