Meet the new Benson boys!

 Meet the boys!  Dante, 7 months, is the white fluffy one and DaVinci, 4 months, is the orange and white tabby.  I made it less than 24 hours after having to put Alice to sleep before I went to the shelter and found some new kitty friends.

 Dante is an absolute snuggle kitty.  I had no intention of getting kittens; I was going to adopt older cats.  I stopped in the kitten room just to play with them a bit, and Dante picked me out.  I was sitting on the floor and he climbed up, purring loudly, and snuggled up into my shoulder and neck.  He's very soft and is going to be HUGE-- his tufted feet look like snowshoes.  I finally heard his meow for the first time yesterday, after I'd had him two weeks.

 DaVinci also purrs very loudly-- pretty much whenever he's awake he's purring.  He's already established himself as alpha kitty, and he's got a bit of a pot belly because he eats almost as enthusiastically as he purrs.  Still working to break him of climbing up my leg.  He likes to lick my face in the morning when I'm still sleeping.  Another habit to break him of. . .

 There's only one carpeted space in the entire condo: the stairwell to the basement.  Within minutes, both cats were chasing each other up and down it and scratching at it.  To save the carpet, I created this kitty guard/barrier.  So far so good.

DaVinci would like to learn to play my harp.  Think he has a good chance?

I miss my old lady cats, but these kittens sure are fun.

RIP Miss Brit

A week ago Friday, I had to have Britomart put to sleep.  So, so sad.  She was 18 years old and 5 days.  Long, long, happy kitty life; in fact, when I brought her to the vet two weeks earlier, the vet said, "Wow-- I haven't seen a cat that old in a long time!"  I know she's no longer suffering, and I absolutely know it was the right thing to do, but I still miss my kitty.  Here's a picture that captures her personality:

That's my Brit: right in the middle of everything.  In the middle of painting, trying to keep cats out of the area?  That just meant she needed to bring a toy with her and sit on the drop cloth to supervise.  Not wanting a cat on my lap because I was wearing black dress pants, so I pulled up my knees to eliminate the lap?  She just perched on my knees and meowed.

For those who don't know, here's where her name came from: I had just moved to Priest River, Idaho for my first teaching job, and I was lonely.  Empty house, no phone for a few days, knew nobody.  I saw a sign for free kittens and went in.  There was a cage of six or seven fluffy tabby kittens, all exactly alike.  One meowed and got right in my face-- I immediately wanted to take her home.  I grabbed another kitten from the bunch, hoping to be able to tell them apart later.  The woman who had the kittens looked at the "assertive" kitten and said, "That's the runt of the litter, and she's really dehydrated.  She might not make it."

So I put them in a Xerox box on the back seat of my car and drove home.  Less than two minutes later, both kittens and climbed over the seat to the front, then gotten underneath the gas pedal, meowing the whole time.  My little runt led the way in every exploration, again getting in my face as well as she could while I was driving.  Bold, but not too bold.  Hence her name: Britomart, a character from Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene, who is warned to be bold but not too bold.

Brit's been a little fireball since that first day.  She liked to climb the curtains and sit on the curtain rod. She climbed the clothes in my closet so that she could sleep in the sweaters on the top shelf.  She climbed up on the bed so she could sleep on my head and/or neck every night.  Brit's always been the smart one who could open cupboards and get the lid off the butter dish.  Alice, her not-so-bright sister, served as lookout, meowing when I came near the kitchen.

Brit supervised the packing and loading of every single box during this last month's move.  She ran up and down the stairs with each box I carried.  The day before I had to take her to the vet, when she was too weak to really climb up on anything, she still managed to get up on the chair I was sitting on and sleep on my chest for a little while.  I know I had her longer than most people get their cats, but I miss her.  Not sure I'll have a cat that purrs in my ear every night while I sleep ever again.  Alice misses her sister and doesn't like being an only kitty.  Hopefully I get to have her around a little longer.  Not ready to lose both just yet.

Love your pets every single day, even when they're naughty.  I'd love to have to chase Brit off the counter one more time.

Knitting Fun

Now that I live where there's a yarn shop that has regular weekly knitting nights, I'm getting braver about my knitting.  My bravest knitting move before coming to Iowa was to try a pair of socks.  Now I've made a hat, mittens (pictures of those in a future entry), and this:

I knitted the sweater, not the dog, just to clarify.  Also, he has it on upside down; it's supposed to be a turtleneck.  I knitted a baby sweater years ago (the baby I knitted it for is grown up now), but I was lazy and didn't bother checking the gauge, so it turned out really big (she could still wear it at age 5).  I figured that since I have expert knitting help at the yarn shop, I'd get brave and learn to really knit a sweater, gauge swatch and everything.  First, though, I tried a lower-risk project: Banjo's doggie sweater.

Next is Christmas present time, and possibly learning to felt slippers.  It's amazing to me that yarn can turn into beautiful clothing items.  Incredibly satisfying.  Plus, the yarn at this shop is really cool.  I just like being there.

