Patagonia ran this ad on Black Friday. Sales shot up 13 percent over the previous year.

Nothing like deprivation to muddy up your understanding of “want” vs. “need.”

For instance, here’s a sampling of items I’ve considered “needs” over the past two weeks: new sports bras, shower curtain, new couch pillows, lime-squeezer kitchen gadget, iPad case, duchess satin bridesmaid dress, cat scratching post, and a handmade silver ring shaped like a poppy. This is doubly remarkable, as I’m not really the shopping type. But I’m also in the middle of a self-imposed No New Stuff May, and we all know what happens when you start branding the fruit forbidden.

My No New Stuff month is a challenge not to buy anything brand-new for the 31 days of May (food and certain toiletries obviously excepted, you sickos). Why? I already have everything I need to stay hale and hearty, and my small apartment wouldn’t fit much more stuff, anyway. But really, it’s a small stand against a “Bigger, Better, More!” culture that tosses perfectly good items into landfills and gobbles up new resources to build still more stuff — much of which we don’t even need.

That’s not to say I’m going native, eschewing capitalism, and weaving a new wardrobe out of grass clippings. Under my challenge, buying used stuff from resale shops or Craigslist is street legal, as is repairing broken items and just plain doing without. I began without any pressing needs on the shopping front, curious to discover what desires might pop up as the month went on and how well I’d be able to satisfy them. And just as I used to hide forbidden copies of Sweet Valley High books under my bed as a kid, now that new purchases are taboo I’ve been deluged with strange wants masquerading as needs.

Take that iPad case. First off, I didn’t even buy the iPad itself — I wouldn’t have one if an employer hadn’t sent it to me for work on a media project. Its original box has provided perfectly adequate shelter for months. But now, all of a sudden, I’m gripped by the need (er, want) to tuck the iPad into a stylish, hand-sewn case. “I have the thing — shouldn’t I protect it?” I argued with myself. “Won’t that make the iPad last longer, and isn’t it therefore the greenest choice?”

I haven’t yet caved to the gadget lust, I’m happy to report — and wonder of wonders, my life is still fulfilling. Same deal with the lime-juice squeezer. (I’ve been using brute hand strength to squeeze limes since my first batch of guacamole, and dammit, on brute hand strength I shall continue to rely.) And the poppy ring and the couch pillows? I’m just fine without ‘em.

Then there are the lazymakers: worn-out items that are easy enough to refurbish, but even easier to toss and replace with new models. Who among us hasn’t been at least tempted to dump a long-in-the-tooth item in favor of a shiny new one? Or worse, throw away a still-serviceable item just because we feel like something new? Maybe nothing lasts forever, but I can’t think that way this month. This month, I’m duty-bound to attempt resurrection.

Luna likes her refurbished scratching post just fine.

My first project was my cat’s shredded, two-year-old scratching post. Luckily, cats don’t care about having the latest thing in claw-sharpening technology, so she didn’t object to my taking a tube of Krazy Glue to it the other morning. The post — which I originally bought used at Goodwill, by the way — is just an old traffic cone wound with sisal rope. After 10 minutes of carefully reattaching the fibers to the plastic cone, voila! Good as new. Mint-condition scratching posts at my local pet shop start at $30, but this re-upholstery session cost me a cool $2.79 for the tube of glue (new, not used, I confess).

On a roll, I decided to freshen up our old shower curtain. It had put in a couple of years of solid service, and was basically fine, if rather grimy. Before No New Stuff month, my admittedly spotty thinking on the matter had been, “Shower curtains have a limited shelf life, right? At a certain point, they just get too gross to save.” Maybe, but honestly, mine was nowhere near that point. So I sighed, yanked it down, and spread it flat for a deep cleaning.

Eeew. Apparently, I’d missed a few deep crevices during my last bathroom-scrubbing frenzy. Several remote canyons among the folds were in open revolt, having been colonized by streaks of black mildew when I wasn’t looking. I took a deep breath, soaked a sponge in vinegar (so acidic, it’s like taking chemical weapons to household bugs), and went to work. To my great surprise, the grossness wiped right off. And to think, I was ready to throw the thing away.

With two weeks still go to, there are still plenty of desires left to battle, and plenty of resale shops and online swaps left to comb for the items I just can’t do without. I’ll report back on my trials and triumphs next time. Meantime, thanks to my No New Stuff challenge, I now know what Lazarus felt like — or my shower curtain does, anyway.

How about you — have you ever imposed a No New Stuff challenge? What was toughest? What tricks did you pick up along the way?

Photo by D_S_O.

I’m worried about my worms.

It’s not that they aren’t thriving, mind you. The little guys slither about in what I imagine must be a happy manner whenever I lift the lid of the vermicompost bin for a weekly feeding. I introduced the lot to my apartment last August, so they’ve had plenty of time to settle in. I imagine members of my worm community pairing off, buying their own patches of dirt, and raising worm families. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few of the skinny, lethargic ones are teenage offspring going through their James Dean phases.

It’s the harvesting part that has me worried. That is, I need to get the dirt out without losing (or killing) my worms.

When I started the bin, my bedding of choice was coir — coconut fibers that expand like the dickens in water. The dirt-colored, fluffy coir makes fantastic annelid bedding because it holds moisture well, and the worms can even snack on it in a pinch. But now, eight months in, most of the coir has been replaced with rich, woodsy-smelling black dirt: the ultranutritious plant food we call compost.

Vermicompost is, of course, worm poop, the output from my regular inputs of banana peels and sweet-potato skins. And wonderful as this poop may be, living in a bed of one’s own filth is never ideal. According to one of my favorite worm husbandry guides, it’s not healthy for the squirmers to live in an environment where the compost-to-bedding ratio is too high. When a bin reaches the state mine has, it’s time to harvest the compost and freshen up the bedding for round two.

The task at hand: Separate the worms from the compost so you can mulch that stuff all over town. There’s an easy way and a hard way to do this. In the hard version, you spread a huge plastic tarp across the floor in a sunny room and dump the contents of your bin on top. The worms will dive to the pile’s darkest depths like a bunch of wriggling vampires, leaving the top layers free for the taking. Scoop, wait, repeat until you’ve harvested most of the compost and created a concentrated ball of worms on your tarp. Plop ‘em back in a fresh bin, and the cycle begins anew. The whole process takes a whole day or two.

Lucky for me, I have the idiotproof variety of worm bin — the one made with stacking trays. When one tray fills with Black Gold, the worms migrate up to the next one. But I also have one problem: The compost is ready, but it hovers a few inches from the top of the first tray, making the great worm parade to tray two impossible.

