Illumination

Illumination

Dusk and early twilight are magical,
nights not dark enough to do anything but soothe;
it's the hush before the witching hours,
a time (this Catholic girl) is certain to be tucked inside
beneath quilt and comforter as fixed prayer is silent in the dead of night.

I'm a country girl at heart, love to walk my dogs
in this early blue-black, tonight's steps dampened by mist rolling in;
other times echo off mountains that frame the moon.
My road meanders along open pastures and sections claustrophobic;
behind rhododendrons and pine fox dart and deer stare, still as statues.

We walk by the farm with red barn swing, three goats
and gray retired horse.  The floodlight reminds me of Bethlehem's Star,
a beacon of golden light, spilling forth warmth, wonder, love. 
Tonight clouds obscure the sky, no twinkling lights as we trek homeward,
but I'm illuminated, December's glory internalized.

by Margaret Bednar, December 14, 2019

In the Western Christian tradition, the hour between 3 and 4 a.m. was considered a period of peak supernatural activity due to the absence of prayers (fixed prayer) in the canonical hours during this period.  

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - 13 Poetic Bits of Kerry" 

I used #7 The nights are not dark enough - an excerpt from the amazing poet, Kerry O'Connor, from her poem:  "Self Portrait in Night"

Fire in the Sky

Fire in the Sky

As a toddler, I'd stand transfixed as mother
crumpled up newspaper, layered kindling,
added a log or two, fanned embers
until they roared to life within the hearth,
screen carefully placed for protection,
rocked asleep to spits and sizzles.

This evening's sky reminded me
of many youthful evenings spent fireside,
popcorn dancing in cast iron skillet,
cat's paws kneading, rearranging afghan upon my lap,
dogs desperately begging for buttery kernels.
flickering light upon book's page.

With awe I gaze at distant horizon
skylit with flames, wonder at those cozy nights
of childhood, feel blessed.  Yet shiver,
no heat upon my cheeks as frost lurks around the corner.

Walk inside; sit at my desk like I did as a teenager,
(journal filled with scrawl, pages within losing the war
as crumpled ones gained momentum at my feet).
Tonight I'm typing, floor and rug neatly displayed
as words are deleted upon the screen, memories relived,
the wonder of being rocked, of rocking my own little ones...

flip a switch, fire comes "alive"... isn't the same,
although cats seem content and dogs cast pleading eyes
toward popcorn bowl. Call my youngest son's name,
settle in, snuggle before artificial logs, open a book,
read aloud as horizon winks, blinks and nods.

by Margaret Bednar, October 19, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - On Wonder" and "The Sunday Muse #78".  

Lessons Learned

Lessons Learned

I've been reflective lately,
find myself passing many a southern garden
sprouting bright green shoots; am thrilled to see
gorgeous red peonies in mine.

But when yesterday lives, I find myself
a long way gone, landscape and memory merge;
a trail through leaves or the sway of southern wildflowers
evoke my youth, my roots -

As a child I'd watch Mother
weed her vegetable garden, plant flowers,
feed the chickens, relax with a book
on a hot afternoon; her liberation
from household routine, I suppose.

I'm like her in that way,
like to fall under garden spells,
ponder the secret language of birds
or lives of the trees, read poems
that make grown women cry.

Since the creation of Eve,
the spell of the sensuous has teetered
between good and evil, but like I said,
I watched my Mother,

learned how to choose wisely,
many a stormy weather side-stepped
by embracing a blessing of toads
(their spring chorus mountain's pride);

my temptress the small wonder
of a dirt path beneath my feet,
wind in my hair, and the song of colors
east of the sun come morning.

Yes, I've been reflective lately;
nothing daunted my Mother, so it seemed.
But as a grown woman, I know that's not true,
behind the scenes she was frustrated,
grieved, rebelled in her way.

