Ever notice how something is totally disgusting until it’s yours? Like, I’ve always hated feet, but my kids feet are the most awesome body parts around. Or snot. You definitely don’t want to be around someone else’s snot, but you can wipe your own, no problem. The only exception to this rule, I think, is vomit. I definitely don’t want to be around my own vomit.
When I got my vermicomposter– a fancypants name for a pit of worms and their excrement– I wasn’t really looking forward to the worms. I was doing it for the environment. I was doing it for my tomatoes. I was doing it for my kids’ experiences. I wasn’t doing it for the love of worms. (This phrase should be my new interjection: “For the love of worms, dog, stop digging up my raised bed!”)
And yet, like other gross things, the worms have grown on me. I see how they can take my cast off apple peels and bread crusts and broccoli scraps and turn them into black gold. And I started to feel maternally towards them: oh crap, when did I last feed the worms? Is it too cold out for the worms? I hope the worms have enough newspaper.
So, imagine my delight when I realized that those fungus-y looking, white stringy things in the composter were actually moving… BABY WORMS! My worms are reproducing at incredible rates! I’d better go peel some more apples!
See those white things? They're BABY WORMS.
