Composting is oddly compelling. You take all your leftovers and indescribably moldy food items out of your fridge and throw them in a pile outside somewhere and wait several months for it all to turn into super-rich soil. How's that for entropy?
And that handsome compost bin? It's recycled, too (mostly) thanks to some old boards I found in a pile under the house and a weekend of playing with the circular saw.
Is it strange that we get excited about making our own dirt?