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The surprisingly strong case for Mill.
Food waste is a climate disaster, responsible for twice as many greenhouse gases as the global aviation, shipping, and paper industries combined. The food system generates about a third of our emissions, and nearly a third of the food it produces never makes it to our stomachs, which means we waste nearly a third of the farmland, fuel, fertilizer, electricity, irrigation water, and deforestation that goes into producing our food. At the same time, the 40 million tons of uneaten food that Americans send to landfills every year can decompose into heat-trapping methane, which also isn’t great.
But maybe Harry can help.
Harry is a sleek white Wi-Fi-connected garbage bin in my family’s pantry, a “food dehydrator” that transforms our kitchen scraps into chicken feed. It was created by Mill, a San Francisco-area startup that has raised more than $100 million to try to keep more household waste inside the food system. Mill’s founders built the Nest thermostat that limits household energy waste, so they know something about using high-tech hardware to try to adjust consumer habits in climate-friendly ways. They’ve shipped thousands of bins since April, and they say they’ve got more demand than their Mexican factory can supply.
Every day, my family tosses banana peels, pizza crusts, eggshells, moldy salmon, wilted celery, and other leftovers into Harry. Every night, Harry spends about six hours heating, grinding and shrinking them into nutrient-rich feed that looks like a cross between coffee grounds and dirt. Food waste is about 80 percent water, and Harry dries it out; it takes almost two months before the bin gets full and I have to mail the grounds back to Mill.
It’s a seamless user experience, with no smell, no schlep, and so far, virtually no noise. The bin has a cool wood-veneer lid with a convenient foot pedal to lift it; Mill CEO Matt Rogers helped engineer the iPod and iPhone at Apple before he started Nest, so he knows something about good design, too. And the company has calculated that its bins will help the average household avoid about half a ton of emissions every year, not even including the deforestation that won’t be needed to grow the chicken feed Mill will replace.
Mill’s app prompts you to name your bin upon arrival, and we named ours after Mill president Harry Tannenbaum, an engaging climate wonk who charmed me with his frequent use of the word “putrescence.” (I initially wanted to name it Wastoid, but my wife informed me that was stupid.) Tannenbaum got the idea for Mill after learning that food waste is the largest component of U.S. landfills.
“That freaked me out,” Tannebaum said. “Not only are we disconnecting those nutrients from returning to the earth by entombing them in landfills, they’re creating methane that cooks the earth. And it’s all starting in our kitchens.”
Composting can keep food waste out of landfills, too, but only 4 percent of U.S. households compost, because separating and storing food scraps can be a time-consuming, odor-producing, rodent-attracting hassle. And unlike many composting programs, which have absurdly complex requirements about what can be used, Mill’s bins can recycle just about everything except big bones, liquids, and excessive sugar. But their real bonus for the planet is that while compost can be used to help grow food, Mill’s grounds are still basically food. This summer, the Food and Drug Administration and the Association of American Feed Control Officials cleared the way for their use as commercial poultry feed, a much higher use than compost on the EPA’s food recovery hierarchy. It’s the first step in getting those grounds into the hands of chicken farmers.
It’s nice that my family no longer has to take out our regular trash so often, now that we no longer dump food into it, and I get a kick out of leaving Harry like this at night:
and seeing this the next morning:
It’s real bio-recycling, and while Mill would only be able to feed 7 percent of U.S. chickens if every U.S. household had a bin, every soybean that Mill can replace is a soybean that doesn’t need to be grown in the Amazon. And Harry helps us notice what we’re not eating — Instacart, you’re sending us too many mushy grapes — so that we can buy less of it and avoid waste on the front end.
That said, Mill is letting me use Harry for free, because I’m a dork who writes about food and climate change. I might be less enthusiastic if I were paying the hefty normal-human rate of $33 a month for the privilege of using its bins. Some composting services cost almost that much, and Mill emphasizes that its bins can take the stink and ick out of the kitchen experience — no putrescence! — but realistically, they provide more benefits for the climate than for consumers, which will limit the universe of consumers willing to shell out $396 a year for them.
Tannenbaum says Mill makes more economic sense in communities with “pay-as-you-throw” garbage collection, because Mill customers can save money by stepping down to smaller trash cans; in a pilot program in Tacoma, Washington, those savings have often reduced Mill’s effective cost to $8 a month. Mill is also working on deals with apartment buildings to provide bins to all their residents, so they could have easier trash management and less disgusting trash rooms. And corporations looking to shrink their carbon footprints could shrink their janitorial costs as well by putting Mill bins in their cafeterias. Tannenbaum points out that at Nest, after early-adopting consumers proved that smart thermostats could reduce energy waste, utilities helped defray the costs of moving Nest into the mainstream.
