Friday, August 31, 2012

Boston Christmas

Well, it's Allston Christmas again and, indeed, all of Boston's alleys are filling up with cast-offs from students and tenants who are changing apartments around a September 1 lease. And the long weekend has barely begun.

As I walk around Back Bay and Beacon Hill every year at this time, I see the same items left in alleys and on sidewalks. Ugly print sofas and oversized armchairs will provide unexpected seating for a few days along Beacon and Marlborough Streets, for those who have yet to learn about bedbugs.

In Beacon Hill, there's always a supply of ancient tube TVs. I find this odd. They're often huge, while Beacon Hill apartments are small. And Hill dwellers are inevitably flush enough to have bought digital HD flat-screen models long before now. On the other hand, Savenor's lets shoppers buy their investment-quality beef roasts and unpronounceable cheeses on credit, so perhaps they are quietly bankrupting the neighborhood.

You can always, always find a metal torchiere (or three) up for grabs at this time of year. I've already spotted my first:

You will often find the torchiere looking, like this one, rather lonesome, and not surrounded by piles of other discards. My theory is that even people who aren't moving get restless at this time of year. They're home after their vacation, wandering around their apartments with a fresh eye and a sudden zeal for decluttering. They realize they've been harboring an intense, unarticulated dislike for their torchiere. And why not? It's cheap-looking, wobbly, and always leans a bit. It screams 1980s "transitional" style. And it doesn't even provide decent illumination, except upwards, toward the ceiling.

I suspect that many earnest declutterers fizzle out and settle for tossing old magazines, piles of hotel toiletries, dried flowers, dead plants, and tattered towels — plus the torchiere as the pièce de résistance. Getting rid of such things is good for morale even if they are low-hanging fruit.

In my brief alley walk yesterday, I also spotted this:

Is this Sponge Bob's welder friend Brad, perhaps? I have no idea, but I applaud whoever got rid of it.

In related news, it appears that, around 11 am today, a moving truck may have already wedged itself under a bridge or overpass on Storrow Drive, where height restrictions are carefully posted at every entrance. At least one foolhardy driver ignores those signs every year around this time, without fail, inspiring an informal betting games around town known as the Storrow Pool. The goal is to guess when it will happen, not if. Read Universal Hub for up-to-date reports.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Possum's Afternoon

Possum whiled away the hours between his second breakfast and his dinner by practicing creative sleeping positions. It's not as easy as it looks, but he's disciplined, approaching nap time with enthusiasm and dedication:

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Bird's-Eye Boston

I've been enjoying this spectacular image of Boston by Bram Platel, and had to share:

I can imagine this filling an entire wall in the imaginary living room of my imaginary loft.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

It's Almost Here!

It's not quite Moving Day yet, but we spotted these at the Government Center farmer's market yesterday:

Can caramel apples, cider doughnuts, sleeping weather, and sweaters be far behind?

Monday, August 27, 2012

Regarding the Red Sox...

We stopped wearing our Red Sox caps this season. Like many long-time fans, we're unhappy with the team and the management, and we're still smarting from last September. I'll never be reconciled to the hiring of Bobby Valentine, which had my Mets-vicinity relatives further south roaring with laughter, disbelief, and pity.

Having Red Sox caps in the first place was a stretch for us, since we never wear anything with words, messages, pictures, or noticeable logos. We must have cut that class in fashion school. We don't understand why an adult would wear an Ellsbury shirt, for example, unless he is Ellsbury. We're old-fashioned, with the emphasis on old. 

But baseball caps are easy to throw on when we're out doing errands on sunny days, and it's hard to find a plain one. Wearing an embroidered "B" also garners a rare modicum of courtesy from venders at Haymarket, we've found: we are more often granted permission to choose our own fruit. But we can't wear the "B" with anything passing for team spirit these days. My husband saw the Hood blimp hovering over our neighborhood the other night and, instead of enjoying it, he said it reminded him of "a fly attracted to garbage." Wow — tell me how you really feel.... But I see his point.

The recent trade with the Dodgers might help the situation somewhat, but I'm not getting my hopes up. It's certainly not going to restore my loyalty, which will require a bigger housecleaning beyond players. That would be years down the road, if it happens at all. I can wait. It took me about 15 years to recover from 1986; after what went on with my blood pressure that October, I decided the Sox were too stressful to follow.

