Elephants . . .

Serenely going about my cooking business last night when husband piped up to alert me about the latest Trump-fueled travesty. “Get this, they plan to lift the ban on importing elephant ‘trophies,’ ” he said. I confess that I prayed for a good solid minute that elephants in Africa had joined a bowling league. Not even in my most desperate embrace of denial could I convince myself it was true. “Trophy hunters will be able to bring in elephant ears, tails. . . ” Fingers plugging my ears, I flung myself out of the kitchen door, wailing, before I could hear any more. Sobbing, I flung myself to the ground and pounded earth. ELEPHANTS! FFS. Our intelligent, compassionate Earthkindreds who live in close-knit communities and mourn their dead. Already hunted to near-extinction, this kind of hunting for the trophy tempts me sorely to fling open the liquor cabinet. Surely this grief will be the one that does me in. Spying the shovel I’d abandoned in a failed planting effort, I grab it and start stabbing the ground. This bare patch of earth is hard as a rock, and I have many plants I want to put in before The Rain (oh, please, oh, please) comes back. Use this rage to turn the whole dam thing over. May SOME good come of it. Not that I’m against hunting. Growing up in the Midwest, I’ve known and admired many an honorable hunter. Culling deer and other animals whose natural predators we’ve eliminated seems a compassionate choice. So many will die of starvation otherwise. Summoning the will and the skill to take down the animal to feed one’s family is something I respect. But trophy hunting a species into extinction is no effing honor in my book. It’s as heinous as . . .well, I’m not going to go there because I’m already so mad I fear for my personal safety. Suffice to say that killing any creature to brag about its slaughter rips the lid I’d tightly sealed on my vat of eco-horror. Why, oh, why cannot we agree to share this beautiful planet? Shoveling like the mad woman that I surely am burnt up the heat of my rage. I started thinking about the posts I’d seen of groups working to save the elephants. “Entrust and thank” those who do the work that I cannot.Tossed the shovel and went inside to sit down at this laptop. Found the Elephant Project, a nonprofit with a unique program funding elephant sanctuaries and conservation programs. I dab dewy tears of hope, as I fill out the form to make an online contribution. It’s not the kind of “contribution” I’d really like to be...

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SMH

Let me get this straight. We have president-elect who thinks climate change is a non-existent hoax? A ardent climate-change skeptic to oversee the EPA transition? I can’t even. I now have a burning desire to go out and turn that overloaded, stinking compost bin. More than willing to sacrifice more fingernails. And I’m betting that recent cursing record will not...

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Moth Mania

I spy a pantry moth staring at me from the ceiling of the cereal cabinet, and I erupt. “This can’t be happening! I did EVERYTHING! By the book!” I pound the counter until I catch the worried look on my husband’s face. I lost four (or maybe ten) days last week, after my daughter insisted that something be done about the pantry moth invasion that I’d been ignoring. I rolled up my sleeves and emptied every cabinet containing food (or signs of moth activity). I tossed all the infested foodstuffs, marching them all the way out to the outdoor bin, far from the house—fiercely resisting the urge to compost any of it. All questionable foods went into the freezer for at least the recommended three days (most are still there). I scrubbed every nook and cranny (with earth-friendly cleaners!). I removed every shelf and washed all six sides, then stacked them neatly in the clean room for the duration of the blitz. I even ferreted out that single, infested pistachio nut which had fallen into the drawer stuffed full of bags. I put moth traps into the empty cabinets and in a defensive line surrounding the few remaining jars and cans sitting in the clean room. I waited a couple of days, checking the traps every few hours. I sprayed moth-repelling essential oils like some haunted house fog machine. After three days without a single moth sighting, I re-inspected the foodstuffs before putting them back into the cabinets. How can there be a pantry moth anywhere in this kitchen??? There’s a message here for me, and I am determined to get it so this nightmare can end. I consider all possibilities, no notion too crazy to entertain (as usual). This bug is mocking me and my beliefs that we can peaceably co-exist. Nature is ‘kill-or-be-killed,’ and I need to stop romanticizing it. Or maybe bug is here to teach me about resilience, finding ways to survive when the environment changes. Pay attention and learn to adapt to eco-upheavals. Or maybe it’s just a moth, and I’m reading waaaay too much into this. Sigh. I never can chicken plucking tell....

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Crusty Quandary

I cut the crusts from my daughter’s sandwich, basking in the glow of attentive motherhood, as well as the the self-righteous satisfaction of being a composter. The nutrition in the crusts of this organic, 100% whole-grain bread baked by artisans paid a living wage, shall not be wasted. These crusts will feed the critters in my compost bin who shall convert it into nutrition for my kitchen garden which, in turn, shall become organic vegetable nutrition for my children—if I could ever get them to eat any. But then I remember that the compost bin is so full that I can barely turn it. My most recent effort resulted in several broken fingernails and a cursing streak of which I am not proud. I can’t empty it yet because that disgusting (oops, I mean, glorious) smelly glop in there isn’t yet done ‘cooking.’ I can’t add the crusts to that big bag of “ready-to-compost!” scraps that I so helpfully left by the compost bin last week either. The neighborhood foragers ripped into it last night, spreading food scraps across the lawn, like so much frat party puke that I’m sure the neighbors wonder (again) just what the hell goes on over here. I’d love to toss the bread crusts out the kitchen door as a treat for the birds except this agreeable activity, so much a part of my fondest childhood memories, has been deemed yet another eco-travesty. Birds should be dining on nuts and seeds, full of protein, not dry bread that can swell up inside the avian gut, sometimes killing them. And a bloated, dead bird on my drought-tolerant, organically-nutrified yard would totally kill my self-righteous glow. I don’t want to eat the crusts because I don’t need the carbs, and I would rather wear a scarlet P (for polluter) than send precious nutrition off to a landfill where they will not compost in anyone’s lifetime. Leaving them out on the counter until I figure something out will only spark another lecture from my daughter about the TOTAL DISGUST of leaving moldy food out in the family kitchen. I stomp outside, grab my shovel and I dig a hole  in the yard deep enough to bury a body and throw in the bleeping crusts. If the birds dig ’em up out of this pit, well, then it’s on them. I replace the soil while whispering apologies to any earthworms who might have been harmed in this exercise. I brush the dirt from my hands, wave to the agape dog walkers across the street, and then I go to my yoga...

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