Yesterday, I made the journey to the compost bin, kitchen tidy full of sloppy scraps in one hand, fingers of the other pinching my nose. Just in case, you know. But when I got there, the cupboard was not bare. Oh no. It was not full of slacker, going-nowhere, good-for-nothing organic rubbish.
Instead, it was half-full of compost. The real deal. Sweet-smelling, rich, nutritious, full-of-worms compost.
I’ve cracked it.
The compost bin and I are back on BFF terms and the garden (not the one pictured, by the way) is bracing itself in preparation of all this goodness being laid on.
There’s just one problem. When I lost the love for the compost, I kind of lost control of the garden. It’s been too hot, or too wet, or too something else for months now. The basil’s gone to seed. The chilli’s gone to pot. The rocket is over-run. The capsicums have withered. The beans are dried up husks, still clinging to the vine
It’s a bit like the washing and the writing conundrum. I’m a starter, not a finisher. The preparation, the digging, the planting, the unabashed glee at the initial growing – it was all there. But I didn’t harvest the fruits of my labour. I left them to sit, mocking me.
In my defence, it’s been too hot or too wet pretty much every day of the past few months to get up enough gusto to get out there. But not anymore.
Now I have compost.
I am ready to begin again. Mr3 and I are off to the garden centre and we’ll be back with the winter (not)harvest. I’m thinking eggplant, broccoli, more beans, more chillies, some chives, some leeks, some shallots.
You’ll note the absence of rhubarb on that list. Rhubarb is the rosemary of the vegetable world, I’ve decided. It thrives on neglect and is going gangbusters.
I’m hoping the washing and writing take note.