Should I wait until the worms manage to fill the tray? Or should I throw them a bone and add some more coir to make up the difference? Wouldn’t that screw up the pH? I need answers. Luckily, in its balls-out bid for the Crunchiest City in America title, Seattle keeps a worm consultant on hand for conundrums such as these.

No, seriously. My consultant, Laura Matter, works for the Tilth Garden Hotline. I got her number off of the Seattle government website [PDF]. Clearly trained for circumstances like these, Matter is all business when I call for advice. “What does the tray look like now?” she asks. When I describe the compost, she gives me her blessing to fill in the tray with more coir.

As it’s not every day you get your own worm consultant on the phone, I also ask Matter’s opinion on bedding types. Besides coir, you’ve got the option of using ripped-up leaves, newspaper, shredded secret internal memos (“Insider trading documents, officer? Well, they certainly aren’t spread over my gardenias!”), or actual manure. “Coir works really well,” she agrees. Good, because, really, where would I get my hands on a horse at such short notice?

I pick up a few bricks of coir at a local garden center for $2 each and rehydrate them in our trash can. After 30 minutes or so, the fibers have plumped up enough to go into the bin. I fill my first tray, put the second tray on top, and add the rest of the coir. I have to augment the top tray with shredded newspaper to fill it out, but my new worm development project is open for business. I decide I’ll feed them a particularly alluring mixture of strawberry tops and avocado peel tomorrow to lure them up.

Matter had warned me that it can take up to a month for all the worms to pull up stakes and move into the new tray (there’s bound to be some food or remnant bedding in the first tray to hold them back for a while). So I’m surprised, and proud, when I open the lid the next day to find several enterprising individuals already making themselves at home. “Good for you guys!” I tell the pioneers, giving them first dibs on the latest meal. Looks like my teen worms have shaken off their angst and struck out to make a name for themselves in the brave new world.

Three weeks have passed since then, and the great vertical exodus continues. There are still some stubborn worms making their last stand in the first tray, but I’m confident that the lot will move north soon and their luscious compost will be ripe for the taking. If not? Don’t worry — I’ve got a personal worm consultant on speed dial.

Photo by Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan.

My garden is overflowing with heirloom tomatoes! I can’t keep up with the egg drops from my Leghorns! I don’t have enough room in my fridge for all this kefir starter! First world problems, yes, but problems faced by many a home-grower or -maker nonetheless.

If only there were an elegant solution, one that didn’t involve choking down yet another eight-egg omelet or aggressively foisting that 20-pound bag of jalapenos on your coworkers … One that got you a little something in return, even …

My friends, there is — at least here in Seattle. And last Sunday, it had me vigorously considering the trade-in value of a bag of homemade beef jerky while a banjo player plucked away in the background.

I was at my first backyard bartering session, an idea so brilliant in its simplicity that I’m pissed I didn’t think of it. A group of local gardeners here organized Backyard Barter last year, an online clearinghouse for swapping homemade and homegrown goods. Even better, they hold an in-person bartering meet each month. Bring us your kale, your jam, your homebrewed beer, they say, and trade for equally tantalizing offerings from your fellow producers. “The only rule is no cash,” program coordinator Kellie Stickney told me before last week’s meet.

Obviously, I had to get a piece of this. Only problem: I’m not what you’d call rich in excess produce. I don’t have a real garden, and my windowsill plants would yield just a pinch or two of fresh herbs at a time. I’d gobbled all of last year’s jam long ago, and hand-harvested razor clams don’t exactly keep.

Backyard Barter. (Photo by Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan.)

But I’m not without my talents. After a little scrounging, I headed off to the Backyard Barter loaded with enough goodies to at least earn me a spot at the trading table — and oh, what a table it was.

We had apple cider and beef broth, kombucha and kettle corn. Preserved lemons, salsa, sourdough starter, Greek yogurt, and cream puffs. I eyed the bottles of homebrew hungrily and sniffed bars of DIY soap. A neighbor on one side offered mini fruit pies from a cooler, while the other set up samples of his dried zucchini chips and steam-extracted grape juice. Somebody had even brought a live chicken, clucking provocatively in her portable chicken wagon. After we’d all had a chance to get good and worked up, Kellie Stickney declared the barter officially on. Time to see what magic I could spin.

Trade No. 1: One bag of homemade beef jerky = One jar of amaretto-soaked pears

I made a beeline for the woman displaying various fruit-plus-liquor concoctions. “You can just eat it right from the jar,” she told me when I picked up the pears. “But it’s also great on ice cream.” Sold! I had to give up my most prized item for it: a bag of my boyfriend’s signature spicy beef jerky. Worth it.

Trade No. 2: Six empty bottles of Deschutes Black Butte Porter = One bottle of mead

This was my ace in the hole, as Kellie had tipped me off that a regular attendee would swap his homemade booze for empties six times over. I sidled up to homebrewer Sean Murphy at his buzzing table and offered the bottles. Turns out I was only half right — the going rate for mead (made from farmers market honey, natch) was actually 12 bottles. Still, Murphy made the trade “just this once.” Ka-ching!

Trade No. 3: One loaf garlic rosemary beer bread = Two bars of soap

Next, I chatted up a friendly woman with a basketful of lip balm, soap, and kefir starter. How about a few bars in exchange for my lovingly baked beer bread (rosemary grown by yours truly)? “Sure, we can do one,” she said. Just one? For my deliciously dense loaf? “Okay, two,” she said. Clearly, this flinty-eyed woman was not to be trifled with.

Trade No. 4: One bottle of worm tea fertilizer = Oregano and parsley seedlings

This one doesn’t really count, as the plant table run by a local nonprofit was simply giving away their sprouts. Generous, yes, but so unsporting! I insisted on trading a bottle of worm tea, which, for the uninitiated, is made of the nutrient-rich drippings from my worm bin. “Worm tea” doesn’t really do the stuff justice, which is why I like to call it Thunder Sauce.

Trade No. 5: FAIL

Emboldened by my trades thus far, I approached a young dad offering eggs from his backyard chickens. I was down to a lone bottle of worm — ahem, Thunder Sauce — but I made a strong case for its worth. Even though “we have a ton of eggs” and “I’m trying to get rid of them,” he was unconvinced. “I’ll think about it,” he said, which is of course the universal code for “Get lost.”

Trade No. 6: One bottle of worm tea = 12 oz. of dried pears

Greenie Pig's final winnings. (Photo by Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan.)

