I have my own personal Jiminy Cricket. He pops up when I’m bustling around the kitchen, cleaning this and that. He sits on my shoulder and as I reach for the garbage to toss in a can, he says “Are you going to recycle that?” My Jiminy Cricket wears Tevas and enjoys kayaking in his spare time. He’s my Northwest conscience.
Never again will I be free to trash whatever I want. Junk mail? Better slip that into recycling. Egg shells? They need to decompose with their friends in food waste. The paper towel you used to blot the grease off the bacon? Paper + food = food waste. When you open our cabinet under the sink, you’ll see three bins for three separate purposes. The smallest bin, lined with a biodegradable bag of course, is for the food waste – a smaller bin encourages frequent emptying so the mold doesn’t hold a raucous party under the sink.
Jiminy doesn’t seem to maintain an awareness of his surroundings. My office doesn’t have an option for food waste but Jiminy’s there all the same, nagging me about my apple cores. At least I’m not as bad as this lady: her Northwest conscience is much bigger than mine!
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