Compost in the City

It's not an entirely unpleasant scent, if you like kimchi.

by Bruce Schimmel

There are many ways to make compost. There are lots of contrivances — from hand-cranked barrels to giant automated digesters — that take the toil, and the smell, out of returning veggies and lawn trimmings to the soil.

So why are Luke Drecksage and John Paul "Woody" Woodburn distilling their dirt the old-fashioned way?

Luke and Woody run a new neighborhood compost facility — a project of the Pedal Co-Op — in the heart of West Philly. Two or three times a week, they dig into three warm piles with pitchforks and shovels — straining the back and stimulating the nose.

Like today. It's not yet noon, but the streets just north of 44th and Chestnut already shimmer with heat. From behind a row of mostly abandoned Victorians, Luke and Woody are deconstructing the green waste of some 30 families. And you can smell it.

Look, composting is vital to city life, and I want to promote it. But what these two are doing, right now, is a bit rank. From the three warm stacks the smell of garlic rises, like a bowl of spicy cabbage soup. It's not an entirely unpleasant scent, if you like kimchi. But it's not something that most people want daily.

Not to worry, says Luke, 22, a economics student at Drexel, as he shoves his spade into a knot of green flies devouring some squashed tomatoes. A few quick turns later, the cabbage smell does subside, and is replaced by the lovely buttery scent of a bakery nearby.

"When I started composting with the Pedal Co-Op," admits Luke, "I was taken aback by the smells and the sight.

"Until I came back the next day, and I saw what was happening, and I got my hands wet and dirty. Now I can't imagine not waking up and thinking about how the compost site is doing."

Fortunately, around here, we're surrounded mostly by abandoned buildings. So there are few to complain.

Composting is a tough sell, because of the smell. If you ask Rina Cutler, deputy mayor for transportation and infrastructure, about neighborhood composting, she turns up her nose. She's justifiably concerned about "piles of rot blocking the street."

So it was something of a leap of faith when the city gave the Pedal Co-Op the OK. Still, if complaints do arise, Luke and Woody will surely be shut down. And that would be a pity.

Because what's especially cool about the Pedal Co-Op project is that it's so green and squeaky clean, with barely a smudge of carbon. About 30 families pay $3.50 each to have their waste picked up weekly — in a trailer being towed by a bicycle. (Yes, a bicycle.)

And instead of an expensive commercial machine (like the one digesting leftovers from the White Dog Café, at 34th and Sansom), the Pedal Co-Op plan is frugal, using people power.

It's a virtuous cycle. Eventually they hope to sell fresh topsoil back to the neighborhood. As Luke puts it, "I hope they'll eat more vegetables, make more waste, so we can turn it back into soil for them."

I hope these guys learn to tamp down the smell, so no one has any reason to object. Because composting in this city is in a precarious place. But whether this first foray into neighborhood composting is sustainable, both financially and culturally, remains to be seen. Or not smelt.

Volunteers and the composting-curious can contact Luke or Woody at pedalcoop.org.