Yawn!
I should be writing, trying to improve my Spanish or even studying how to use my new camera, but all that sounds like work. Plus, I am feeling foggy-brained, a common affliction of overheated, aging grey matter. It is hard to feel motivated when the house is a broiler. I am stuck here in my media room, air conditioning running at full tilt to keep this one wee space a barely habitable 86 degrees.
Surfing the net is so much easier. I must say I excel at avoiding anything resembling productivity. It helps to be an omnivore of news, food, living, science, health and whatever sounds more interesting than work, which is basically the whole universe. Fortunately, or should that be unfortunately, there is an endless supply of useless drivel out there to help squander away the time.
I have just come across a fascinating article in the New York Times about dyeing clothes with avocado pits. It was from last year but is surprisingly relevant to current times. Who knew there was such a thing?
With the pandemic still ongoing, finding things to do from the quiet comfort of my home has become the height of fascinating. For example, when IKEA published its Swedish Meatball recipe, I raced out the next day and bought the requisite ingredients. I was stoked that everything was available on the island – a frequent limitation – save for Dijon mustard. But having unearthed far too many recipes requiring a dollop of the aforesaid seasoning, I had the prescience to buy a jar in La Ceiba on the mainland shortly before COVID-19 and quarantine hit.
Did you know Dijon mustard comes from Dijon, France? I spent the summer between my college freshman and sophomore years studying French at the University of Dijon. I found it curious that all the local shops were full of mustard. I mean tons of it. Dijon really had a thing for the condiment. Finally, six weeks into my sojourn there, it dawned on me: Dijon – Dijon mustard. Duh! In my defense, I was eighteen and had a lot on my mind other than mustard (classes, sightseeing, boys, goofing about, not necessarily in that order).
In any event, those IKEA meatballs and sauce were heaven on earth. A perfect quarantine meal.
Now, I feel equally compelled to dye something, especially given the intriguing color produced by this exquisite fruit. First, though, I need avocado pits. Fortunately, every Tuesday is Taco Tuesday Chez Sandra, and the key dish after the eponymous tacos is guacamole (though some might say margaritas). During the strictest part of the curfew when we had to be back in our homes by five p.m., it was Taco Tuesday brunch. Now with the curfew pushed back to nine p.m., I am back to an early dinner and the morning’s tequila-infused decadence alas relegated to a more appropriate five p.m., but then isn’t it always five o’clock somewhere?
How many weeks of collecting will it take? Three to five pits are needed for a small project, but our avocados are not like the uniform, industrially raised ones you find in the U.S. Here, a pit can be the size of a gum ball or a billiard ball, but that snooker size is usually reserved for the sweet, smooth, green, locally-grown avocados. They are perfect for a salad. Guac is best, however, with dark, pebbly Hass. I am thinking a dozen mini-pits should do it. That’s only three taco nights.
Next question, the tough one – what will I dye?
Something to wear might be fun. A top of some sort? There is bound to be a white cotton chemise somewhere on the island.
I spend the next couple of weeks with my eyes glued to every store front as the pile of pits on my kitchen counter grows. Miles and miles of walking, but not a snippet has jumped up and down and yelled, “Dye me! Dye me!” Enough is enough. It is time to make a decision. Buy something. Anything. I am conducting a proof of concept, not creating a Vivienne Westwood masterpiece.
Fortunately, today is veggie day! The supply boat came in this afternoon, and the vegetable stand at the far end of town will be choc full of fresh produce – the perfect opportunity for one long, last perusal.
Lubed up with sun screen and insect repellant, I trot through town, eyes darting left and right, scanning for the perfect, white beacon of dyeing nirvana. Twenty minutes later, I arrive a hot, sweaty, drenched disillusioned mess.
To add insult to injury, everyone else has same idea as me, and the stand is packed. I wiggle my way to the bins lining the store front and load up on limes, jalapeños and tomatoes for the next Taco Tuesday. I skip the avocados as my avo-whisperer buddy supplies those. There is a science – much more complex than e = mc2 – to picking them, which I have yet to master. It involves a byzantine calculation based on stage of ripeness, type of avocado, number of days to consumption and the time spent on the counter verses in the fridge.