In the meantime, I have a suggestion for a replacement for Bobby Valentine.

Somewhere in New England, there's an old-school nun who is perfect for the job. A nun with a couple of decades of teaching experience in middle school and/or high school. A nun who is also from a multigenerational Sox-fan family, of course, with intimate knowledge of the game and maybe some Little League or high school coaching experience. She can be any size or shape, as long as she's got enough disciplinary experience under her belt to strike fear into the hearts of evil-doers without saying a word. If she likes to carry a stick, or smack her charges with the massive wooden rosary hanging from her waistband, that's fine with me. (I was taught by nuns who relied on both successfully, as well as a nun who kept a big metal police whistle on a cord that she whipped around like a lasso.)

Chances are that this sister's order has already taken on the pope and his minions, who've been attacking American nuns in recent years — seemingly for being female and having working hearts and brains, along with independent ideas about serving God and humanity. Nuns need to be fearless and crafty to survive these days, it seems. I believe that's also what it takes to manage a baseball team.

Having a nun in the dugout would improve motivation, respect, and discipline better than anything else I can imagine. You can be certain that, if a nun had been managing the team last week, there would have been 100% attendance at the Pesky funeral.

It seems impossible that things can get any worse, so what could it hurt to give a nun a tryout?

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Last Postcards from Mount Desert Island

Adirondack chairs overlooking Somes Sound (next to the library)

We saw this deer grazing across the street from the inn.

A pale pink sunset in Southwest Harbor

Golden light on the dinghies.

The Rooster Brother cooks' shop in Ellsworth is our consolation 
as we leave the island for Boston. They have everything, including
gourmet food and a big tea and coffee shop in the basement. 
There's a bargain shop on the second floor. We never leave
empty-handed, and we love their molasses cookies.

My "Jordan Pond House Popover" Recipe

A dissertation on popovers begins here; for the recipe, skip down below.

Popovers are among the more thrilling transformations in the baker's repertoire: anyone can produce fabulous results from a simple batter and easy instructions. They start out looking like pancake batter but rise to extraordinary heights and strange shapes in the oven. They are baked muffin-style but they are nothing like muffins.They look solid and sturdy but, like so many of us, they are full of hot air. Popovers taste eggy and light, crispy-textured in some spots and soft in others. They must be eaten hot from the oven, and you won't be satisfied with just one. 

Popovers are interesting for their texture but not so much for their taste; they are primarily a vehicle for as much butter and jam (strawberry is traditional) as you can manage to load them with — although some people like to fill one with a scoop of ice cream, then pour on chocolate sauce. Either way, is there anything greater that a few lowly ingredients could aspire to?

Popovers are the tradition at the Jordan Pond House, a restaurant ("teahouse," originally, back in 1870) in Acadia National Park, where thousands of popovers are baked and served every day — and very quickly, since they need to arrive at the table while hot from the oven. I tried to estimate the daily quantity the last time I was there, it was awesome to contemplate. Popovers accompany practically everything on their menu from salads and soups to sandwiches and beverages. I would love to see those bakers in action. I'll bet they never eat popovers. But for the rest of us, it would be a crime against nature (we're in a state park, after all) if we didn't savor at least one popover.

A hot popover awaits its butter and jam, accompanied by iced chai.

It's traditional to sit outside under the sun or an umbrella, at a green-painted table with benches, enjoying the view of Jordan Pond with the two Bubble Mountains in the distance. Below you'll see the view from our table, in an area insiders know as "the Swoop." This is a curving outdoor row of a few tables under umbrellas, next to a sun porch. It's always shady, and more secluded than the crowded benches on the lawn, where kids and dogs are running around, chasing butterflies. The mountains are still in the distance, and the popover on your plate is much more interesting anyway.

Afterward, you can waddle down to the edge of the pond to enjoy the view:

It's easy to make popovers at home. It helps to have a popover pan. A greased muffin tin will do in a pinch, as would greased, oven-proof teacups or glasses spread out on a baking sheet, I suppose. Whatever cups you use should be deep, since the batter triples in size in the oven. Popover pans are designed to maximize air circulation, so keep that in mind if you're being creative. Use only the corners of a muffin tin, for example. 

I'm suspicious when it comes to fancy or specialized kitchen equipment; the cooks in my family worked miracles with old knives and crappy pots from the 5&10. It took me 30 years to break down and get a blender... and I've used a wine bottle for a rolling pin. But even I had to own a nonstick popover pan, so don't feel guilty about spending under $20 to get your very own.