Now the drum of war (what I call
getting older) isn't so loud, so persistent.
There's reason for hope, as I've learned
this past mountain year to embrace change,
love more fiercely, live life to the fullest;

to the extent that maybe,
they'll have to bury me standing!

by Margaret Bednar, April 14, 2019

written for the challenge at "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - 1 Poem, 3 titles" BUT I used 25 (not 3) book titles!  From my persoanl library:

Now the Drum of War - by Robert Roper (about Walt Whitman...)
Bury Me Standing - by Isabel Fonseca (the gypsies & their journey)
Mountain Year - by Barbara G. Hallowell - essays about flora and fauna of S. Appalachia
Reason for Hope - by Jane Goodall
Behind the Scenes - by Elizabeth Keckley (part slave narrative, part memoir)
Nothing Daunted - by Dorothy Wickenen - 2 society girls' eduation out west 1916
Small Wonder - by Barbara Kingsolver - essays on our living planet and people
East of the Sun - by Julia Gregson - 1920's - 3 Englishwomen & a troubled boy (India)
A Blessing of Toads - by Sharon Lovejoy - essays & illustrations from "Heart's Ease" column
Stormy Weather - by Paulette Jiles - a novel - hardship, sacrifice, strength and a dream...
Good and Evil - by Anthony Mercatante - myth and legend
The Creation of Eve - by Lynn Cullen - a novel
The Spell of the Sensuous - by David Abram - Perception & language
Lives of the Trees - by Diana Wells - an uncommon history
Poems that Make Grown Women Cry - by Anthony Holden
The Secret Language of Birds - by Adele Nozedar
Garden Spells - by Sarah Addison Allen
A Southern Garden - by Elizabeth Lawrence
(*) When Yesterday Lives - by Karen Kingsbury - a novel
A Long Way Gone - by Ishmael Beah - memoirs of a boy soldier
Landscape and Memory - by Simon Schama - continents & centuries - psychic claims/nature
A Trail Through Leaves - by Hannah Hinchman - journal as a path to place
Roots - by Alex Haley - A novel
Southern Wildflowers - by Laura C. Martin
Liberation - by Joanna Scott - novel

(*) I made one error - "Where (not When) Yesterday Lives" but I had already written the poem so...

Also linked with "Poets United Poets Pantry #495"

Also linked with "NaPoWriMo" - National Poetry Month, a celebration of poetry which takes place each April, was introduced in 1996 and is organized by the Academy of American Poets as a way to increase awareness and appreciation of poetry in the United States.

Maladroit

123rf

Maladroit

Can you imagine Sunday dinner
at Grandmother's table
talking on the landline,

and yet today
we've apparently forgotten
how to set a formal table,

dinner fork replaced by the cell.

by Margaret Bednar, September 28, 2019

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge: Maladroit"

maladroit:  unskillful, awkward, bungling, tactless

Nostalgia

Nostalgia

Whisked until light,
eggs threatened bowl's rim
yet Grandma was in control,
poured mixture into buttered pan, flame low,
skillet held above heat ...
Said they'd finish cooking
on the plate as she jellied my toast,
smothered from edge to edge
with grape jam, compliments
from vines just outside kitchen door.
Her cherry jam had chunks,
of which I'd yet to appreciate.

Aproned, she'd fill a small glass
with apple juice, go about chores,
shoes tapping wooden steps
descending to the cellar
where clothes were soaking
in rinse tub, waiting to be squeezed
through old ringer washer, 
basketed and hauled outside 
to air dry on clothes line.

Occasionally I'd hurry and eat
in order to join the fun.

Other times she'd make the beds,
ironed sheets hand-smoothed, corners tucked,
blanket folded just so in order to
be pulled up under one's chin 
if needed in the night.

Sometimes she'd sweep her carless garage,
vacuum braided area rug
where I'd play with blocks, puzzles,
read for hours, screened, pull-down door
veiling us from pesky flies.
Before noon we'd escape inside 
where lined curtains had been closed
upon sunrise, crisp morning air captured
(at least until mid-day).

