Upon trucking the umpteenth wheelbarrow full of fresh compost around the new beds this weekend, I reflected on how much the big pile of stuff means to me and the gardens. I’ve waxed philosophical on the subject many times over the years, and my ardor for the “garden gold” has only grown with time.
That said, I still have never let it cook down to being completely finished. Nope. Call me impatient, or greedy, or both.
It’s an interesting math problem, actually. With the addition of dairy goats two years ago, the actual volume of compostables (in the form of their bedding) has quadrupled. My gardens, however, have not. It was only this weekend that the garden got expanded…it’s been the same size since 2008, thus, technically, I should be sitting on a surplus. A surplus, or at least a big enough reserve so it actually cooks down! There never is a surplus, though: like the government’s budget, new sources for the goods are always readily found, and those resources get sucked up. And lo, it’s never quite “done” yet.
So during that schlep of compost it also occurred to me that, as a gardener, my job is actually within the vast field of waste management. You know, winkwink, nudgenudge, what Tony Soprano would claim as his profession (with a perfectly straight face, mind you) to anyone who asked. Heh.
Yep. Behold, the power of poo.