My pan is made by Wilton but any brand that looks like this will work.

I've been looking at "Jordan Pond House Popovers" recipes all over the Internet for you. Although I've found many that are said to be official, they are not the one that I always use, which I copied out of an actual Jordan Pond House recipe book, while standing in their gift shop, more than 10 years ago. Almost none of the other recipes I've found mention the importance of letting the batter sit overnight, for example. This is the secret of the Jordan Pond popover. 

If I had to use any of the recipes I just found, I wouldn't bother because I am lazy. I rarely find it necessary to sift all-purpose flour (just use a very light hand as you fill the measuring cup). It bores me to run an electric mixer until batter has been pummeled to submission. And I'd make a total mess if I had to put the batter through a sieve to remove lumps. (Lumps are our friends! They help the batter rise, or so I've been told.)

So here's how I make popovers, using just a whisk to mix the batter in a 1-quart measuring cup, so it's easy to pour.. I've always gotten great results... except for that time they exploded all over my oven. (As I said, popovers are among the more exciting things you can bake.) Barring that one memorable disaster, which I attribute to too much baking soda, mine have always looked and tasted exactly like the ones we've eaten on the Swoop. (I've also been known to use skim milk without a significant difference in the texture or taste.)

Jordan Pond House Popovers
(makes 6, serving 2 or 3 people)

2 eggs, beaten
1 cup whole milk
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/12 teaspoon soda (that's not a typo, you need only a tiny amount)

Blend the milk and eggs, and add the dry ingredients. Stir until mixed but still lumpy.

Refrigerate overnight. Remove one hour before baking and bring to room temperature. Stir a bit.

Heat the oven to 450 degrees and fill the cups of your nonstick popover pan. (You can grease the cups, but I never bother, of course.)

Bake for 14 minutes, Then reduce the temperature to 350 degrees and bake another 15 minutes or so, until they are golden brown. DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN DOOR WHILE BAKING.

Remove and serve with softened butter and jam. 

How We Spent Our Vacation

Yes, Mount Desert Island is the home of Acadia National Park — it's all about that ocean and those lakes, ponds, mountains, hiking trails, and gentle carriage roads. 

Yes, people go there to camp, hike, climb, bike, sail, kayak, canoe, fish, ride horses, swim in the sea and the lakes, go whale-watching, and visit museums and education centers.

We rarely do any of that. We do this:

We hang around our inn's pool and hot tub, reading damp New Yorkers and computer magazines, and wishing we had a backyard just like it. Why get all sweaty? It's a vacation. On this visit, we walked a bit on just one carriage road to work off a lunch of popovers, butter, and jam at the Jordan Pond House (the only Acadia tradition we never skip). We also drove around the park a couple of times, enjoying the views and our air conditioning (and wondering where all the deer were hiding).

At least we saw it!

Friday, August 24, 2012

Maine Car Candy: Audi R8

Down the street from our inn lives a man who collects cars and occasionally parks some of his collection in front of his house. Usually we'll see a couple of vintage sportscars and convertibles out there, often under wraps. This past week, we saw only one car: this Audi R8 V8 FSI, its charcoal and black paint glowing in the pink sunset from Southwest Harbor harbor, directly behind the house. It was plenty for me:

I don't know the year for this model but I'll guess 2008–2010. I do know that they've been in production  since 2007, and there are about 19,000 in circulation worldwide. I don't think you'll find many parked on the street in Maine villages. As you can see in the last photo, it's a rear-engine design, which means you have stow your groceries and crates of library-sale books under the hood, I guess. I'm sure I'd keep forgetting, heading for the back... and it's probably insanely noisy.... but I want one anyway. 

I really do need to get a driver's license.

Postcards from Maine: Road Trip

We spent part of a day exploring another part of Maine, the Blue Hill Peninsula and Deer Isle, including the harbor town of Stonington. It's quieter and less developed there than Mount Desert Island and we had enjoyed a rainy-day visit a few years ago.  

To get to a Maine island, you can take a bridge if you're lucky. 
Otherwise, you need a ferry, the mail boat, or your own boat...

Gentle, woodsy, water views in Blue Hill.