But change is hard, especially behavioral change. And change is slow, which is a problem, because the U.S. has set a goal of cutting food waste in half by 2030. There’s no way Mill can scale up fast enough to make a serious difference without government help. And that’s true for all kinds of food waste solutions — behavioral approaches like Britain’s “Love Food Not Waste” marketing campaign; policy reforms like tax breaks for restaurants that donate leftovers; and technologies like invisible biotech peels that prevent fruit and vegetables from spoiling. Our species is not going to wake up one day and make a collective decision to stop wasting a billion tons of food every year. We’ll need shoves (and cash) to overcome our inertia.
In fact, the U.S. Department of Agriculture announced last week that it’s investing $25 million in avoiding food waste. That’s a nice gesture, enough to fund 60,000 Mill bins for a year. But it’s a pittance compared to the $23 billion that USDA is spending on “climate-smart agriculture” — mostly regenerative farming experiments that, to put it charitably, will have an uncertain effect on emissions — and especially compared to the $428 billion in the last five-year farm bill.
Until recently, climate policy was seen as energy policy. But the world is starting to understand that unless it dramatically slashes emissions from the food system — at least a 75 percent reduction by 2050 — it won’t meet its climate goals even if it stops using fossil fuels. Congress is now talking about a new farm bill, and history suggests its main thrust will be to keep shoveling big money to big farmers. But it’s also an opportunity to make real investments in scaling up climate-friendly agricultural innovations like drought-tolerant super-trees, meat and dairy substitutes, alternative fertilizers, and food waste recycling options like Harry. Our energy and climate problems aren’t getting better fast enough, but our food and climate problems are still getting worse, and we’re not going to fix them by doing the same things we’ve always done.
That’s just putrescence.
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Paradise, California, is snatching up high-risk properties to create a defensive perimeter and prevent the town from burning again.
The 2018 Camp Fire was the deadliest wildfire in California’s history, wiping out 90% of the structures in the mountain town of Paradise and killing at least 85 people in a matter of hours. Investigations afterward found that Paradise’s town planners had ignored warnings of the fire risk to its residents and forgone common-sense preparations that would have saved lives. In the years since, the Camp Fire has consequently become a cautionary tale for similar communities in high-risk wildfire areas — places like Chinese Camp, a small historic landmark in the Sierra Nevada foothills that dramatically burned to the ground last week as part of the nearly 14,000-acre TCU September Lightning Complex.
More recently, Paradise has also become a model for how a town can rebuild wisely after a wildfire. At least some of that is due to the work of Dan Efseaff, the director of the Paradise Recreation and Park District, who has launched a program to identify and acquire some of the highest-risk, hardest-to-access properties in the Camp Fire burn scar. Though he has a limited total operating budget of around $5.5 million and relies heavily on the charity of local property owners (he’s currently in the process of applying for a $15 million grant with a $5 million match for the program) Efseaff has nevertheless managed to build the beginning of a defensible buffer of managed parkland around Paradise that could potentially buy the town time in the case of a future wildfire.
In order to better understand how communities can build back smarter after — or, ideally, before — a catastrophic fire, I spoke with Efseaff about his work in Paradise and how other communities might be able to replicate it. Our conversation has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.
Do you live in Paradise? Were you there during the Camp Fire?
I actually live in Chico. We’ve lived here since the mid-‘90s, but I have a long connection to Paradise; I’ve worked for the district since 2017. I’m also a sea kayak instructor and during the Camp Fire, I was in South Carolina for a training. I was away from the phone until I got back at the end of the day and saw it blowing up with everything.
I have triplet daughters who were attending Butte College at the time, and they needed to be evacuated. There was a lot of uncertainty that day. But it gave me some perspective, because I couldn’t get back for two days. It gave me a chance to think, “Okay, what’s our response going to be?” Looking two days out, it was like: That would have been payroll, let’s get people together, and then let’s figure out what we’re going to do two weeks and two months from now.
It also got my mind thinking about what we would have done going backwards. If you’d had two weeks to prepare, you would have gotten your go-bag together, you’d have come up with your evacuation route — that type of thing. But when you run the movie backwards on what you would have done differently if you had two years or two decades, it would include prepping the landscape, making some safer community defensible space. That’s what got me started.
Was it your idea to buy up the high-risk properties in the burn scar?