Luckily, my last trade was a big one. I’d been eyeing the wares of my trading neighbor, Hal Meng, all afternoon: We’re talking rhubarb, salsa, beet powder, dried plums, and grape juice made from his own grapes. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in this fertilizer?” I asked him. “Yeah, sure—what would you like?” he replied affably. Scarcely believing my luck, I picked up a big, vacuum-packed bag of pears. He nodded. Yes! I am the barter queen!

I came away from the session satisfied with my winnings and raring to go for next time. Now that I’ve seen what gets snapped up (kimchi, homebrew, jerky, and yogurt were big-ticket items) and what makes for a harder sell (uh, livestock), I can better position myself for maximum yield. And with my newfound knowledge of strategy, I’m ready to crush. I’m already practicing my best “Don’t hate the player, hate the game” shrug to use after particularly shrewd deals.

If you don’t have a bartering session in your hometown, start one immediately. And remember these helpful insider tips: Offer something that’s cheap and easy for you to make, but valuable to others (extra points if what you’re packing is one-of-a-kind).  Don’t be afraid to exploit the three-way trade. And never — never — forget the value of a good loaf of garlic rosemary beer bread.

Yes, I love the trees. No, I don’t want to waste paper. Yes, I want to green up my life, bathroom habits included. But the conventional go-wipe-flush routine has served me well since toilet training, and I’ve gotta say, switching to an old strip of cloth in lieu of toilet paper isn’t an easy transition. Today’s hardcore greenies have dreamed up plenty of other TP alternatives, but you know, none of those look so great, either.

I know I’ve pledged to try out green lifestyle practices, but when an editor suggested the ol’ pee rag, I hit a serious brick wall. Still, while researching the many other low-waste bathroom habits I could be adopting instead, it struck me that perhaps these TP tricks fall into a natural progression. One can’t be expected to go from 0 to 60 immediately. Better to identify your comfortable cruising speed first, then gradually amp it up, step by step.

Two environmental offenses accompany the call of nature, of course: wasting paper (all that wiping) and water (all that flushing). The methods below, arranged from least to most radical, aim to reduce waste on one or both fronts.

The easy stuff

Buy recycled toilet paper. (A whopping 98 percent of the pulp used to make the stuff comes from virgin trees!) Put a milk jug full of pebbles in the toilet tank to reduce flush volume. Instate a flush-saving “If it’s yellow, let it mellow” household policy. Basic, simple, hard to fault.

TP rationing

Hey America! You use too much toilet paper. The snowball-sized gob you think you need to insulate your hand from the nether regions is overkill. I’m on board with this one: Limit yourself to three or four squares per session. Foldsies are fair game. You can always add another square or two for unfortunate circumstances.

Pee in the shower

This one’s a twofer: No flush, no paper use. Yeah, you’ll get the stinkeye if you attempt this at the gym, but what’s a little extra splash in the privacy of your own shower? I haven’t done this since my mom caught me midstream circa age 7, but what the hell—I’ll try it.

I asked my boyfriend, Ted, to join me in my quest and start peeing in the shower. “Yes. Start,” he said, not meeting my gaze.

DIY toilet paper

There are those among us who find clever reuses for paper they happen to have lying around the house. Old phone books, gift-wrap tissue paper, junk mail, love poetry from your high school boyfriend — they’re all on the table, and then in the toilet. Hint: Crumple anything enough times and it’ll soften right up.

Eat more fiber

Because it, uh, firms things up, thereby reducing the need to wipe … You know what? Nevermind.

Bidets and wannabe bidets

Ah, the French. So classy. Instead of a plebian toilet alone, follow their lead and install a bidet to squirt a jet of pure, cleansing water where TP alone once ventured. Fans swear it’s so much more pleasant and hygienic than toilet paper, you’ll never go back. Fair enough, but that will have to wait until I own my own bathroom.

There are other ways to get that bidet-fresh feeling. Some greenies keep a squirt bottle by the toilet for just such a purpose. When you’re done, just dab with a towel (or that pee rag) and go. Viola. Of course, this is no rookie move. When I mentioned the possibility to my dad, he replied, “Why don’t you just shake up a Coke can and spray?”*

Pee rag

In theory, the pee rag is a fine way to reduce paper use. Collect thin strips of cloth from old T-shirts, wipe away, toss into a lidded container, and wash the lot when you’re done. Yeah, you’re using water to do this, but Grist’s beloved Umbra has calculated that it’s a lot less than the water required to manufacture TP.

Here’s the thing, though: Do pee rags stink up the bathroom? No, really, are you sure? Could it be, for argument’s sake, that you’re just so used to the lingering odor that your nose can’t register it anymore?

And another thing: What about guests? Do you spot them a courtesy roll, or do you hold to a “When in Rome” philosophy? Will this lead to a reduction in visits from family and friends, and is this a good or bad development? Discuss.

Peeing in a bucket

Yes, people really do this in the name of a low-flush life. Get yourself an untippable container, whizz away, and dump the contents on the grass at day’s end. I imagine one of my neighbors stepping out of our building for a smoke and finding me surreptitiously pouring a stream of urine under the bushes, then being called to testify in my own defense at the next HOA meeting. I decide I have a long way to go before reaching this step.

Hand and water

Near the very top of the ladder we find a way to rid ourselves of the tyranny of toilet paper altogether. Nope, not even for No. 2. One hand squirts with a spray bottle, the other hand stands in for TP, and you never have to buy another roll. (However, I imagine the sharp increase in your soap purchases would somewhat offset the savings.)

Here’s what I have to say to this one: No.

Leaves

As I’ve been learning about the many ingenious methods for sustainable bathrooming, it occurred to me that we’re overlooking an even better practice. Pee rags, DIY bidets, and even the hand-and-water routine still require water. But what if there were a readily available, totally free, all-organic, no-water option out there?

That’s right, I mean leaves. And bark. And pine cones. Gather a whole bushelful every week or so and arrange them artfully in a basket on top of the toilet. When you’ve gotta go, choose the proper material for the job and toss it in a separate container. Bury it, compost it, or better yet, mulch it up and spread it over your garden like a latter-day Janie Manureseed.

How does this one work out in practice? I’d love to see, but I’m still working on peeing in the shower.

Where are you on the great ladder of toilet habits? Do you have a limit to how far you’ll climb?

*This is not recommended. Club soda would obviously be a much better option.

Natural born cleaners. (Photo by Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan.)

