I’m sitting in my office with lovely old Atlas Cedar standing outside the window, in steadfast loyalty, my heart is full of gratitude. For the family with whom I share the Thanksgiving meal—all of this life. For the great bird and all the plants that gave of themselves

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

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 effing 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

I cut the crusts from my daughter’s sandwich, basking in the glow of attentive motherhood, as well as the the eco-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