The meat cutter from Chicago told us to be sure to visit Nervous Nellie's Jams and Jellies. This decades-old business is a small operation run by a couple — you can view the kitchen, which is not all that much bigger than the average "chef's" kitchen in a suburban McMansion. 

Apart from the jams and jellies, which are quite good, the point of a visit is to explore the extensive sculpture installation created by Peter Beerits, the male partner in the jelly business. We have finally figured out who buys all that rusted stuff at places like the Brimfield Antique Fair and puts it to artistic use: this guy. The property includes many small, creatively furnished, highly atmospheric wooden buildings that also hold sculptures of people and creatures. There are many more sculpture and found objects to discover in the woods, too. Visitors are free to walk around and interact with folks like this:

Two buildings on the grounds.

Some of the buildings have drawing pads, pens, and push-pins, so visitors can comment or otherwise express themselves and pin their work to a wall. I drew a pair of cats on my note, which asked why there weren't any cats around. The place should have had them roaming everywhere, but we saw just one dog.

This quartet greets visitors near the parking lot.

We bought a jar of cherry-peach conserve, which is perfect for me since I can never make up my mind between those two flavors.  Then we headed to Stonington for lunch in the local café.

In Stonington, we bought those two cat pillows filled with balsam from The Dry Dock, a gift shop described as a "creative department store" on Main Street. Can you spot the real balsam cat and the fake one in this photo? (I don'y know why it came in sideways.)

We walked around town, enjoying the water views, the beautiful old buildings, and the ice cream. We also spotted another fake balsam cat; we remembered from our previous visit that there seem to be lots of fluffy-tailed cats in Stonington.

Not a balsam cat but perhaps a prototype

Scenic Stonington

Two porches, two chimneys, one turret

The view of the harbor, with the houses on the hillside, has been painted many times; we were happy to  recognize it after seeing it framed in various New England galleries over the years. If you click on the photo below to enlarge it, you'll see an artist working at an easel: 

Postcards from Mount Desert Island: Library Sales

It seems that the third weekend in August is Mount Desert Island's weekend for library book sales, where the profits augment an often-tight budget. We were stunned to realize that we visit the island around this time every year, but we had only been to one library sale prior to this year. We were either much saner in previous years or out of our minds; I'm not sure which. 

This year we managed to hit two sales on opening day without advance planning: Somesville and Bar Harbor. We checked out the sale at Northeast Harbor later in the week, and revisited the Bar Harbor sale days later, while it still had thousands of books. I don't think Southwest Harbor's library had a sale or we'd have gone there, too.

While many books are library discards, most of them are donated by people cleaning out their houses. Bar Harbor residents clearly include scientists and professors of English literature, serious cooks and voracious romance readers. In Northeast Harbor, there was a gigantic mystery section and an entire shelf of Laura Ashley decorating books (I passed). In Somesville, people seem to like trade paperbacks from years gone by. At times, I felt like I was seeing my own shelves laid out across the folding tables under the tents. 

Somesville's tiny library disguised its event as a blueberry festival. But the books were a bigger attraction than the muffins, cakes, and jam. Most hardcovers were a dollar, while paperbacks were 50 cents.

This sign had to be obeyed.

An excellent old-time jazz band provided entertainment.

Browsers under the tent.

Inside the library, a quiet gem.

We already have so many books that we are shelving them on windowsills and stacking them on tables because our 200 linear feet of bookshelf space is full. I try never to buy books. But, somehow, we couldn't resist buying half of a set of Harvard Classics (Dr. Eliot's Five Foot Shelf, or a couple of feet of it, anyway) in an elegant edition in fine condition for $20, or about buck a book. They'll fit in my husband's office at school, where he added more bookshelves.

Within moments of arriving, I found a 1949 edition of The American Woman's Cookbook for a dollar.  It's packed with basic information and color illustrations — it's a classic of "the only cookbook you'll ever need" genre, designed to instruct the post-War bride in everything from stretching her main dishes to catering her own daughter's wedding reception. I have to admit that the illustrations are often sort of nauseating, with lots of piped cream cheese and maraschino cherry garnishes, etc. But I love it. 

I also bought a copy of Trilby by George DuMaurier for $5. The printing date appears to be 1894, but there's a bookplate from 1911 inside, and an envelope glued inside the back cover holds an article on DuMaurier cut from a 1911issue of Harper's Monthly. I discovered DuMaurier after reading Rebecca West's novels, including The Fountain Overflows, probably my all-time favorite novel. The Edwardian family in the story loved DuMaurier's books, so I read them, too. 

