I live on a homestead. I call it a ‘ranch’ because of the romantic associations the word holds for me. It is approximately 1 hectare in size, and for those who know about this stuff, it is our ‘kin.’ We grow things we need and use and enjoy here.
This last point is important because this fact improves the quality of our lives on many levels. The obvious ones being things like: it saves us money, food you grow yourself is more satisfying to eat, and if there should be some problem with the house-of-cards we call our food distribution system, we’ve got a backup.
Less obvious, perhaps, is the fact that with this now a part of our lives, there is very little we can truly call ‘waste’ anymore. Compost and mulch are essential to the growth of plants around here, and so these things are just as valid and important a use of resources as eating it or building something out of it.
The great thing about this is that this means that we can eat and use only the best of what we grow. It’s not wasteful to choose the best and discard everything else. It’s a kind of luxury we enjoy without a trace of guilt. Nobody had to expose themselves to toxic chemicals so I can enjoy a perfect avocado. Nobody is going to go hungry because I put a serving or two of unwanted leftovers in the bin.
The only waste around here is practically unavoidable human-made detritus; stuff that was designed to be used only once, then somehow gotten rid of—whatever that means.