But I still need the crowning ingredient for sublime guac – cilantro. Grumble. There is only one sole, pitiful, listless bunch draped over green peppers out here. I say a brief eulogy for its recent departure and weave my way inside to poke through an unpacked box of the herb in the back.
Nope. Nope. Maybe. Nope. Guess this small bundle of flaccid fronds will have to do. I have water sitting in the fridge for exactly this sort of resuscitation. A good soak, a gentle towel dry and presto, the wilted rise once again. Wish it were so easy to rejuvenate myself.
I pay for my verduras, vegetables, and stow them in my backpack before walking out the tiny shop. Heat is steaming off the pavement. Was it this scorching hot when I left my house? My usual brisk walk home is not going to happen in these torrid conditions. I feel as withered as that expired cilantro and am too drained to do anything more than plod back. Though somehow, I need to find the energy to re-inspect all possible dye candidates and focus on every rag, frock or fleck on route. I cannot return empty-handed.
All right sweltering inferno, here I come.
Hmm . . . That tank top hanging on that blue store front might do. I like the tribal turtle and Utila logo. But it is not one hundred percent me, and it looks awfully large. I would have to go inside and see if they have a small. I am not feeling the love, so it is a definite nope.
Onwards!
Now that shirt looks nice and lightweight, no logos or designs; however, the fabric looks synthetic. I need natural fibers to absorb the dye.
I pass by a few more shops, feeling more like Goldilocks than Martha Stewart: too bright (need a neutral pallet for my pièce de résistance), too cheap (that print looks like clip art), too hot (can’t have sleeves in this heat).
Will I ever find my “just right,” the perfect subject for my accumulated raggedy horde of avocado pits? Perhaps my focus is too narrow. A kitchen towel? A pair of shorts? But where would I find white, cotton ones on the island?
Before long, lost in deep dye thoughts, I find myself approaching Skid Row, a mere two minutes from my house. I come to a halt and debate what to do. Turn around? Head back for an imperfect solution? Or, accept I failed my mission?
The searing sun and wilting cilantro in my back pack make the decision for me. Homeward bound! But then I see my buddy playing pool with his neighbors at Skid Row. I start to head inside for a quick hello when I stop cold in my tracks.
The angels from the heavens above start to sing. There it is. My canvas! Hanging from the rafters highlighted by a ray of light is a crisp, white tank top with the Skid Row skull screened in black on the front.
Behind the bar are loads of neatly stacked piles, sorted by color sitting on four long shelves, marked by size. I ask the bartender for a small in white and hand over 200 lempira – $8. A great price to boot!
Stoked, I share my find with my friend who confirms its perfectness. Reinvigorated, I skip the remaining few steps home.
After cleaning up my veggies and refreshing the cilantro, I scour the internet for instructions, having forgotten how the whole process works. The lady in the Times article crushed her pits, but she was engaged in a commercial operations. We rank amateurs seem content to boil them whole. Goodness, there are a lot of different methodologies out there.
I decide to forge my own path through the commonalities. First order of business: wash my shirt to strip the fabric clean so it takes the dye better. When is my next load of laundry? A couple of days. Too long. I have squandered away enough time collecting my pits. Time to march forward!
I fill a large plastic bowl with water in my laundry room sink before adding detergent and the tank top. I pull and tug at it in an attempt to mimic a washing machine agitator and then leave it to soak while I prepare the dye. I dump my dozen motley pits into a small pot filled with water and start the boil.
In another pot, I bring more water to a boil before turning off the flame. I rinse my tank top numerous times and place it in the clean, hot water. I read somewhere that soaking in warm water helps the fiber absorb the dye. Before I go to bed, I turn off the simmering dark, avocado water and let that sit overnight, too.
Feeling both virtuous for having completed the day’s quest and tired from a hot, sticky day, I doze off into a contented, rejuvenating sleep.
The faint glow of the rising sun rouses me from my slumber. I take a deep breath and smile. Today is the day. D-day. Dye Day.
I spring out of bed, bound to the stove and stare into my pots. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but they look the same as last night: one sopping wet, white shirt and one pot of dark water with a cornucopia of avocado pits. The largest, about the size of a walnut, has split into two, revealing a smooth, pale interior.