Do you think Banjo would like a puppy fez . . .?

No, you may NOT block my driveway

Apparently people celebrate Cinco de Mayo here by having garage sales.  I was the only neighbor (well, almost) who wasn't having a garage sale yesterday.  People are SERIOUS here about garage sales.  As in ever available spot to park was filled with bargain hunters.  I left for a few minutes to buy flowers to make my porch pretty.  Here's how it turned out:

Meanwhile, people came and went to the garage sales.  Unfortunately, some really big trucks thought they could fit in parking spots they couldn't fit into, partially blocking my driveway.  So it began:

Me: I'm sorry, that's going to be a problem.  I can't get out of my driveway if you park there.
Garage saler: Are you leaving right now?
Me: I will be leaving soon.  You can't block my driveway.
Garage saler: I'll just be a minute.
Me: No, you can't do that.
Garage saler sighs and finds another spot down the street.

This happened multiple times.  I think I got one pot done per conversation about why people couldn't block my driveway.  Anyhow, here's the window box:

I have no problem with people parking on the street.  But I only have a single-car driveway, and when cars are parked in every available spot on both sides of the street, that narrows the road AND reduces visibility when I need to pull out (as I did, since, oh yeah, it was graduation yesterday afternoon).  Here's a shot of the last of the porch pots:

Oops-- forgot to turn this one.  The previous tenants left this big trellis pot dealie, so I thought I'd plant a climbing rose in it.  Hope it grows fast . . .

Harp video!

Note the cameo at around the 1 minute mark . . .

Makin' Risotto

Oh, why is my camera broken? I could have had all kinds of cool pictures of my first time making risotto! Instead, you get me turning it into a little life lesson of sorts.

See, risotto's one of those things I've always wanted to try but knew I wouldn't have the patience to actually make. I like the concept of risotto, with all its creamy goodness, and I'm fascinated by the idea that the arborio rice continues to absorb more and more liquid, a little at a time. How do you know when it's reached saturation point? What happens then? Soup? Can it just absorb forever?

The other thing that's scared me off is that I'm an incredibly impatient cook. It's what makes candy making tough for me. I just don't want to wait the extra minute or two until it reaches soft ball stage. I always end up saying, "Look, it's close enough. I'm taking it off the heat," generally with disastrous results. So with risotto, I was afraid I'd say, "Eh, close enough. The liquid's absorbed; time to add more."

Then the OCD part of me kicked in: what if it could absorb just a little further? How do you know when it's still liquid and when it's creamy? Look at me: champion over-thinker. That's how I roll.

I got brave, forced myself to be patient, and started cooking. The results of the patience were so worth it: I have creamy, cheesy yumminess to eat as leftovers for a while, and I had a very satisfying supper. Anika Istilart, if you ever read this blog, I'll make you some to compensate for all those awful meals last July when we were both trying to use up the food in our freezers.

Patience is good. In cooking and in life.

Tender Mercies

Neal A. Maxwell, an apostle of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, said something years ago about God being in the details. David A. Bednar, a current apostle, gave a talk several years ago about noticing God's tender mercies. That's what this entry is: a testimony of tender mercies, specifically about my house sale that has yet to happen.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the Nauvoo temple, feeling like I needed to come to some sort of peace about the house selling process. Maybe I wouldn't know exactly what was going on timing-wise, but I needed some peace. I got that peace, and I came home feeling good. That night, though (a Saturday), I felt like I needed to figure out what to do about my realtor-- should I keep her? Should I plan on finding a new one once the current contract runs out in April? So that's what I prayed about that night before bed: clarity about my realtor.

Sunday morning, my realtor texted me that a neighbor had called saying the storm door had been blown off the front of the house. I burst into tears and had another prayer. I felt peace, and I felt like I needed to call the neighbor down the street who specializes in home repair for old houses. Couldn't do anything else until I heard from him, so I went on with my day. There was a point during Sacrament meeting that I wondered whether I should go home and check my phone for messages. Then I thought, "Nope, this is where I'm supposed to be. Things will work out somehow."

Came home from church, got the report on the storm door. I should note here that just before I closed on the house five years ago, a similar incident happened, ripping up the door frame. I just repaired that damage when I put the house on the market in June. I anticipated similar damage this time. The door had been blown open, but no damage to the door frame. All that happened was the glass cracked. My neighbor had connections with Morgantown Glass, so all was good.

Yesterday, the neighbor called again, saying, "Hey, I just fixed your storm door. The glass wasn't broken after all." That's right-- the glass wasn't broken. All that happened was the glass got knocked out of the frame and the frame was dented a little. He said I was lucky. I know otherwise. Heavenly Father was watching out for my house.

He was also answering my prayer about the realtor, because she really kicked into gear and made sure everything was okay at the house. I still have no idea when the house will sell, but for the first time since June, I can really accept that God's timing is working, not mine. I am not in charge, I am not in control. I'm okay with that. God knows what He's doing.