The Queen recently had a birthday. This is what I gave her.
As it seemed inconvenient to keep them in our bread drawer, I also built her a wormbin to keep them in.
Now, before I go on, let me assure you that this wasn’t one of those situations where I gave someone a birthday gift that I secretly wanted for myself. My wife’s hobby is gardening, mine is playing board games; thus, of the two of us, she is generally the one more enthusiastic about worm crap. My opinion of the whole enterprise was, essentially, “oh great–another 500 mouths to feed.”
But I reckoned correctly that she’d appreciate he gift. And to get the ball rolling, I took the initiative in feeding them the few few days, gathering up our our banana peels and coffee grounds, taking them out to the bin that we had parked out in the garage, and burying the foodstuffs into the bedding.
Our book on vermiculture (Worms Eat My Garbage!) suggested we save scraps for a few days, and feed them only two or three times a week. Even so, I was out there giving them three squares a day, plus in-between-meal snacks. I don’t know what got into me. My inner Jewish Grandmother rose to the occasion. I’d fix myself a huge bowl of fruit salad, take one bite, and say “Wow, I can’t take another bite. But it would be such a waste to just throw this away …” The Queen would be tossing eggshell into the garbage and I’d leap across the kitchen to intercept it. “No! No no no no, the worms!” I’d cry. “The worms can totally eat eggshells. It helps them multiple. Put it in the Tupperware container!” She’d sigh and oblige. And as soon as the Tupperware container was sealed, I’d seize it from her hands, rush to the garage, crack open the wormbin and holler “Soup’s on, my lovelies!”
When there was no food I would just go out there, peel back the bedding, and gaze upon them in adoration. I can’t say that the returned the affection. They were more, like, “Gah! Turn off that light, dumbass–we’re photophobic!”
Anyway, long story short, after about a week the ratio of decomposing advocado rinds to Eisenia fotida was about 3:1. You’d think the wrigglers would be appreciative. But no–instead they stabbed me in the back. They started inviting undesirable types into the home I had lovely crafted for them, and these guests quickly turned the joint in a sex palace. The only thing my wormbin lacked was some red lights and a Barry White soundtrack.
I discovered when I went out to check on my worms one Friday morning. I opened the bin and a large, black, cloud of insects rose ponderously from it, like that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, except with less face-melting. As the wormbin was right outside the door to the garage, and I’d left that door open, they serenely drifted into our home like a raincloud over the savanna.
And so I spent the weekend conducting the following Google searches:
"fruit flies" kitchen eliminate
how "get rid of" "fruit flies"
(kill OR eradicate OR destroy) "fruit flies"
(massacre OR slaughter) "fruit flies"
"fruit flies" death "most painful" torture
"I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL MURDER YOU LITTLE FLYING FUCKERS" "fruit flies"
And for their treachery, those ingrate Drosophilidae-loving worms got their house moved to the back yard. Little bastards.
Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t hate my wormies. (I mean The Queen’s worms! They totally belong to her ! I’m just, you know, helping out with them.) And the fruit fly debacle was ultimately of my own making, as I gave them way more food than they could consume in a timely fashion.
Fortunately, there is a simple remedy: build yet more wormbins, until I have enough to process all our kitchen waste. Given that I am already in the thrall of vermimania, that might not be the rational thing to do in my situation. But when is love ever rational?