Things I know, but wish I didn’t: Cake frosting is full of trans fat. Too many martinis can give you cancer [PDF]. Zillions of mites make their homes in our eyebrows. And, of particular concern during spring-cleaning season, common household cleaning products contain a host of nasty stuff.

What a buzzkill. Just as I can’t in good conscience eat spoonfuls of cake frosting straight from the jar, neither can I simply squirt easy-to-find, grime-zapping conventional cleaners all over the counters and be done with it. Up ‘til now, I’ve addressed this problem with nontoxic (if still store-bought) products from the likes of Seventh Generation and Method. But this year, I’ve decided to take the natural cleaning thing the next logical step, which explains why I spent the other night rubbing half a lemon into the shower tiles.

That’s right, I’m going DIY. I’ve heard about people using homemade cleaning concoctions for years, but I dismissed the practice to those much crunchier than I am (you know, dreds, sarongs, an open box of baking soda on the sink where others have toothpaste). Worse, I assumed that some hippie salve made of salt and lavender oil could never get the job done. But now that I know better, it’s hard to argue with using cheap, barely processed cleaning recipes to give the apartment that special sparkle — if they actually work, that is.

No better way to find out than to try it, right? So this week, I embarked on a personal journey into the world of homemade cleansers. And to my considerable surprise, they were awesome. Well, most of them were. I’ll never go back.

Test 1: All-purpose cleaner (2 cups water + 3 teaspoons Dr. Bronner’s castile soap + 1 teaspoon tea tree oil)

I began with this twist on the ever-popular all-purpose spray. The tea tree oil gives this potion a natural antibacterial kick, while the mild castile soap lends cleaning prowess and a delightful peppermint scent to help combat the tea tree stank (reminiscent of grandmas’ closets everywhere).

First up: the kitchen table. Armed with a moistened, old cotton sock as a rag, I sprayed my cleaner all over the table surface and went to work. A few wipes dissolved mystery smudges and cat paw prints alike, leaving a pleasant sheen. Encouraged, I moved on to a kitchen counter and the sink itself. In both cases, grime came off with a minimum of effort. Even better: The lingering smell (which, relax, isn’t really all that bad) faded away after a few hours.

Verdict: Excellent. The spray shall assume the throne of the master cleanser in this house.

Test 2: Counter scrub (kosher salt + vinegar)

I approached this sour mixture with a bit more trepidation, but still applied it to a section of the counter with the scrubby side of a sponge. Vinegar is one of the most popular kids at the homemade-ingredient party, popping up in all kinds of recipes for its acidic, mold-killing nature and instant ability to transport us back to Easter egg-dyeing sessions of youth. (The salt adds an abrasive edge.)

A thorough wipedown with this stuff left the counter looking clean enough, but I clearly didn’t rinse it well enough afterwards. That’s a gentle way to say, “turned the counter into a salt lick,” which is what I actually did.

Verdict: Pass. No better than the all-purpose spray, but with gritty side effects.

Test 3: Baking soda scrub (baking soda + enough water to form a wet paste)

Now here’s a challenge: Clean the crusties from my neglected stovetop. As baking soda is the prom king to vinegar’s prom queen, beloved for its hardcore scouring abilities and anti-fungal nature, I figured the big BS would be up to the job.

Turns out I was right — sort of. When spread across the main stovetop, scrubbed off, and rinsed, this paste left the metal practically gleaming. But the removable trays under the burners proved a tougher opponent. Some of the blackened crud did loosen with vigorous scrubbing, but not nearly all. I was left with an arm cramp and cleaner — but not spotless — trays. Even an overnight soak in the paste couldn’t finish the task.

Verdict: Good. This stuff works like a charm on less-than-dire cleaning problems.

Test 4: Bathroom scrub No. 1 (lemon juice soak, then ½ cup baking soda + enough castile soap to form a toothpaste-like mixture)

Ah, the bathroom, the corner of our homes most plagued by dirty, stinky, mildewy offenses. If DIY products were ever to earn their place as a viable option, they’d have to prove equal to the tasks in here. Namely: a troublesome orange streak that had formed between my shower tiles.

I prepped the area by energetically rubbing half a lemon into the streak — as all good DIY-ers know, lemon juice is famed for its stain-reducing citric acid. After 10 minutes or so, I returned with a scrub brush and the pepperminty paste. It was a bit tricky to get the paste to stick to the wall, but once I used my fingers to jam it in the crevices between tiles, every bit of the orange grime lifted right off.

Verdict: Excellent (and lemony fresh).

Test 5: Bathroom scrub No. 2 (baking soda + kosher salt + water)

I took this final salve to the tub walls. At first, it didn’t look to be doing much. But after scrubbing and rinsing off the salty residue, the water flowed brown. Eeew. Compared to the freshly-cleaned section, the rest of the tub was suddenly a pit of infamy. I gave the whole thing a second going-over, just to be safe, until the rinse came away clear.

Verdict: Excellent. Gentle yet abrasive, with a pleasant non-odor.

The whole homemade cleaner project went so well, I’m adding it to another list. Things of which I was once skeptical, but now embrace: Harry Potter. Lentils. Rick Santorum (oops, wrong list). But definitely DIY cleaners.

How about you? Have any favorite homemade cleaning brews?

Before the overdose: Ted can hardly wait to nosh a razor clam. (Photo by Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan.)

If you’ve never enjoyed a fresh bivalve harvest, here’s a tip: 15 razor clams is a significant gustatory investment. Hey, I love clams. I love them swimming in chowder, peeking out of my linguine, breaded and fried. But trust me, after spending an hour knuckle-deep in clam innards, I know now that even the most ardent enthusiast would do well to pace herself.

Soon after a wildly successful first clam dig on Washington’s Roosevelt Beach, I found myself back in my kitchen, staring into a bucketful of razor clams. Fifteen meaty clams needed killing, de-shelling, dressing, and cooking before we could enjoy the sautéed clam recipe we’d been talking about for the past 100 miles. It was already past 8 p.m.; perhaps we’d been a bit ambitious.

There was the matter of killing them, for one. None of the pieces of clam literature I’d studied mentioned exactly what you’re supposed to do between shoreline and skillet. On the advice of a veteran clammer, we’d kept our catch alive in seawater on the three-hour journey home for maximum freshness.

“Everything I’ve read just starts with ‘Pour boiling water over them for a few seconds until the shell pops open,’” I told my boyfriend and co-chef, Ted. “Can that be right?” With the clams still squirming around in the bucket, I suddenly felt a little seasick.

