Our first foray into “livestock” was a worm bin. I do have to hand it to my husband; he’s not as interested in this whole self-sufficiency thing as I am, but he does humor me quite a bit. Seriously, how many husbands, when told by their wives that she’d like to raise earthworms, would respond by talking about seeing plastic bins on sale at Big Box Hardware and Lumber? And then going to BBH&L, buying said bins, and building the worm bin? For someone who’s just along for the ride, he (usually) is an excellent co-pilot.

So a few weeks ago, we went into the earthworm business. They get our kitchen scraps, etc, and every time the husband checked on them, he said they seemed pretty happy. (Why is the husband the worm checker? Because as embarrassing and irrational for an avid gardener to admit, earthworms…well, they kind of skeeve me out. I have managed, over the course of several years, managed to suppress the urge to scream when I see them. Intellectually, I have a great respect for the earthworm. Emotionally — well, sue me. So I’m an enigma wrapped in a riddle and all that.)

But happy may be a relative term.   A few nights ago, there seemed to be a jailbreak.  How do I know this?  Well, I was up in the night several times, and had gone into the kitchen a few times.  The next morning, on my kitchen floor, there were two squished flat earthworms that I’d apparently stepped on.   I felt pretty bad for killing them, but to be honest, I felt a little worse for myself.  After all, they never saw it coming, or felt a thing.  But as for myself…well, I was barefoot.  And I just don’t think I’ll ever get rid of that “there are earthworm guts on the bottom of my feet” feeling…

Guess maybe we need a new worm bin, with smaller ventilation holes!

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