Upon reflection, I don't remember 
her being much of a cook,
don't remember pancakes, french toast,
omelets for breakfast.
Evenings we ate T.V. dinners,
watched Lawrence Welk on Saturday nights;
don't recall Grandma making many deserts
or a family dinner.

I've tried to recreate her eggs;
always fail.  I can hear her instructing me
as I stood by her elbow and watched.
Have bought different pans, vintage and new,
trying to recreate the magic;
I've come close, but I guess

some things are meant for nostalgia,
remembered with love. 

by Margaret Bednar, September 23, 2019

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Weekend Mini Challenge - Grandma's Kitchen"

Adagio

Adagio

Heaven seemingly floats upon valley floor, early mornings,
a sleepy, buttercream sun rising slowly, yawning, stretching
its way over mountain along with me, it seems.
There's a melody playing if one listens closely; adagio bird song,
their pace awakens far more quickly than I; andante swoops into allegro,
as hawk soars, wings vivace upon the breeze.   My heart flutters
along with it, soon soothed by cows like little black piano keys
upon gently sloping hill, larghissimo, as mist evaporates and clears.

by Margaret Bednar, August 24, 2019

This is linked with "The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Sunday Challenge - Play it Again".  I chose "A Word with Laurie - one word: allegro and 8 lines and 1 minute!!!  But it took me two minutes to write this.  And then I did go back and changed a few words so add maybe another 30 seconds.  

Reflected

Reflected

Beneath lily pads, clouds cavort above sunfish, bluegill, and bass,
as mountain laurels and rhododendrons showcase green
upon water's smooth surface,

no resplendent flash of pinks or rosebay as high summer has passed,
chicks have grown, and swan seems to have lost his mate
as solitaire he soldiers on about the lake.

I can hear babbling brook, as summer without rain is unheard of,
feel sun's heated brand upon my back as it peaks between clouds
blanketing sky in a downy fashion,

and peer between tall grasses at water's edge, enjoying blues,
emeralds and golds reflected and rippling, circles drifting,
disappearing beneath lily pads and dancing clouds.

by Margaret Bednar, August 21, 2019

This is linked (LATE) with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Wordy Weekend Mini-Challenge - Messages in Water" AND "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform".

And "The Sunday Muse/Wednesday Muse: The Beach".  We were given permission to use a lake scene as well, so it is not as oceany as the image offered in this prompt... 

Nostalgic

My original books from childhood

Nostalgic

This summer's eve is reminiscent of bedtimes long ago, Mother's voice rhythmically soft,
screen window flung wide, toads and cicadas a backdrop to book's pages slowly turning,
coaxing eyes to blink, lashes to droop; (summer of '73 - Misty of Chincoteague & Sea Star).

Perhaps it's the birdsong winding down as the cricket's chorus begins,
occasional shadow passing overhead (realize it's bat, not swallow), back deck, screenless,
mountain breeze soothing, book in my lap as if the effort to hold aloft is too much...

Awakened by muffled bark of a neighbor's dog, mine at my feet, his rumbling
a feeble attempt at a warning (he's as somnolent as I); invite him beneath cotton-worn quilt,
our cozy haven as darkness tucks us in and Mother's voice resumes.

Margaret Bednar, July 27, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - Let Evening Come".  Seriously, this happened just the other night ... I was hard-pressed to make it to my bed.  I think we will soon have the lower back deck screened and I will spend nights on a true, southern summer porch.  Below, I invite you to listen to me read my poem.

Red

Red

He'd sit amidst the apples in my Radio Flyer,

radish-colored hair wind-tossed, toothy grin
a bit rogue, mischief more heartthrob than bedeviled.