Ted gave me a look. “You’re going to make me do this, aren’t you?”

I’m not a vegetarian, so in theory I should be fine with the fact that my dinner once squirmed about in the sand, growing and reproducing and generally minding its own business until I came along. And my conscience could be clear: The clams I’d just harvested myself with a PVC-pipe “gun” beat the pants off of factory-farmed protein in terms of sustainability. But that didn’t make me feel any better about their imminent doom in our kitchen sink.

I retreated to a spot by the fridge while Ted boiled a pot of water and arranged the first batch of razor clams in our colander. While I offered support (“Just get it over with!”), he poured the water over our catch for a few seconds (any longer and you risk rubberizing your dinner). The shells popped open, each revealing a glistening, plump, meaty clam that slid easily out of its armor and into a bowl, ready to be cleaned. Well, usually: Three or four clams somehow survived their first bath, forcing Ted to douse them again and earning themselves a spot in my nightmares for weeks to come.

Gutted: The clams are ready for frying! (Photo by Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan.)

I may have demurred when it came to sending our shellfish to the Great Tidal Flats in the Sky, but I bucked up for snipping out their nasty bits. Cleaning razor clams is a straightforward business: Slice ‘em open, cut out the dark stuff. Ted and I took turns trimming away their gills and vivisecting their digestive systems under a thin stream of running water. Fun fact: The small, flexible rod found in a clam’s stomach is a harmless enzyme used for digestion, not a predatory worm that should make you shriek and drop the clam when you feel it on your palm — although that would be a perfectly rational reaction.

Experts can clean a clam in less than a minute, but we progressed more slowly, and it was 10 p.m. before our stack was ready for the sauté pan. Happily, the prepped clams now looked more like giant, innocuous pieces of ravioli than mollusks. We enthusiastically dredged them in seasoned flour, cooked them in butter and oil, then doused them with white wine and garlic.

The first sample bites had our eyes rolling back in sensory delight: juicy, meaty, with bursts of sharp flavor from capers and parsley. This could be the finest meal we’d ever created.

But we couldn’t sit down and savor them just yet — a stack of raw clams waited by the stove. Into the pan they went, two or three at a time, to sizzle and crisp while we hovered, salivating. Ted cut more than a few samples from the finished filets to tide us over. It was past 11 by the time we actually sat down to our choicest cuts over pasta.

“Isn’t this amazing?” we asked each other between bites. But as we shoveled forkful after forkful into our mouths, I began to notice something. Gaping shells still littered the counter. Clam necks piled up in the sink. A faintly fishy odor had our cat sniffing around the stove. And the sensation of manhandling the internal organs of 15 clams lingered, disturbingly fresh, in my head.

Ready to eat! (Photo by Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan.)

Bellies a little too full, we cleaned the kitchen and packed up the leftovers. “There’s enough here for at least three more meals,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow night?” “Yeah, sure,” said Ted. But the thought of even one more bite of clam made my stomach lurch. Ted’s face told me he was in the same boat.

We tried to feast on the clams for lunch the next day, we really did. I just couldn’t quite do it. Perhaps a new preparation was in order — something a little less clammy? That night, we cooked up a big pot of chowder and tossed in the sautéed leftovers. Then we promptly decided to freeze it all for later and have a sandwich instead.

Now, a few weeks later, the thought of clams once again sounds appetizing. We’ll be warming up the chowder and toasting our good fortune soon enough. And we’re already talking about the next spring clam dig. Only this time, we’ll have a chowder party and cook up the fresh-caught clams for a crowd.

You’d better come prepared to eat, ‘cause I’m not tolerating any leftovers.

Italian Razor Clams
adapted from Michael Lalewicz’s recipe in the Seattle Times

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon paprika
1 tablespoon butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 medium-to-large cleaned, fresh razor clams
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
1 tablespoon capers
Juice of 1/2 lemon
3 tablespoons dry white wine
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons fresh, chopped parsley
Pasta of choice, cooked and drained

Combine flour, sea salt, cayenne pepper, and paprika in a shallow bowl. Heat olive oil and one tablespoon butter in a sauté pan on medium heat. Dredge clams in flour mixture, then cook two minutes. Turn and cook until golden brown, another two minutes.

Add garlic, capers, lemon juice, wine, parsley, and a dash of salt and pepper. Cook on high until liquid is reduced; remove from heat. Serve on top of pasta. Serves two.

Pacific Clam Chowder
adapted from Bon Appetit

3 8-ounce bottles clam juice
1 pound russet potatoes, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
2 tablespoons butter
3 slices bacon, finely chopped
2 cups chopped onions
1 1/4 cups chopped celery with leaves
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1 bay leaf
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
8-10 razor clams, cleaned and chopped
1 1/4 cups half-and-half
1 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
Salt and pepper

Bring clam juice and potatoes to a boil in a heavy saucepan over high heat. Reduce heat to medium-low; cover and simmer until potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Melt butter in large pot over medium heat. Add bacon and cook until it begins to brown, about eight minutes. Add onions, celery, garlic, and bay leaf and sauté until vegetables soften, about six minutes. Stir in flour and cook two minutes (don’t let it brown). Add potato mixture, clams, half-and-half, and hot pepper sauce. Simmer five minutes, stirring frequently. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serves four.

The elusive Pacific razor clam, in all its glory. (Photo by Ted Alvarez.)

You know what would make supermarket food taste better? Making grocery shopping more like clam digging. Imagine having to paw through a bin of wet sand to find your onions, or thrash through icy waves for a chunk of Parmesan. Challenging, yes, but think of the feeling of accomplishment as you sit down to dinner.

I thought about this last Sunday as I stood knee-deep in the Pacific, wind-whipped and sandblasted. I’d come to Washington’s Roosevelt Beach on the second clam-harvest weekend of the year to up my foraging game: Having already tackled blackberries, mushrooms, and dumpster donuts, the coveted Pacific razor clam seemed the logical upgrade. The animal kingdom is a whole new ball game, even if the animal in question does look kind of like a stray pancreas.

My boyfriend, Ted, and I had done our homework. We knew all about the clam show — a dime-sized dimple in the sand that’s as good as a neon arrow screaming, “Clam! Get your razor clam here!” We’d read tutorials and watched YouTube videos in which rugged hosts demonstrated digging technique, casually unearthing clam after clam.

Armed with a new clam shovel (basically, a long-handed trowel with a canted blade), a bucket, and a $19 season license, we cockily strode out on the beach as the tide receded.