I would say I adapted it. Everyone wants to say it was their idea, but I’ll tell you where it came from: Pre-fire, the thinking was that it would make sense for the town to have a perimeter trail from a recreation standpoint. But I was also trying to pitch it as a good idea from a fuel standpoint, so that if there was a wildfire, you could respond to it. Certainly, the idea took on a whole other dimension after the Camp Fire.
I’m a restoration ecologist, so I’ve done a lot of river floodplain work. There are a lot of analogies there. The trend has been to give nature a little bit more room: You’re not going to stop a flood, but you can minimize damage to human infrastructure. Putting levees too close to the river makes them more prone to failing and puts people at risk — but if you can set the levee back a little bit, it gives the flood waters room to go through. That’s why I thought we need a little bit of a buffer in Paradise and some protection around the community. We need a transition between an area that is going to burn, and that we can let burn, but not in a way that is catastrophic.
How hard has it been to find willing sellers? Do most people in the area want to rebuild — or need to because of their mortgages?
Ironically, the biggest challenge for us is finding adequate funding. A lot of the property we have so far has been donated to us. It’s probably upwards of — oh, let’s see, at least half a dozen properties have been donated, probably close to 200 acres at this point.
We are applying for some federal grants right now, and we’ll see how that goes. What’s evolved quite a bit on this in recent years, though, is that — because we’ve done some modeling — instead of thinking of the buffer as areas that are managed uniformly around the community, we’re much more strategic. These fire events are wind-driven, and there are only a couple of directions where the wind blows sufficiently long enough and powerful enough for the other conditions to fall into play. That’s not to say other events couldn’t happen, but we’re going after the most likely events that would cause catastrophic fires, and that would be from the Diablo winds, or north winds, that come through our area. That was what happened in the Camp Fire scenario, and another one our models caught what sure looked a lot like the [2024] Park Fire.
One thing that I want to make clear is that some people think, “Oh, this is a fire break. It’s devoid of vegetation.” No, what we’re talking about is a well-managed habitat. These are shaded fuel breaks. You maintain the big trees, you get rid of the ladder fuels, and you get rid of the dead wood that’s on the ground. We have good examples with our partners, like the Butte Fire Safe Council, on how this works, and it looks like it helped protect the community of Cohasset during the Park Fire. They did some work on some strips there, and the fire essentially dropped to the ground before it came to Paradise Lake. You didn’t have an aerial tanker dropping retardant, you didn’t have a $2-million-per-day fire crew out there doing work. It was modest work done early and in the right place that actually changed the behavior of the fire.
Tell me a little more about the modeling you’ve been doing.
We looked at fire pathways with a group called XyloPlan out of the Bay Area. The concept is that you simulate a series of ignitions with certain wind conditions, terrain, and vegetation. The model looked very much like a Camp Fire scenario; it followed the same pathway, going towards the community in a little gulch that channeled high winds. You need to interrupt that pathway — and that doesn’t necessarily mean creating an area devoid of vegetation, but if you have these areas where the fire behavior changes and drops down to the ground, then it slows the travel. I found this hard to believe, but in the modeling results, in a scenario like the Camp Fire, it could buy you up to eight hours. With modern California firefighting, you could empty out the community in a systematic way in that time. You could have a vigorous fire response. You could have aircraft potentially ready. It’s a game-changing situation, rather than the 30 minutes Paradise had when the Camp Fire started.
How does this work when you’re dealing with private property owners, though? How do you convince them to move or donate their land?
We’re a Park and Recreation District so we don’t have regulatory authority. We are just trying to run with a good idea with the properties that we have so far — those from willing donors mostly, but there have been a couple of sales. If we’re unable to get federal funding or state support, though, I ultimately think this idea will still have to be here — whether it’s five, 10, 15, or 50 years from now. We have to manage this area in a comprehensive way.
Private property rights are very important, and we don’t want to impinge on that. And yet, what a person does on their property has a huge impact on the 30,000 people who may be downwind of them. It’s an unusual situation: In a hurricane, if you have a hurricane-rated roof and your neighbor doesn’t, and theirs blows off, you feel sorry for your neighbor but it’s probably not going to harm your property much. In a wildfire, what your neighbor has done with the wood, or how they treat vegetation, has a significant impact on your home and whether your family is going to survive. It’s a fundamentally different kind of event than some of the other disasters we look at.
Do you have any advice for community leaders who might want to consider creating buffer zones or something similar to what you’re doing in Paradise?
Start today. You have to think about these things with some urgency, but they’re not something people think about until it happens. Paradise, for many decades, did not have a single escaped wildfire make it into the community. Then, overnight, the community is essentially wiped out. But in so many places, these events are foreseeable; we’re just not wired to think about them or prepare for them.
