Hot and steamy, down and dirty
By Ron Ehmke
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Pretty Woman=Supersexy Enviro-Chick
When you think Julia Roberts, what do you picture? Glamour, yes; clout, yes; even that freaky fling with Lyle Lovett, perhaps … but those images are so Last Century. America’s Sweetheart is a mommy now, and maternity has made her a budding eco-warrior. As she told Vanity Fair late last year (alongside similar soundbites for sleazy U.K. tabloid The Sun and other stops on the Charlie Wilson promotion trail), “The highest high would be growing our food that I then make, and then composting and growing more—that kind of circle.” Dig it, sista. You grow, girl! (Extra-special fat-and-grease-free hugs and kisses to Anthony at www.thecompostbin.com for this and so many other morsels of recyclable reportage.)
It’s Gettin’ Hot In Herre
A little bird—in the form of go-to gardener Gordon Ballard—whispered in my ear (at one of those society shindigs where he and I are always bumping into each other) about the Town of Amherst Compost Facility (560 Smith Rd., Amherst; 689-1280; the URL is too, too tedious to print, so just google it, honey). Naturally, as soon as I detoxed, I hopped in my hybrid, hit the 990, took one look at the place, and just about died. We are talking huge, hot heaps of smoldering organic goodness as far as the eye can see. This wonderland of repurposing does it DIY-style: you bring your own shovel and your own containers, and for the scandalous sum of about $3 a bin, you can drive off with some of the most luscious lovin’ your lawn has ever known. If you really want a thrill, fill the back of that oh-so-butch pickup truck of yours for a mere $15. Do the math, darling: compared to what you pay at a nursery, this is a bar-GOON! The only catch? They don’t accept cash or credit cards, so bring your checkbook or a money order. (PS to Gordo: Loved your spread in Great Backyards! Next stop, Architectural Digest, sweetie!)
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You meet the most adorable people in and around the TACF, and I’m not just talking about the hunky employees. Why, last fall I was standing there absorbing the microbe-driven heat from that steamy mound—it was palpable, I tell you—with a certain man about town who shall remain nameless. And ladies, he was as ripe for picking and eligible for fermentation as last night’s uneaten arugula! You heard it here first: there is no better way to find a future hubba-bubba than by shooting—and then shoveling—the S-H-I-better-not-finish-that.
Oh, methinks I spoke too soon, because there is another pickup spot in town you simply must know about: Starbucks! Only it’s not the lads and lasses, comely though they are, that you’ll be after, it’s the used coffee grounds. I know it sounds too true to be good, but check it out: from April through September, give or take, the Little Coffeehouse That Ate America offers its gently used java gems free for the taking to gardeners at select locations all over the country. (Pssst! You may be able to bag ’em in the colder months, too, just by sweet-talking the barista. I tried it myself—but then I ooze the kind of charm that gets me more action than the clitellum of a Lumbricus terrestris. That’s a night crawler to you … and those little worms are hermaphrodites, so you know they’re never hurting for dates.)
What You’ll Find In My Bed These Days
I have been getting into slings, mummy bags, hospital heaps, and honey holes in a BIG way—and no, those are not offered by the Emperors’ Club, even if you are Client Number Nine. (I don’t care how long it’s been by the time you see this; a good Spitzer joke is eternal.) Barbara Pleasant and Deborah L. Martin’s The Complete Compost Gardening Guide (Storey Publishing) is my night-time companion of choice lately, and I will be more than happy to share this bedmate with you as long as you don’t get the pages too sticky with compost tea. Even a quick gander at this beautifully designed, easy-to-read opus will have you itching to pollinate your own pumpkins, balance your biomass, and maybe even sow a little hairy vetch when no one’s looking. I’m giving the Guide two evenly distributed green-and-brown thumbs up—WAY up.
Till next time, fellow pile-drivers, keep your feet on the ground and your hands in the soil, and remember: that position plus five grand an hour can get you an audience with any elected official in the country. Uh-oh, there I go again; somebody better stick a pitchfork in my subsoil and mulch me good, cuz I am DONE.
Associate editor Ron Ehmke owes his lifelong fascination with compost to his father, and his relentlessly dirty mind to his late mother.
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