If memory serves, warm water is better for dyeing than cold, so I press the starter and turn the dial to high while peering at the burner. A couple of clicks and a bright blue flame flashes into life. Having used a gas range for years, I cannot imagine working with an electric one again. Without the visual confirmation of my temperature setting, I would be cooking blind.
While the dusky water is heating up, I grab my skimmer and scoop up the bobbing baubles, depositing them into a scrap bucket. I recently started collecting vegetable cuttings and fruit remnants to enrich the soil around my plants. However, my cast of crabs has a different idea. It only takes them a day or two to denude the ground of discards except for limes. They don’t seem to be too fond of them. But give them a few more days and even my squeezed lime halves are gone. Wonder what they will think of boiled avocado pits?
I take the other pot, dump it into the sink and wring out my top, not wanting any extra moisture to dilute the dye. Then I hesitate – did I make enough dye water? Should I have used a larger pot? Do I have a larger pot? I have been meaning to fill that gap in my All Clad collection, but those durn pots are so expensive. On the other hand, they do last a lifetime. I still have the original starter set I bought when I graduated from law school in 1987.
Returning to my range, I stare into the pit pot. It is the one I use to make chicken stock from the scrawny, but tasty, chickens I buy here. I am barely able to fit the bones and veggies in. Something is always sticking out, forcing me to play wack-a-mole.
Too late now. It is going to have to be small shirt, small pot. I push the top into the water with a wooden spoon and swish it around. Steam is beginning to rise, so I turn off the burner. I am not making boiled tank top, after all. Sigh. It is quite squished in there. A bigger pot definitely would be better, but too big and I would be collecting avocado pits for years. Well, I will just have to remember to periodically give it a stir to help the dye penetrate evenly.
At the end of the day, I return one last time to my pot. The material appears to be thoroughly saturated. I drain the water and rinse the shirt. A dark liquid runs into the sink. I rinse again, and the water is already a paler shadow of its original, rich hue. By the fifth rinse, the water is clear.
I roll my shirt in a kitchen towel to absorb the excess water and then hang it up in my usual indoor drying space – my guest bedroom door jam. During rainy winter days when the wash won’t dry outside or lazy laundry days when there isn’t enough daylight left to finish the job, I hang my clothes in the doorways overnight. I have a dryer but reserve that for emergencies for large items like wet towels and sheets. Power is dear here while Mr. Sunshine is cheap and plenty.
As I lay down for the night, images of dyed, diaphanous dresses, crisp aprons and big, puffy chefs hats swirl inside my head, lulling me into a deep trance.
Returning to the world of the living, I blink several times, baffled by the aqua curtains and white walls. Where did my runway of tinted togs and regalia go? Oh, I am back in my tiny bedroom. I lie in my bed for a moment, hesitating. My magnum opus awaits for me outside, but will it be a master stroke of incomparable color or a calamity of blotchy, faded hues?
I throw on my robe, pad into the dim hallway and approach the hanging garment. I touch the fabric. Dry. Unable to discern much else, I pull it down and bring it into the light of the kitchen. I hold it up and admire its color: a beautiful, mellow blush of pink. I know it will fade some with washing, but that will be fine. It is hard to believe that a black-pebbled fruit with a bright yellow-green flesh creates a blush dye. But it does.
I try on my shirt and look in the mirror. I smile, enjoying the juxtaposition of the the Skid Row skull with the soft hue of the tank.
Today, I will be pretty in pink thanks to a dozen wee avocado pits.
Post script:
Go figure, while I am writing about my latest adventure, an All Clad seconds sale pops up. Seconds are as good as firsts in my book, only cheaper. What’s a girl to do?
A shiny, new, 5.5 quart, Dutch oven is now waiting for me on my next trip back to the United States. I have been eyeing this multifunction pot for years. I have infinite uses for it from cooking whole chickens to making soup with their bones. Do I hear coq au vin in my future?
Even better, what possible dye opportunities does this pot open up? A cool sundress? An airy skirt? Perhaps a simple T-shirt?
So, what shall my next muse be? Hibiscus flowers? Onion skins? Beets?
Stay tuned . . .
© 2020 Sandra Y. K. Loder
Originally published June 29, 2020