I was standing in my tiny Austin apartment kitchen one Tuesday night, peeling potatoes for what was probably going to be mediocre mashed potatoes (I'm still working on my cooking skills, honestly), when I had this moment of… I don't know, clarity? Disgust? Both? I looked down at my overflowing trash can – the one I'd been meaning to take out for three days but kept forgetting – and it hit me how much waste I was creating just existing as one human being in a one-bedroom apartment.
The potato peels were just the tip of the iceberg, you know? Under those were takeout containers from the weekend, plastic packaging from literally everything I'd bought at H-E-B, coffee filters, banana peels from my attempt at eating healthier, and just… so much stuff. All of it heading straight to a landfill where it would sit for who knows how long, probably releasing methane gas that's something like 28 times worse for the environment than carbon dioxide. Great job, Daniel.
That's when I started researching composting, which honestly felt like trying to learn a foreign language at first. Everyone online made it sound either super complicated with all these ratios and temperature monitoring, or ridiculously simple like "just throw your scraps in a pile and wait!" Neither of those approaches felt realistic for someone living in an apartment complex with a postage stamp-sized patio and zero gardening experience.
But the more I read about it, the more it made sense. Composting is basically just controlled decomposition – you're creating the right conditions for microorganisms and bacteria to break down organic matter into something that looks and smells like really good soil. Instead of sending food scraps to rot in an oxygen-free landfill where they create methane, you're letting them decompose properly with air circulation so they turn into something useful.
The whole process revolves around balancing "greens" and "browns," which confused me initially because some of the "greens" aren't actually green and some of the "browns" aren't brown, but whatever. Greens are nitrogen-rich stuff like vegetable scraps, coffee grounds (which I definitely had plenty of), and fresh grass clippings. Browns are carbon-rich materials like dry leaves, shredded paper, cardboard, and dead plant matter.
I started small with a basic plastic bin setup on my patio. Drilled some holes in the sides for airflow, added a layer of browns on the bottom – mostly shredded newspaper because that's what I had – then started adding kitchen scraps mixed with more browns. The key is keeping the pile moist but not soggy, which took some trial and error because Austin weather is either blazing hot or randomly pouring rain with no in-between.
My first attempt was… not great. I got too excited and dumped a bunch of vegetable scraps in without enough brown material to balance it out. Within a week, my patio smelled like a garbage truck had died out there. My upstairs neighbor actually asked if something was wrong with my plumbing. Embarrassing.
Turns out an smelly compost pile usually means too much moisture and not enough air circulation. I added more shredded paper and cardboard, turned the whole mess over with a shovel I borrowed from my downstairs neighbor (still need to return that…), and the smell went away pretty quickly. Crisis averted.
After that initial disaster, I got more methodical about it. Every time I added food scraps, I'd mix in brown materials and give everything a stir. I kept a little container on my kitchen counter for collecting scraps throughout the week – coffee grounds, eggshells, vegetable peels, fruit cores, anything that used to be alive and wasn't meat or dairy.
The transformation was honestly kind of magical to watch, even though it took months. Slowly, all these distinct pieces of garbage started breaking down into something that looked less like trash and more like… dirt. Really good dirt. Dark and crumbly and earthy-smelling instead of gross.
I got curious about other methods too because I'm apparently the kind of person who goes down research rabbit holes. Vermicomposting uses worms – specifically red wigglers – to speed up the process. The worms eat your food scraps and their castings are incredibly nutrient-rich. I tried this in a smaller bin and it worked pretty well, though fruit flies became an issue when I got lazy about covering fresh scraps with bedding material.
Then there's bokashi composting, which is this Japanese fermentation method where you use special microorganisms to basically pickle your food waste in an airtight container. You can compost meat and dairy with bokashi, which is cool, but you have to buy the special bran that contains the microorganisms and it gets expensive if you're doing it regularly.
Each method has its quirks and challenges. Regular composting takes forever but it's cheap and low-maintenance once you get the hang of it. Vermicomposting is faster but you have to keep the worms happy and alive. Bokashi handles more types of waste but requires ongoing purchases of supplies.
I settled on a combination approach – mostly traditional composting with some vermicomposting for kitchen scraps that break down quickly. It took about six months before I had actual usable compost, but when I finally sifted out the finished product, I felt ridiculously proud. Like, probably more excited than a normal person should be about decomposed garbage, but there you go.
The real test came when I started using it. I don't have space for a proper garden, but I've got some containers on my patio where I grow herbs and a few vegetables. The difference after adding compost was immediate and dramatic. My basil plants went from looking sad and stunted to actually thriving. The cherry tomatoes I'd been struggling with suddenly started producing fruit.
Compost improves soil structure, helps retain moisture (crucial in Texas heat), and provides slow-release nutrients that plants can actually use. It's like the difference between eating fast food every day versus having actual nutritious meals – plants can tell the difference and they respond accordingly.
Using my own compost felt like completing some kind of circle that I didn't even know was broken. Instead of throwing food scraps away and then buying fertilizer in plastic containers at the store, I was turning waste into something productive. My trash output dropped significantly, my plants were healthier, and I wasn't spending money on commercial fertilizers that are probably terrible for the environment anyway.
The composting process also made me way more aware of how much food waste I was generating. When you're collecting every banana peel and coffee ground, you start noticing patterns in what you're throwing away. I realized I was buying produce with good intentions and then letting it rot in my fridge, which led to better meal planning and less food waste overall.
There's something weirdly satisfying about the routine of it too. Every few days, I'd go out to my patio with a container of scraps and some brown material, add everything to the bin, give it a stir, maybe add some water if it seemed dry. It became this little ritual that connected me to the natural cycle of growth and decomposition that happens everywhere but that we usually ignore.
I started documenting the process and sharing it because so many people seem interested in composting but intimidated by getting started. Most of the information online is either written for people with big backyards and unlimited time, or it's so simplified that it skips over the practical stuff you actually need to know.
Living in an apartment doesn't mean you can't compost – you just have to be more creative about it. Small-scale systems work fine for most people's food waste, and even if you don't have plants to use the finished compost on, many cities have community gardens that would love donations of good compost.
The environmental impact is real too. Food waste in landfills creates methane because it decomposes without oxygen. Composting allows proper aerobic decomposition that doesn't produce methane. Plus you're creating something useful instead of just throwing organic matter away and then buying fertilizer that had to be manufactured and shipped.
It's been about two years since I started composting regularly, and it's become such a normal part of my routine that I barely think about it anymore. My current setup produces enough finished compost for my container plants with some left over to share with neighbors who have gardens. My trash output is probably 30% less than it used to be, just from diverting food scraps.
Would I call myself a composting expert? Definitely not. I've killed plants, created smelly messes, attracted unwanted bugs, and made plenty of mistakes along the way. But that's kind of the point – you don't need to be perfect at it for it to be worthwhile. Even mediocre composting is better than sending all your organic waste to a landfill.
The whole experience reinforced something I'd been learning about sustainable living – that small changes can add up to something meaningful, and that working with natural processes instead of against them usually leads to better outcomes. Composting isn't going to solve climate change by itself, but it's one piece of living more responsibly that actually feels good instead of like a sacrifice.
Daniel’s a millennial renter learning how to live greener in small spaces. From composting on a balcony to repairing thrifted furniture, he shares honest, low-stress ways to make sustainability doable on a budget. His posts are equal parts curiosity, trial, and tiny wins that actually stick.