I also found a good hardcover copy of Rebecca West's The Birds Fall Down. This was impossible to find in the pre-Internet used-book world. In fact, I gave up back then and forgot all about it until last week. Now it's mine!

We filled a crate with hardbacks and then found ourselves at the much bigger sale in Bar Harbor. Book tables lines the interior of the library and filled a couple of meeting rooms. Outside, the extensive grounds were loaded with tables groaning with books, too. Again, hardcovers were mostly a dollar.

The indoor sale. We filled a box with hardcover biographies.

The bake sale boggled the mind. This is how it looked near closing time.
Volunteer bakers had heeded the call. I learned later that the town's firemen, 
police, and YWCA benefited from leftovers, and the rest was frozen for
use at library events throughout the year.

After two sales, our trunk was loaded and we tried to get a grip on ourselves. The sale in Northeast Harbor was in the smelly concrete basement of their new building, but the books were arranged by subject in alphabetical order by author. I was amazed to see this after having to sift through random stacks, rows, and boxes at the other sales. Northeast Harbor seems to be a law unto itself in many ways, which I won't go into here.... But I only bought Judith "Miss Manners" Martin's book about Venice, No Vulgar Hotel. One can never have too many books about Venice. But I have absolutely no place to put it.

I came away from these sales with admiration for the strong spirit of community on the island, from the sheer quantity of the donations, to the volunteers who organized the sales and arranged all those thousands of books, hauling one heavy box after another. Then there were the many friendly people who chatted with me as we perused the aisles and shared our finds. We were witnessing the legendary New England spirit of making the most out of the resources available and working for the common good.

Postcards from Mount Desert Island: Butterflies

For years, we've spent summer vacations in Southwest Harbor, Maine. And, for years, we've driven past an understated sign on Main Street for the Charlotte Rhoades Park and Butterfly Garden. It's easy to become oblivious and miss treasures simply out of habit.

On the porch at the inn, I met a first-time visitor to the island, a meat cutter from Chicago's renowned Paulina Market. He carried around a notepad he'd filled with choice information about island sights, activities, and restaurants, culled from several guidebooks.

I've never consulted a guidebook for Mt Desert Island except for hiking trails; I probably should. And I have never met a meat cutter who wasn't an exceptionally pleasant conversationalist; my favorite uncle was a meat cutter and he set the standard for me. This meat cutter did not disappoint. Among other recommendations, he sent us to the butterfly garden. (He also told me which cut would be best for recreating my grandmother's roast beef; my uncle has been unusually hazy on that subject.)

The butterfly garden is small but wonderful, planted with old-fashioned, strongly scented flowers that attract not only butterflies but bees. The plants include buddleia, bee balm, heliotrope, verbena, milkweed, zinnias, and echinacea. The garden was established in 1998 "to promote conservation education and gardening instruction in the community." While it was certainly educational, our visit felt more magical than anything else. If seeing one butterfly is a treat, seeing dozens at once is almost out of this world. We'll definitely return.

Some photos:

An old-fashioned garden, tucked between the shoreline and the road.

Monarch on buddleia, or butterfly bush

This monarch was tagged; it should migrate to Mexico for the winter


Bees like echinacea

Back from Maine

Several postcards from Maine will be arriving here shortly. Since we got home last night, we've been busy unpacking, grocery shopping, doing laundry, and trying to figure out where to put all the books and life-size cat pillows we picked up around the island (more on that later).

I realize it's time for a major, top-to-bottom housecleaning, and I'm trying to muster some enthusiasm. (If only I could swap this chore with someone, say, undergoing a root canal. I'd much rather go through that than dust and scrub, provided the dental surgeon was as charming as my last one.)

Possum missed us exceedingly. As we came in the door, he came trotting into the room, squeaking. He has been outspoken and craving attention ever since, demanding and receiving food, petting, grooming, toy-chasing, and lap time. He woke me up twice last night, purring and walking around on me, head-butting my hand until I surrender and pet him. He curled up beside me and fell asleep on my wrist this morning as I was reading in bed, so I spent an extra hour with my magazine as he napped adorably.

