Looking out my Backdoor - Double bubble toil and trouble

In these perilous times, we must make our own fun. In the interests of pleasure and economy, aided by an unusual (to me) scientific bent, I set out to boil up some chemical experiments.

A huge tree with giant orange flowers lifts arms to the sky just outside my northern wall, an African tulip tree, common in Jalisco. I gathered a bowl of fallen flowers, dumped them into a large pot of boiling water.

What I hope for is a natural dye, a color in light shade of brown, to dye a pair of white cotton pants. I’ve tried the powdered dye available in farmacias in town to mottled results.

If I want brown pants, why not buy brown pants, you might ask. I would if I could find loose brown cotton pants in Etzatlan like the white pants I buy at the Mercado in Mazatlan. The pants, in a way reminiscent of the Model T Fords, are available in black — or white.

In my little country town, most women wear modern synthetic clothing, not touristy cotton beach wear. Synthetic fabrics make my skin crawl. And in our mild climate, I can wear these cropped cotton pants year round. When in Mazatlan, I stock up on white cotton pants and then figure out how to give them a squidge of color.

What did pioneer women use to dye their cloth? Leaves and seeds and twigs and nuts, right? Surely they must have experimented. That is what I am doing, experimenting. Science. Sort of.

One of the unknowns in this experiment is whether the fumes from boiling the flowers might be poisonous. Cautiously, I take a chance.

Actually, so far, the mess burbling atop the stove smells rather inviting. I’ll cheerfully nosh on pansies, nasturtiums and squash blossoms. However, I’m not willing to eat this flower until I see somebody else eat it. And survive.

This is not my first go-a-round with natural dyes. It takes a lot of tea to knock the edge off white. From experience, I prefer coffee for dye and find instant coffee easier to work with by far. Take my word for it.

After a few months of line-drying in the sub-tropical sun, my pants have sun-bleached back to original white glare and need a renewing dip.

I simmered the flowers a couple hours, cooled and strained off the liquid. Threw away the brown sludge flower goop and poured the dyed water back into the pot. Added one pair of pants and brought it back to a boil. Put a plate on top of the pants to hold them underwater. After the water cooled again, I rinsed the pants in vinegar and salt water. Hung them up to dry.

Why couldn’t high school science have been this experiential and this much fun? Grant you, I cannot explain the chemical transformations which just took place. In my day we memorized the periodic table of elements. All I recall is NaCl. But isn’t that two elements? Which means I don’t remember a thing. Or retained very little.

• African tree tulip flowers: observation — results similar to using a box of tea bags and cheaper.

In similar fashion I boiled the thick hard brown seed pods of the jacaranda tree. Amazingly these gave off the aroma of asparagus mingled with beets.

• Jacaranda seed pods: observation — results similar to a large jar of instant coffee and cheaper.

• Eucalyptus bark: Ah, earthy, scent reminiscent of mushrooms, hint of floral mystery with a delightfully sharp edge. The resultant color is a ruddy beige. You might drink it at your peril. I took the pledge. Just now.

For color depth and richness, the seed pods and bark win out over the tree tulip flowers. But this is only the beginning. Who knows what mysterious results my cooking pot might conjure before I’m done.

I wish I could teach history again. Every class would be experiential-experimental-interactive. I lay awake two nights thinking how, ways and means, to conduct my classes like a scientific historian. Regret is futile, yes, and please allow me to regret. Why cannot wisdom be a gift of youth?

I’m ready to start round two of this newfangled science stuff. One experiment leads to questions begging for answers. What if I boiled the seed pods longer than two hours? Would the resultant liquid be darker? What if I let the cloth soak longer? What would be the difference in using cotton, linen or wool? Ah, the wonder of it all.

I’m wearing my conical tall black hat, am half hidden in the roiling steam, muttering mysterious incantations with occasional gleeful cackles. Let the good times roll!

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].