Usually if we compost them, we know what they died from.

Usually if we compost them we know what they died from. If we had something die from an unknown cause, we send it to the diagnostic lab to find out what it died from.

A young English couple was visiting with me one summer after I had been composting humanure for about six years. One evening, as dinner was being prepared, the couple suddenly understood the horrible reality of their situation: the food they were about to eat was recycled human shit. When this fact abruptly dawned upon them, it seemed to set off an instinctive alarm, possibly inherited directly from Queen Victoria. "We don't want to eat shit!" they informed me, rather distressed (that's an exact quote), as if in preparing dinner I had simply set a steaming turd on a plate in front of them with a knife, fork and napkin.

We're going to move (the co-compost) off of the pad where it is, and we're going to go up along the south fence of the landfill, and we're going to mix that 50-50 with topsoil. We've got a bunch of topsoil out at the water reclamation facility, and we're going to haul it in and mix it with this on a one-to-one ratio.

I'm queen of my own compost heap, and I'm getting used to the smell.

They are usually denominated labor-saving machines, but it would be more just to call them labor-doing machines