Eight days apart is the limit, Possum says, and I agree — at least until he has a more stimulating companion (or two) for his solitude than Wendy. Possy reported that she spent almost every moment of our time away under the bed, lounging on my old wooden file box. Its woven top is concave from the shape of her body. It took her an hour to emerge after we arrived yesterday, and we praised her to the skies for showing up at all. She's sleeping in the open now, which we consider a huge favor on her part, since we love to look at her. She's been companionable in her skittish way, demanded some belly rubs on her schedule, and gave us a couple of concerts early this morning. As always, her theme seems to be a celebration of the portability of her plush toy snake. Of course, we're thrilled by every molecule of attention she deigns to give us.

I need to go do more stuff, but I'll try to post more later.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Meet Our Two New Cats

Years ago, I saw a huge balsam pillow in the shape of a charming, old-fashioned cat in one of the shops in Bar Harbor. It seemed expensive so, although I thought it was fabulous, I didn't buy it. Then I changed my mind, went back to get it, and it was gone. I've been hunting for another one ever since, in stores and online. It hasn't exactly been an obsession, but I do look around in the Bar Harbor shops whenever we're up there.

Yesterday, we went into a crafts shop in Stonington, the pretty harbor town on Deer Isle, and behold:

As soon as I spotted them, I picked them up and carried them around as we toured the shop. The store had only those two, and we couldn't decide which one to choose. Then an older man in a Rotary Club hat arrived and quickly talked us into buying both. "They'll be company for each other, and two won't be much more trouble to feed and clean up after than one," he said.

They're as big as real cats, and although they aren't quite as fascinating as live ones, they smell just like the Maine woods. 

Friday, August 17, 2012

Back of a Postcard from Southwest Harbor

We're having a great time in Maine. We're having such a great time that we're not taking many photos. So consider this the back of a postcard. I hope to have some interesting photos later.

Today was a three-swimsuit day: one of those gloriously lazy ones where we hang around the pool and hot tub from morning to night, leaving only for meals. We were reading in the hot tub this morning as people went off to bike up mountains, and kayak, and hike trails. We were reading in the same spot when they returned before dinner, dusty and thirsty.

We've already met a lot of interesting, friendly couples who are guests at the inn; hot tubs and porch rockers are conducive to long conversations about everything from where to eat and hike on the island to books, work, and cats. We've also been catching up on the usual (but always juicy) small-town gossip from our local friends. Everybody knows everybody in this town, and everybody's business....

Last night at dinner, we ran into a couple from Boston that we know, and later on, we ran into our eye doctor and her family. It's a very small world. And I've spent more time chit-chatting in the last 48 hours up here than I usually do in a week.


We brought our Australian innkeepers a jar of Vegemite because it's hard to get in Maine. It's hard to get almost anywhere beyond Australia. But we know they pine for the stuff, so we'd been looking for it everywhere. We finally found one jar in a gourmet shop on the Cape a few weeks ago.

They offered me a taste, in a toasted cheese sandwich. I sniffed the open jar and thought it smelled and looked vaguely like chocolate fudge. Since it's good to try new things when one is on vacation, I took a bite.
I have no words to describe the taste of Vegemite. I have only questions.




I am hoping I won't see an actual jar again anytime soon.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Possum Found

Well, congratulations to my talented, alert, Possum-focused readers who identified him out of a lineup of handsome Norwegian Forest Cats. Possum is #3, but even my husband thought he was also #7. (It could be that he thought that only I would keep and publish such an out-of-focus photo.)

To me, #1, #5, and #9 could have been his kitten photos, before his white ruff grew, and #6 (who is not available for adoption, unfortunately) could be an identical adult twin. The secret is to look closely at the shape of the tabby "bandito" mask around the eyes and the blaze of white on the forehead.

Here's a baby photo I found recently, taken before Possy's ruff and tail (and belly) developed to their full, fluffy extent. But as you can see from his expression, his personality is already all there. We're up in Maine, enjoying a rainy day, and I miss him and his sister.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Find the Possum

I searched for Norwegian Forest Cats on Pinterest the other day, and was astounded to find a few photos of Possum's kin. Can you find the real Possum (or Possums) below? I have blocked out the left ear tips of every cat that had one, to make it more challenging. I confess that I would have found this quiz tricky if I hadn't set it up myself — although there's no cat quite like Possum. 

Good luck! (And please do let me know your choices. I'll have to come up with a virtual prize....)