“Good thing we have the worm bin,” I said to the Spouse the other day. He gave me a blank, flat eyed stare. “Why?” he asked in a tone that said he didn’t really want to talk about the worm bin, could think of no good thing related to the worm bin. “Because the compost heap is frozen,” I told him, feeling cheerful and content with my little WideEyedEcosystem. The Spouse turned in his chair and peered out the kitchen window to the back garden. I could see him noting the foot of snow draped over the garden. I could see him not making the connection. He, as you may recall (Worm Bin Chronicles: Inception), hates the worm bin. Spine-tingling, hair-raising hates the notion of hundreds or thousands of juicy, wriggling worms snacking, always munching in a bin in our house. “If we didn’t have the worm bin, where would we put the veggie trash?” I asked him. He sipped his beer and thought. “The trash?” he asked. I glared at him and slapped my …