“Ready to meet your meat?” Ted asked.

Pacific razor clams — six-inch-long beach dwellers found along the coast from California to Alaska — are one of the more sustainable protein options out there. Farmed clams of all stripes earn a Best Choice rating from the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch. And wild clam harvests, like the one we were going to partake in, are carefully managed by state fish and wildlife authorities; because the clams are individually caught using simple tools, harvesting them has minimal impact on the environment.

And don’t forget the appeal of local, totally unprocessed food that you earn with the sweat of your brow. Diggers can savor these high-protein, low-fat, vitamin A-, B-, and C-packed morsels with minimal qualms. That is, if they can catch ’em.

Open season on clams, Washington state. (Photo by Mike Murry.)

A block-party vibe waited at the water’s edge. Hundreds of other diggers lined the surf in both directions. Hipsters in flowered galoshes hunted side-by-side with guys in waders and waterproof camo; little kids splashed through the waves; one old couple sat in the surf in lawn chairs.

It was all very encouraging: Pre-dig, I’d wondered if clammers were as notoriously tight-lipped and competitive about their favorite stashes as backcountry skiers and mushroom hunters tend to be. Would we be elbowed aside as longtime clammers defended their territory? Would the harvest devolve into a Hunger Games-style free-for-all, with diggers bludgeoning each other with shovels to get at the precious bivalves?

I shouldn’t have worried. Too few beaches are open to digging, and harvest limits are too small (15 clams per licensed digger) for anyone to get possessive. Besides, when you’re all sloshing around in February ocean water with your arms shoulder-deep in the sand, you can’t help but feel the camaraderie.

This was a lucky break for us, as our clam feast would’ve been a nonstarter without a little help from our friends.

Turns out, digging a razor clam is damn near impossible with a mere shovel, at least for a neophyte. The little buggers flee deeper into the sand much too quickly for that.

For the first 30 minutes, Ted and I played out a ridiculous routine: See the telltale dimple. Dig frantically on the seaward side of the dimple. Drop to our knees and plunge our bare arms into the cold, wet pit. Root around, occasionally just grazing the tip of the clam’s neck, until a wave inevitably crashed over the pit and soaked our pants.

“Maybe we just need more practice,” I said after my fifth or sixth attack failed.

“Maybe this just sucks,” said Ted.

That’s how it would have gone all afternoon if not for the intervention of a bona fide clam angel. His name was Kenny VanEtten, and he started by pointing out a show for us to dig. “I’ve already got my take,” Kenny told us cheerfully. “This is so much fun, I just don’t want to go home yet.”

Hoover clam: demonstrating the proper use of a clam gun. (Photo by Laurel Fan.)

After watching a few more of our slapstick attempts, he gently offered us the use of his clam gun.

Yes, clam gun.

You see, there are two ways to dig a clam: the old-school clam shovel and the fancier clam gun. Resembling a jackhammer made of PVC, the “gun” works through brute force and suction to pull the clam to the surface. (What, you were hoping for tiny mollusk bullets?)

Guided by Kenny’s 5-year-old daughter, Makena, who was an excellent clam scout, and armed with the gun, our prospects went from bleak to red-hot. Suddenly, clams seemed to be everywhere. We’d plunge the gun over the show (tilted ever so slightly seaward), twisting to help it slide deeper into the sand, then cover the small hole on the top with our thumbs to create suction. Next, we’d wrestle the gun back up and dump its column of sand. Almost every time, a juicy razor clam tumbled out with it.

All around us, our neighbors rode the same groove. People called out to their fellow diggers whenever they found a pocket of clams, creating mini-gunning parties full of cheering and attaboys.

We hit our 15 all too quickly. What a strange and wonderful experience, this communal enthusiasm about food — it gives off the same sort of buzz you find around neighborhood gardens, homebrewing classes, and county fair bake-offs. Anytime people gather to put a little extra effort into what they consume, that warm and fuzzy feeling follows.

When’s the last time you got that from buying tortilla chips?

We thanked Kenny the clam angel and reluctantly turned our backs on the sea. Just as well. My waterproof boots, long ago swamped by the surf, had gone squishy with seawater, and my hands were frozen into clam-scented claws. We carefully braced the bucket in our backseat; the clams floated serenely inside, seemingly resigned to their fate.

With the thrill of the hunt fading, Ted and I looked at this bounty of fresh clam, then at each other. Now came the hard part: figuring out what to do with these little delicacies.

Next time: How 15 fresh razor clams took over my kitchen, and the clam hangover that followed.

For those of you just joining us, I’ve been on a personal quest to nullify the carbon dioxide emissions from a trip to Texas last October. All 1,858 pounds of it. Rather than buying a dubious carbon offset for the trip, I wanted to slice enough emissions from my own lifestyle to atone for my sins against the climate.

How’s that been working out, you ask? Coulda been better.

I could have cut back to once-weekly showers, saving gallon upon gallon of water. After all, it takes gobs of energy to gather, treat, and deliver fresh water on demand. I could have gone vegan, lifting resource-intensive and methane-spewing meat products from my conscience. I could have given up my apartment and my job in favor of a life spent illegally squatting in the woods and eating raccoon gristle. All that power I’ve been sucking to keep my food cold and my computer humming? Off my balance sheet.

Perhaps it won’t shock you to learn I didn’t do any of those things. That’s why, to date, I’ve managed to offset just 789.5 pounds of that mighty 1,858-pound total. Well, that’s the official tally. I’m hoping you’ll give me some credit for a side project I’ve undertaken. More on that in a minute.

Replacing car trips with biking and walking netted some savings, as did air-drying my laundry in lieu of using the electricity-gobbling clothes dryer. One of the single biggest changes was swapping an outdated light bulb for a compact fluorescent at my desk (a move that earns me 300 pounds of CO2 over the course of a year, according to Climate Crisis).

Other savings weren’t so easy to calculate. Take my leaky bathroom faucet. My carbon quest finally spurred me to get the damn thing fixed, an undeniably good defense of potable water. But how much carbon did this repair earn me? I have no idea. Estimates for how much water a dripping faucet loses swing wildly from a freewheeling high of 7,300 gallons per year to the USGS’s straitlaced low of 104 gallons per year. (The latter calculator dryly informed me that one drip from the faucet equals about 1/15,140 of a gallon. Who knew?) If I grit my teeth and take the most conservative estimate with the most conservative pounds-per-gallon ratio (1 gallon of water equals 3 ounces of carbon), I can credit 19.5 pounds of carbon to my account.

