Avocado Pink and Kariyasu Yellow

Japanese Kariyasu dyed wool, hand spun on the left, and avocado peel dyed wool top on the right.

Today unfolds into one of those deeply satisfying, favourite dye days where everything seems to fall into place.

For months I’ve been saving avocado peels and pits, drying them in an old apple box stored my dye space. They look humble and unassuming, but I’ve been curious about what colour they might hold. This morning, I finally decide it’s time to try them out, as I have one length of mordanted wool top left over from last weekend’s dyeing.

I weigh them out, 144 grams of dried peel and pit, and set them to gently simmer. The pot fills with a soft, earthy scent as the colour leaches into the water. After about forty-five minutes I sieve out the plant material, returning the rich liquid to the dye pot.

Waiting nearby is a length of wool top, 50 grams, already mordanted and ready to absorb colour. As soon as I ease it into the pot, I can see it happening: the most beautiful shift, a pinky-tan, pinky-brown, almost a rusty rose tone moving into the fibre. It feels alive with possibility. I keep the temperature around 80 degrees Celsius and let the wool steep, the colour deepening into something truly special, and very unexpected.

But of course, I can’t leave it there. While the wool is gently dyeing away in one pot, I start a second with the spent avocado pieces, coaxing out even more colour. Later, I combine the two, enriching the bath, and then introduce something finer, a 25 gram skein of silk-mohair yarn. To this second bath I add a touch of alum and cream of tartar, and set the pot on the cast iron topped fireplace. The evening is cold, and the fire keeps the liquid gently steaming, the yarn quietly transforming in the background of a cosy room. By the time I hang the silk skein to drip dry, I can already see the soft, delicate pink that avocado is so generous in giving.

Meanwhile, I return the peels and pits to the dye pot over the fireplace, leaving them to steep overnight, hoping for even more depth to use tomorrow. Another length of wool top is waiting, ready to enter this dye bath.

And that’s only half the story of today. Alongside the avocado, I spin up 50 grams of the wool top I dyed last weekend with Kariyasu, the Japanese miscanthus grass dye. The colour is a bright yet soft lemon yellow that reminds me sunshine. I spin it into a single, wind it off into a skein, soak it, and then give it a good thwack outdoors to set the twist. As it hangs dripping near the fireplace, it gleams with light, cheerful and full of life.

Two colours, two fibres, and a day spent in the rhythm of simmering pots, my spinning wheel, and the quiet joy of making. The avocado gives me lovely shades of pink; the Kariyasu, a lively yellow. Together they feel like a conversation between warmth and brightness, a palette made entirely from plants and patience.

It is, without question, one of those days where I remember why this practice feels so vital.