Shyness forgotten as I'd laugh out loud,
race down country hills, me imitating Red Hawks,
arms outstretched, he an Irish-Setter (no need for pretend).

by Margaret Bednar, July 21, 2019

for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge: Pick 2 Prompts, Any Prompts then Senruyu or Elfchen or Cherita".   I "Cheritad" and used "Artistic Interpretations - Color It" and "Weekend Mini-Challenge Portraiture"

I did gather new color swatch names for the paint colores (Radio Flyer, Radish, Hearthrob, Bedeviled, Red Hawk, Irish)

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

Spring flushed divinity,
downy seeds having floated from afar,
rooted and bloomed before parachuting
their evangelical lion-hearts elsewhere

and we beneath languid oaks
settle beside the last dandy,
nestled now amongst sunflowers and daisies,
weave innocence and loyalty together,

crown ourselves with garland vines,
twirled and twisted, become woodland nymphs
dancing barefoot, toes tangling in tall grass,
skirts billowing, laughing, falling,

lost in a fledgling summer sky
whose clouds beckon youthful dreams
to soar heavenward, sheltering and protecting
within the loftiness of a summer solstice.

By Margaret Bednar, June 23, 2019

Linked with ”Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - weekend mini challenge - summer solstice

I remember watching my girls cross legged in the grass, making daisy chains, crowning and necklacing themselves, summer sun seemingly made for little girls and twirling skirts

I invite you to listen to me read my poem: https://soundcloud.com/margaretbednar/summer-solstice-1

The Authors

The Authors

Elegant hands behold:  Plain people
and drab days make quaint places;

dazzling books cast magnificent worlds

by Margaret Bednar, June 16, 2019

My nod to all the Newbery Award books I read (and loved) as a child.

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge.  Exquisite Corpse Poetry".

This is an example of an Exquisite Corpse Poem.  Click on link for explanation.  If you want an exercise that involves tearing your hair out, give it a whirl!

The Connoisseur

"Remember when we drank coffee with the paper?"

The Connoisseur

Chardonnay pairs well with salmon,
Pinot Noir with mushrooms and truffles,
Cabernet Sauvignon with filet mignon,

and a Whiskey shot, no chaser
with today's headlines; find the burn
a necessary means for survival.

by Margaret Bednar, May 19, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - Oh the (Poetic) Irony".  I REALLY may be headed toward this... !

Redmond

Redmond

As far as I know
I've not a drop of Irish blood
coursing through my veins

yet swoon when I hear said accent,
dream of traversing Cliffs of Moher
in County Clare or the Ring of Kerry,
raise a glass in the town of Killarney.

(Just reading an Ireland map
makes one a poet...)

A mop of red hair, fair of face,
and I believe I've found
my Wise Protector,
a drop of Irish and I settle
for not one but two.

One I name Blue
for the adventuring we will do
upon mountain's Blue Ridge,
another I name Redmond,

nicknamed Red,
not for the outlaw O'Hanlan,
although he's a bit mischievous,
as puppies will be.  It's those moments
when he settles beside me, sitting so righteous,
so dignified for one so young,

that my heart swells, remembers
the comforting reds of Grandmother's house
and know my earliest memories
of fragrant trellised blooms,
warm tart pies, and red shuttered windows

still linger in my memory, if not by blood,
then perhaps a craving for the comfort
of red (Lusca) wine and blue skies...
and two puppies, Blue and Red.

by Margaret Bednar, March 23, 2019

need something to pair with that cabbage?  https://www.celticwhiskeyshop.com/wines-by-country/Irish-Wine/Lusca-Irish-Wines

My poem reminiscing about my Grandmother's house:  https://margaretbednar365.blogspot.com/2015/02/red.html

This poem is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - Nomenclature"   Anyone an join the fun - have you tried writing a poem?... I welcome you to try! 

Song Sparrow

Song Sparrow

Last evening wild turkeys grazed
Baptist church's lower hill,
and early morn Eastern Screech Owl
feigned to be farmyard cock,
while roadside a blue-black Raven worked
rabbit’s carcass before spiraling skyward.