But here’s where I’m looking at you, dear reader, to throw me a bone. Frustrated with my slow progress, I reached outside of myself and realized that, you know what? It takes a village to offset 1,858 pounds of CO2, and I’m going to get my neighbors involved in the effort, whether they like it or not. So I set out to start a compost program for my building.

The Nature Conservancy estimates that composting “most” of your individual food waste saves the equivalent of about 600 pounds of carbon dioxide per year. Composting dramatically lessens or eliminates the release of climate-choking methane that you get with anaerobic landfills.

I already feed most of my food scraps to a bin of hungry, hungry worms. (That’s a whole other can of, well, you know.) But if I could find someplace to put the rest of my scraps, and convince the residents of the other 13 apartments in my building to keep their leftovers out of the trash with me, the results would be more than enough to forgive my debt and spot me another trip to the Lone Star State besides, should the opportunity arise. Yay! Ring the bells and pop the confetti!

Well, I did it. My building now has a composting program. But is it cheating if I don’t actually deserve all the credit for this?

I did email my landlord, in a show of bold leadership, asking if our building could arrange for municipal compost pickup. I was ready to fight for it, picket our dumpster area, perhaps stage a sit-in, but none of that was necessary. “Good idea,” she replied. “I’ll take care of it.” She brought it up at the next homeowner’s meeting, and soon a plucky green compost bin appeared behind the building. Personal time invested: 30 seconds.

Here’s the thing: It’s now illegal in Seattle not to have a composting program in apartment buildings. The program almost surely would have started without me. Plus, you can lead your neighbors to the compost bin, but you can’t make them sort their avocado pits and egg shells. What if my comrades aren’t using the bin to its full potential? I may be the compost queen, but I’m no garbage inspector. No matter how I crunch the numbers, my accounting is a muddle.

So what have I learned from all this? Personal carbon offsets are tricky, and even drastic carbon-slashing methods pale in comparison to the waste we generate when we fly. Unplugging the fridge in favor of a root cellar? Duct-taping the toilet shut and digging my own composting version in the side yard? Not exactly realistic in this time and place. But even if I did get that crazy, the next time I jump on a plane, the whole exercise goes up in a puff of airplane exhaust.

I’ve chiseled away at my carbon debt for more than three months, and I’m not even half of the way to my goal. The carbon gluttony of a simple weekend getaway is astounding when you translate one round-trip flight into everyday habits. Of course, the solutions to the airline emissions issue are a lot bigger than my measly travel choices; they involve global conversations about high-speed rail and new recipes for jet fuel. But at least I now have a much more intimate understanding of what my personal carbon footprint feels like.

So I’m tossing (calm down, into the recycling bin) my CO2 tally sheet. I’m done calculating how many pounds of greenhouse gas I’ve prevented by eating the asparagus spear over the bacon-wrapped date at that last cocktail party. I’m going back to a holistic view of green living for its own sake. And you can bet I’ll think twice before booking my next airline ticket.

A good night's haul: baked goods saved from Seattle dumpsters

It was 8:30 p.m. on a recent Sunday when it clicked. I was standing on a dark sidewalk outside of a donut shop — the donut part is key — getting ready to venture into my third dumpster of the evening, when I at last saw diving for the brilliant enterprise it is. And I owe it all to an unassuming black trash bag.

As you well know if you read my last column, I didn’t quite get the hang of the whole diving thing at first. I was actually kinda repulsed by the idea of picking through sodden food refuse in back alleys, even if it meant rescuing perfectly good eats going to waste in commercial trash bins for superficial reasons. But I appealed to you, dear readers, for help, and then I picked myself up for another go.

I’ve come up successful on four dumpster dives now. I’ll get back to that donut shop in a minute, but first, the tales of other dumpsters I’ve known, and the lessons I’ve learned along the way:

Lesson No. 1: Choose the right dumpster.

After my first few attempts came up empty, I realized that more precise targeting was in order. You want prolific dumpsters known for their abundant spoils. And if you’re new to the dive, you’ll want to stick to stores that don’t traffic in anything too wet. (Seriously. That gets nasty.) Think carbs. You want bread, muffins, rolls — the gateway drugs of dumpster food.

So, with my trusty lookout and boyfriend, Ted, in tow, I headed to an industrial district that is home to two wholesale bakery warehouses. Both generate rave reviews among in-the-know freegans. The first dumpster sat down a long, dark alley, far from prying eyes. Perfect.

We lifted the dumpster’s lid and peeked in to find five or six trash bags. They weren’t brimming with obvious treats, but neither were they overtly disgusting. And here I employed one of the key tactics that several of you suggested: the Get Over Yourself, Crybaby tactic. (Thanks, guys!) I took a deep breath, adjusted my headlamp, and vaulted inside.

“It’s not so bad,” I told Ted as he helpfully directed the light from his iPhone into the depths. I grabbed the closest bag and began to rummage. Lo and behold … “This thing is full of cookies!”

I held one of them — a luscious macaroon dipped in chocolate — out for inspection. It was still squishy with freshness. I scooped four from the bag (there were dozens, but dumpster etiquette frowns upon hogging the goods) and piled them in Ted’s outstretched hands.

“Nice,” he said.

Lesson No. 2: Go hungry.

You know how they tell you never to go grocery shopping when you’re hungry, lest you stuff your cart full of id foods (you know, Mallomars, bacon, corn dogs)? It’s the opposite with diving. Work up a nice drool ahead of time, and any impediments to success will melt away.

Our second bakery site was far more exposed, with the dumpsters lined up in a well-lit garage and several employees puttering around next door. A handmade “NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION” sign decorated the bin labeled “Bread Dumpster.” But the sweet smells of olive loaf registering on our rumbling stomachs drew us in, eyewitnesses and health warnings be damned.

Oh man. Oh man. The clean, dry bin was positively stuffed with pillowy loaves, placed lovingly inside without the hindrance of trash bags. I reached down to poke one. Still soft. Jumping in would put me knee-deep in artisan bread, but no need; someone had placed a concrete stepping stone next to the dumpster’s deep end.

“How about that one?” Ted asked, pointing to a long loaf of French bread. He’d been less than excited to accompany me yet again, but did I detect him licking his lips ever so slightly now? I picked it up, only to spot a human-shaped bite mark. Undeterred, I reached for an unmarked loaf and handed it to Ted.

“Mmm. Sourdough,” he said, sniffing.

Lesson No. 3: Be flexible.