Buffers around communities make a lot of sense, even from a road network standpoint. Even from a trash pickup standpoint. You don’t think about this, but if your community is really strung out, making it a little more thoughtfully laid out also makes it more economically viable to provide services to people. Some things we look for now are long roads that don’t have any connections — that were one-way in and no way out. I don’t think [the traffic jams and deaths in] Paradise would have happened with what we know now, but I kind of think [authorities] did know better beforehand. It just wasn’t economically viable at the time; they didn’t think it was a big deal, but they built the roads anyway. We can be doing a lot of things smarter.
A war of attrition is now turning in opponents’ favor.
A solar developer’s defeat in Massachusetts last week reveals just how much stronger project opponents are on the battlefield after the de facto repeal of the Inflation Reduction Act.
Last week, solar developer PureSky pulled five projects under development around the western Massachusetts town of Shutesbury. PureSky’s facilities had been in the works for years and would together represent what the developer has claimed would be one of the state’s largest solar projects thus far. In a statement, the company laid blame on “broader policy and regulatory headwinds,” including the state’s existing renewables incentives not keeping pace with rising costs and “federal policy updates,” which PureSky said were “making it harder to finance projects like those proposed near Shutesbury.”
But tucked in its press release was an admission from the company’s vice president of development Derek Moretz: this was also about the town, which had enacted a bylaw significantly restricting solar development that the company was until recently fighting vigorously in court.
“There are very few areas in the Commonwealth that are feasible to reach its clean energy goals,” Moretz stated. “We respect the Town’s conservation go als, but it is clear that systemic reforms are needed for Massachusetts to source its own energy.”
This stems from a story that probably sounds familiar: after proposing the projects, PureSky began reckoning with a burgeoning opposition campaign centered around nature conservation. Led by a fresh opposition group, Smart Solar Shutesbury, activists successfully pushed the town to drastically curtail development in 2023, pointing to the amount of forest acreage that would potentially be cleared in order to construct the projects. The town had previously not permitted facilities larger than 15 acres, but the fresh change went further, essentially banning battery storage and solar projects in most areas.
When this first happened, the state Attorney General’s office actually had PureSky’s back, challenging the legality of the bylaw that would block construction. And PureSky filed a lawsuit that was, until recently, ongoing with no signs of stopping. But last week, shortly after the Treasury Department unveiled its rules for implementing Trump’s new tax and spending law, which basically repealed the Inflation Reduction Act, PureSky settled with the town and dropped the lawsuit – and the projects went away along with the court fight.
What does this tell us? Well, things out in the country must be getting quite bleak for solar developers in areas with strident and locked-in opposition that could be costly to fight. Where before project developers might have been able to stomach the struggle, money talks – and the dollars are starting to tell executives to lay down their arms.
The picture gets worse on the macro level: On Monday, the Solar Energy Industries Association released a report declaring that federal policy changes brought about by phasing out federal tax incentives would put the U.S. at risk of losing upwards of 55 gigawatts of solar project development by 2030, representing a loss of more than 20 percent of the project pipeline.
But the trade group said most of that total – 44 gigawatts – was linked specifically to the Trump administration’s decision to halt federal permitting for renewable energy facilities, a decision that may impact generation out west but has little-to-know bearing on most large solar projects because those are almost always on private land.
Heatmap Pro can tell us how much is at stake here. To give you a sense of perspective, across the U.S., over 81 gigawatts worth of renewable energy projects are being contested right now, with non-Western states – the Northeast, South and Midwest – making up almost 60% of that potential capacity.
If historical trends hold, you’d expect a staggering 49% of those projects to be canceled. That would be on top of the totals SEIA suggests could be at risk from new Trump permitting policies.
I suspect the rate of cancellations in the face of project opposition will increase. And if this policy landscape is helping activists kill projects in blue states in desperate need of power, like Massachusetts, then the future may be more difficult to swallow than we can imagine at the moment.
And more on the week’s most important conflicts around renewables.
1. Wells County, Indiana – One of the nation’s most at-risk solar projects may now be prompting a full on moratorium.
2. Clark County, Ohio – Another Ohio county has significantly restricted renewable energy development, this time with big political implications.
3. Daviess County, Kentucky – NextEra’s having some problems getting past this county’s setbacks.
4. Columbia County, Georgia – Sometimes the wealthy will just say no to a solar farm.
5. Ottawa County, Michigan – A proposed battery storage facility in the Mitten State looks like it is about to test the state’s new permitting primacy law.