There are lots of things in my life that I wish I could love. Like melons. I eat a lot of fruit, and a big, juicy watermelon looks so yummy and juicy and huge, but I cannot stand the taste of it or any of its melony kin. Same goes for whole wheat pasta. Why can’t it taste as good as whole wheat bread, instead of the cardboard it is?
But the most confusing of these conundrums is my love-hate relationship with earthworms. Earthworms are amazing things. They aerate and fertilize our gardens, turn kitchen scraps into wonderful compost, and remind us that our soil is a living ecosystem. But let me tell you, if I come upon one in the garden, I’m a shuddering mass of uselessness. I let out an embarrassed shriek and drop my trowel. I look around to see if anyone has heard me, and I stealthily move along to another part of the border until the worm has disappeared into the soil again. And don’t get me started on worm composting. The thought of keeping a whole BIN full of a writhing mass of slimy worms inside my house is enough to make me pass out.
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