A dumpster is like a box of chocolates (albeit more slimy) — you’re never sure what you’re going to get. Ted and I approached another conquest, a bin outside a grocery that specializes in produce, with an open mind. Would it be discolored squash? Mildly wilted arugula?

Tonight, the dumpster’s gifts were a pile of Roma tomatoes and several soft avocados. I jumped in and selected the best avocado, several still-firm tomatoes, and a bonus lime with a weird splotch on its rind that I found under a piece of cardboard.

The dumpster gods had spoken, and they said garbage guacamole.

Lesson No. 4: Donuts.

Back to that black trash bag behind the donut shop, sitting provocatively on top of the dumpster lid. “Wouldn’t it be great if that were full of donuts?” Ted asked. “Then you wouldn’t even have to get in the dumpster.”

Yeah, right, I thought. But then we opened the bag.

It was full of donuts.

Clean, fresh, same-day donuts. Apple fritters and glazed long johns. Chocolate-sprinkled and pink coconut-frosted. Nothing else in there but sweet, handmade donuts.

I ask you now to look inside yourself and answer this question: If confronted with an entire garbage bag full of free donuts, would you, could you, walk away? I’ll venture that even the most squeamish among us would fall under the spell. I did.

So did my reluctant partner. “If I ever have to get treats for a kid’s soccer team, I’m totally coming up here the night before,” Ted said as we left clutching a kingly ransom in donuts. “I’ll take the whole bag.”

And then he took a big bite of an apple fritter straight from the trash.

The very name “dumpster diving” makes the nature of the activity pretty clear. It doesn’t hide behind a sanitized euphemism, like, say, “gently used snack gathering.” It’s right there in the title. Dumpsters — you dive in them. But as I stood behind a neighborhood bakery, peering into a slimy abyss of trash, there was only one thought in my mind: Somehow I thought it’d be less putrid.

I admit, I was reluctant when Grist first suggested that I investigate the dumpster-diving phenomenon firsthand. But now that good old-fashioned garbage-picking has gone all hipster on us, I figured it couldn’t be so bad. And preventing perfectly good food from going to waste — what’s not to love about that? Besides, it’s free eats!

So I sweet-talked my boyfriend, Ted (who also happens to be Grist’s managing editor), into acting as my lookout on a Sunday-evening excursion to a pair of dumpsters with good reputations for divability. One of them even had a review on Yelp.

We struck out around 7 p.m., well after dark and past closing time for the businesses whose dumpsters we would be probing. “I hear this place is great — they have day-old loaves of bread just sitting out,” I told Ted brightly as we circled around to the back of a bakery.

“Oh yeah? What if we get there and there are, like, four bums gathered around it?”

Hmm. Hadn’t thought of that. “I bet they’ll share,” I said.

We turned the corner and saw nobody — just an unassuming dumpster in a dark parking lot. I hurried up to it, fully expecting to find pillowy loaves of rosemary challah or cinnamon raisin bread piled high, all individually wrapped, perhaps still warm. But when I lifted the lid of the dumpster marked “food waste,” I found only trash. Bags and bags of trash.

From what I could discern through the semitranslucent plastic, the bags were stuffed full of moist coffee grounds and wadded-up napkins, then glazed with a layer of God-knows-how-old half-and-half.

Free food? Honey, ain’t nuthin’ free.

“I think you’re supposed to get in there and open the bags,” said Ted from the sidelines.

He was right, of course. But could there possibly be any usable carbs amidst all this grime? I checked all the other dumpsters, just to be sure, but my immaculate cornucopia was nowhere to be found. Damn. I would have to dive in.

But as I stood at the rim, gathering my courage, a blinding security light spotlit us. “Crap!” I said, losing my nerve. “Everyone can see us!”

We weren’t really doing anything wrong — the legality of rummaging through dumpsters is a gray area, depending on your city — but nor were we keen on getting caught neck-deep in the rubbish bin. In search of a more shadowy location, we headed elsewhere. (A closer read of the Yelp reviews later hinted that the magical bread dumpster had been removed sometime in 2010.)

Next up was a chocolate shop, but by now, my visions of finding neatly wrapped chili-hazelnut bars were fading. Not that I ever got close enough to find out for sure: Though the store was closed, the lights were still on and employees puttering about. Plus, it was still early enough for passersby to be strolling around at regular intervals. It all felt so exposed. So vulgar.

Maybe dumpster diving is like $2 tequila shots — best saved for the late-night hours, I thought as we slunk away in defeat.

The next night, I plied Ted with promises of beer if he would once again stand guard while I attempted a dive or two. This time, I chose an affluent neighborhood with three grocery stores in close proximity, as grocery stores are notorious for wasting perfectly good food. We went much later this time (past 11 p.m.), and I stashed a headlamp and some extra bags in my backpack. Ted loaned me a black jacket, and attired in cat burglar chic, we set off.

Everything went swimmingly until we reached the alley behind grocery store No. 1. There were ample dumpsters, all right, no doubt brimming with slightly bruised fruits and fine crackers that had reached their completely meaningless sell-by dates. But, in a Rapunzelesque twist of fate, they were all locked behind a six-foot fence. Not only that, a blinking security camera was trained on us, just daring us to go ahead and make its day.

Off we went to grocery store No. 2, where we found the same dilemma. Damn.

With the clock inching past midnight, we tromped over to the third and final grocery store, our last hope. Free dumpsters at last — a little too free, actually. The trash was in full view of the street, with megawatt security lights erasing all shadows. Our black outfits did nothing to camouflage us. If we were to go a-garbage picking, we’d have to do it on stage.

So be it. I opened the first dumpster, wondering what I might tell the store owner or police officer if we were caught. Should I go with, “I lost my wedding ring in there,” or “My Pomeranian is trapped inside?”

Then came the moment of truth. This dumpster, and all the others nearby, was truly foul. No edible treats were readily apparent among the stinky refuse. I’d have to climb in and start ripping into bags.

I cannot tell a lie. I totally chickened out. I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.

So I did what any reasonable American would do in the face of such failure. I took Ted to the only bar still open, where we drank beer and ate an ice cream sundae. For full price.

Still, dear readers, don’t lose faith. I’m down, but I’m sure not out. I’m determined to make a successful dive, to explore the murky depths and emerge, dinner in hand.

Perhaps there are a few successful dumpster divers in your ranks who can show a poor rookie like me the way. If so, please, share your secrets. In the meantime, I’ll be scrounging up a pair of industrial-grade rubber gloves.