By Scott Sullivan
Editor
Bug Acre
Yum, yum … maggots? A Washington Post story stops shy of saying maggo-roni and cheese will soon be a diet staple for humans. But it already is for pets.
Grubs are beetle, not fly, larvae, but no doubt Grubhub sells them. Birds and lizards love chowing down on maggots, which can turn feces, decaying bodies, even toxic algae into high-quality protein, all the while leaving a smaller carbon footprint than they found. In one year, the Post says, one acre of black soldier fly larvae can produce more protein than 3,000 acres of cattle or 130 acres of soybeans.
Such yields, combined with the need to find cheap and reliable protein for a world population projected to jump 30 percent to 9.8 billion by 2050, has the United Nations warning current human animal-rich diets can’t sustain us. To fulfill planetary protein needs, the U.N. urges governments and businesses to harvest insects.
The trouble was, until 2002, no one knew how to get captive flies to mate and deposit eggs, at least reliably. That changed when Texas A&M entomology professor Jeff Tomberlin published a soldier flies’ “Joy of Sex” — OK, a scientific paper, showing how to do it.
Today he runs Evo Conversion Systems, where thousands of flies careen around cages seeking mates. He sells hatched larvae to Texas-Symton BSF next door, which harvests and peddles results as pet food.
Guess who’s next? Maggot Krispies! Coming soon to cereal bowls near you!
What the news business lacks in glamor it makes up for in stress and penury. Wanting out, I looked to the past for role models. One was obvious: Oliver Wendell Douglas, the character Eddie Albert played in “Green Acres.”
The 1965-71 TV sitcom starred him as a New York lawyer who fulfills his dream to become a farmer, dragging his unwilling wife — who adores their penthouse view and shops on Park Avenue — to Hooterville.
My means 60 years later are somewhat different. Take my wife. She’s not Eva Gabor, but will have to do. Plus I can only afford one acre. Wearing slacks and waistcoat, holding a pitchfork like Oliver, I will introduce her to paradise.
“One acre?” she’ll say.
“Fear not,” I’ll reply. “Growing maggots, I can produce more protein than 3,000 acres of cattle.”
“No way.”
“I can do that?”
“That I’m moving here.”
“Bug Acre,” I’ll croon, “is the place to …”
“What are those soldier flies doing?”
“Breeding. Hint-hint.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard.”
“Wait, there’s more.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mr. Haney,” I’ll say. “What brings you here?”
“You bought the … sorry, my farm,” he’ll say. “I have something else you need …”
“A pig?”
“Not just any pig. Arnold Ziffel!”
“That does it,” my wife will say. “I’m going inside to do dishes.” We’ll hear them crashing as she throws them outside the window.
“Mr. Haney,” I’ll sigh. “My life has become a sitcom.”
“I have just what you need,” he’ll say, reaching in his truck.
“Jed and Jethro Clampett? They’re the Beverly Hillbillies.”
“Oops, wrong show. Here’s Uncle Joe from the Shady Rest … ”
“That’s ‘Petticoat Junction.’ Can’t we get back to maggots?”
Maybe the news biz isn’t that bad, I’ve decided. I am all for feeding the world, even if it’s not Christmastime, and more so if I can get rich at it. But what good is eating maggots if people throw up at the thought? We must change that mindset.
Evo larvae feast on spent grains from breweries, I learned, so I went to one to do research.
“What’s on tap?” I asked.
“Larva Lager, Pupa Pilsner,” said the bartender.
“Give me one of each. Where do you get maggots?”
“Look outside,” he said
“Clydesdales?”
“You don’t need them for manure when you’re already full of it,” he said.
