I’m feeling strangely energized, even after making what became a heavy, wintery dinner. Mashed potatoes, tempeh steaks, mushroom gravy and collard greens sauteed with garlic and lemon — all of it super delicious and made from scratch, but a definite contradiction to a day spent wandering through Central Park in 70 degree weather, in a skirt and tank top and brand new Converse (kicking them in the dust like old times to get that bright white newness dulled a little).

My brother TJ was visiting Friday night, and the two of us made the crucial connection between our ill-fitting Chuck Taylors and Converse’s recent decision to move its plant to China. I’ve a pair of kelly green Converse, at least six years old and bought used at a thrift store, more comfortable and broken in and wonderful than the crappy all-black ones I picked up at Magic Shoes last summer that are now nearing extinction. TJ and I peered into my green favorites and the explanation was staring up at us: “Made in America,” it said on the inside of the sole. I did a little research, and my fears were confirmed. Sweatshop labor. I looked into Pro Keds — they are nearly the same shoe — sweatshop labor. TJ and I headed over to Broadway to hit the hip-hop shops, figuring that in the case of having 9-year-old children assemble your shoes, spending $30 for Converse was better than giving $55 to Keds.

I’m off now to munch on the vegan spelt doughnuts Chad found at the health food store. Somehow, the idea of such a doughnut sounds really wrong to me.

How, exactly, does everyone live their lives in alignment with their values?