I walk lakes and streams, field & forest, five-mile loop
of seasonal Flycatchers, Yellowthroats,
Loons, Mergansers, and Grebe,
Kingfishers, Bluebirds, Catbirds as well.
Relish in the flash of rarity
caught from corner of my eye,

often camera too slow to catch anything
other than a vacant spot, have yet to spy Pileated...
settle for a Song Sparrow's trill
just outside my front door...
ponder why I overlooked this cheery greeter,
uplifting mountain's wintry, misty days;

why the need for pomp and circumstance,
when plain and simple will do?

by Margaret Bednar, January 19, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - Mustn't be Fancy" in honor of Mary Oliver.  She has been a HUGE influence on me.  RIP, classy lady.  You will be missed, but your words will continue to keep us company. 

Sun-Kissed

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Sun-Kissed

Do you remember when childhood summers seemingly stretched into forever?  Endless sun-drenched days where Mother's voice was heard behind window screens, worlds partitioned, pardoned at lunch-time, banished soon after.  Sometimes our gravel-hardy bare feet fleetingly crossed hayfield and tracks to river's edge, threw sticks into swift current, contemplated chances of survival if dared cross.  Never did, water so dark and dirty we really weren't tempted.  Scampered up bank, balanced on hot railroad irons, one dirty foot in front of the other, imagined train's whistle in the distance, bravely waited for it to round the bend.  Never did, but we knew we'd have stared it down, made it come to a halt, disrupt its earnest progress toward Chicago.  With hats pulled low, unrecognizable, we'd escape, make way into forest preserve whose dirt trails were narrow, grasses brushed fingertips as we scouted along old Indian trail surely forged by Blackhawk and warriors.  Looked for arrowheads.  Never found one, but we picked up sharp stones, pretended.  When summer's sun dipped to four o'clock, we'd head home, wash hands (and feet), eat, listen to Mom and Dad share their day.  Look at sister across table, know my freckles were expanding across my nose and shoulders too.  Sun-kissed we were, life ripe with imagination, with youth, with forever.

by Margaret Bednar, December 14, 2018.

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini-Challenge - Life is Ripe"  We were asked to write a poem centered around a childhood memory which brings us joy as an adult.   We could write in any style but were also asked to possibly write in prose.  I did.  We were asked to keep it under 131 words.   Well, I did edit, but 214 words are the end result.   I did implement the "Life is Ripe" motto into my poem.  Hopefully, that will make amends.

Self-Worth

Self Worth

Milkweed pods have long since burst,
a few stand tall amidst swaying beach grass
and wind-rippled dunes,
beneath a roiling sky that dares I face
her cold-air flurry.

Hopefully she admired my arm raised high
clutching scarf side-winding in her gale,
my jacket open, whipping about,
smiled as I leaned into a force
far stronger than me.

Inside my car, the beach seems calm,
wind a murmur, the sky a painting,
but my eyes seek rearview mirror,
remember the battle, the only witness
to cheeks still chilled and crimson,

still alive with defiance.

by Margaret Bednar, November 25, 2018

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - And the days are not full enough"   Seize the day in other words.

Attended my Father-in-Laws funeral this past week and I walked the Lake Michigan beach he dearly loved to walk at sunset.  I walked it late afternoon and "accepted" the mood of the lake.   Makes one reflect on life - what is important, what we can do, what we can't let pass by... How we might handle challenges moving forward....  I hope this poem expresses some of that feeling.

Make Believe

Make Believe

I imagine I'm a southern belle,
strolling jasmine scented pathways,
besotted beau beside me
as I smile charmingly after saying something coy.

