The Missing Middle: Why Organics Programs Fail Between Kitchen and Curb

After more than 25 years in residential property management, Michelle Horneff-Cohen has landed on a simple diagnosis for underperforming organics programs: the problem often isn't at the curb or the composting facility, but in the overlooked space between them — the journey food scraps must take from the kitchen to the collection point.

Horneff-Cohen, founder of Clean Composting Company and creator of The Compost Collector®, argues that residential organics programs get discussed in terms of two endpoints — what residents separate at home and what happens after material enters the collection and processing system. What gets ignored is everything in between.

That gap matters. "The steps involved in that movement can determine whether a resident participates consistently, participates occasionally, or does not participate at all," she writes.

Where does collection actually begin?

From an operational standpoint, collection starts when material enters a cart or a hauler picks it up. From a resident's perspective, it starts earlier — when a meal is prepared and scraps are generated. The resident then decides where those scraps go inside the home, how long they stay there, and how they'll travel to the collection point.

The journey varies sharply by housing type. A single-family household with curbside service may face a short trip. A multifamily resident might carry scraps from an apartment to a shared waste room, chute area, garage, or courtyard. A drop-off participant may have to transport material beyond the property altogether.

Different models, one shared requirement: the resident must complete the in-home portion successfully before the rest of the system works.

Why does multifamily housing raise the stakes?

Apartments bring operational complexity. Kitchens and storage space are limited. Collection infrastructure is shared. The distance from unit to organics bin often far exceeds anything in a single-family home. And resident turnover creates a permanent need for clear communication.

Horneff-Cohen draws on a lesson from property management: making something available does not necessarily make it easy to use. An organics cart on the property provides access, but leaves practical questions unanswered:

• Where should food scraps be kept inside the apartment?
• How should they be transported through the building?
• What if a resident is unsure whether an item is accepted?
• Are instructions easy to find for someone who just moved in?

"From the resident's perspective, however, they are the program," she writes of these seemingly minor details.

Isn't education enough?

No — and Horneff-Cohen is explicit about this. Access and usability are not the same thing. A program can have excellent downstream infrastructure and still create unnecessary difficulty at the household level, with friction around storage, odor, mess, cleaning, transport, or uncertainty about accepted materials.

Clear education remains essential. But it can't solve every usability problem. If participation demands too many steps, repeated cleaning, confusing material decisions, or an inconvenient trip, another flyer won't fix the underlying issue. Program design should examine not just whether residents have access, but how they're expected to use that access in daily life.

What about contamination?

Material acceptance must stay local, Horneff-Cohen argues. The growing range of products marketed for organics collection means residents can't assume every item labeled "compostable" is accepted — collection rules and processing capabilities differ by program.

That has contamination consequences. A resident can place an unwanted material in the organics stream while genuinely believing they're following the rules. The mistake starts in the kitchen, but its costs land downstream. Simpler, more specific instructions mean less interpretation left to residents — and a cleaner collection stream.

How should programs redesign?

Horneff-Cohen's prescription: municipalities, property managers, haulers, and other stakeholders should follow the food scrap through its entire journey rather than evaluating each component separately. Key questions include:

• Where are scraps stored inside the home, and how far must the resident travel?
• Are accepted materials clearly explained?
• What happens when a new resident enters the program?
• Does the system force unnecessary decisions or avoidable steps?

Answers will vary by community, which is why no single collection strategy fits every setting. The goal isn't to force every household into one method, but to understand how the chosen model works from the resident's point of view.

She also warns against designing for the ideal participant — the resident who reads every instruction, remembers every rule, and never misses collection day. Real residents are working, raising families, carrying groceries, and moving into new buildings. A system that depends on perfect information and perfect consistency is fragile.

The organics industry has invested heavily in collection trucks and processing facilities. Horneff-Cohen's closing argument is that the smaller connectors — the kitchen container, temporary storage, the walk to a shared bin, the trip to a drop-off site, the attached instructions — decide whether material ever reaches that infrastructure.

When participation lags, the first question shouldn't be how to make residents care more. It should be: what is making participation harder than it needs to be?