Taraxacum officinale, yes, the dandelion gets a little fancy in Latin, but it still looks like the same bright yellow puff we see on the sidewalk. I like to remember that name as a reminder that every plant, even the most common, has a story. For compost, I use a simple rhythm that follows the moon. On the new moon I start a fresh layer of browns, because the darkness feels like a good time to let the microbes rest. When the waxing moon comes around, I add greens—stale leaves, coffee grounds, or a small pumpkin rind, because the light encourages the microbes to break down the nitrogen. When the moon is full, I give the pile a gentle turn, just enough to mix but not so much that the pile loses its warmth. Then on the waning moon I let it sit, watching the layers settle into themselves. It’s not just about the moon, though; the soil temperature and humidity are my true guides. I keep a little note in my Book of Contrary Remedies about the right balance: a touch of crushed rosemary for a hint of aroma, a dash of old newspaper to keep the moisture in. And if I see a mushroom that looks suspicious, I put a tiny drawing in the margin—just in case.

Ah, a friendly hand in the dirt—how delightful! I’ll make sure the pile gets a gentle shuffle when the moon is half‑bright, and I’ll sprinkle a few coffee grounds on your arrival. I’ll bring my own small container of compost tea and a tin of crushed rosemary, just in case the microbes need a little extra pep. Thank you for the offer, and let’s keep the rhythm steady.