Practice a hair toss, lashes lowered,
glance over shoulder...
find elderly gentleman watching me
as I blush (yes, 50 year olds can blush),

mutter to myself, attempt dignified exit
across arched bridge, past live oaks;
impromptu theatrical audition witnessed
by one other, a chipmunk, who scampers away
almost as quickly as I,

my sketchbook not as forthcoming
as this poem (years later).

by Margaret Bednar, October 23, 2018



This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday Mini Challenge - Notebook Poetry".  We had an option to handwrite our poems ... but I hate my handwriting so I thought I would show you a glimpse into my sketchbook.  The top two are colored pencil, the chipmunk is watercolor and pen.   I talk to myself a lot (especially when in a creative mode) and historical places always get me dreaming and imagining things...

A Golden Touch

123RF Stock Photo

A Golden Touch

A bit of powdered bronze, a flush, a blush
is all she needs to lure 'long path and curve.
Kissed golden are sprouting reds, yellows,
oranges.  Even green glows as if glossed,
sun-dappled, unabashedly exposing
hill and valley to anyone longing
to embrace such a beauty unfolding.

Find myself wishing I'd left earlier,
put away dust pan, broom and mop,
allowed dishes to remain thricly stacked.
Accept swaying birch trees' offer to dance,
skirt myself along trails just beginning
to color outside lines as leaves flutter
and skit downward, one landing in my hair;

decide to wear it as if I’ve been crowned. 

by Margaret Bednar, September 22, 2018


This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - A Rainbow of Sonnets"

Great liberty here as I have created my own "Modern Sonnet".   14 lines (but I added the last single line as a "clincher", tried to use internal rhyme as much as possible as I don't have ending lines rhyming, and tried to use iambic pentameter when I could and... I tried to keep each line to a 10 syllable count (I think one is over by one, and another line short by two).  

Branded

Branded

How important is conjugating a verb
or mastering Algebra?
How inspiring is a brand that stifles?

Charting impossible is adventurous,
but what of resistance from those who diagnose,
chose from labels pre-set, who resist possibilities,
accept excuses?

Hail those who prod, inspire, dare to dream
of glass ceilings shattered,
who seize the day,
rules changed; mother bears
ferociously guiding, challenging.

Burning is talent unrecognized, world at peril
as Einsteins in basements
collect government assistance
neglected of inspiration and an equal place
to live for today so we have tomorrow.

Why is "different" only applauded
when it's outwardly beautiful?
Why are we unable to see within -

why does it scare us?

Margaret Bednar, September 15, 2018

It isn't that being "labeled" is bad, it is what comes with that label.  Back in Grandin's childhood days, it would have meant institutionalization - and look at her today because of her strong-willed, highly educated mother - who fought the "establishment" and in my opinion, a hero.  A significant percentage, perhaps, of computer "nerds" and people like Einstein have changed our world - are (were) most likely somewhere on the Autistic spectrum.   What miraculous discoveries are not being fulfilled because of coddling, "sympathy", or labeling that thwarts their genius?   In my opinion, today our school systems, college degrees, etc. are set up to do quite a bit of harm to these individuals (to anyone who learns differently - my son might be mildly dyslexic) ... who need to have education personalized, learn differently from the majority...  What will our future be missing because "administration" and government regulations stifle their progress?

I watched the movie "Temple Grandin" (a "watch now" movie on Amazon Prime) and then just couldn't let this woman go and I googled her and have listened to many of her conference talks and interviews. HERE is her specific web site.  Below is an interview you might enjoy:

This if for two prompts.  One is "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Music with Marion - Made for Now" a Janet Jackson video and have applied the sentiments to this poem.

I also hope it qualifies for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Challenge - Resistance".  
Of which I apologize as I think I missed the actual point of the prompt - to delve into that which blocks us from our inner poetic voice - what do we avoid saying, feeling - therefor not writing our best truth... ?  I think it's a bit too deep for me to figure out ... 

City Tavern: A Taste of History

City Tavern: A Taste of History

I raise a glass to two hundred years
(or more), gather knives, measuring cups,
bowls, don apron, open "the book"...
did I mention "test" the wine?

Begin my journey of fashioning
Thomas Jefferson's sweet potato biscuits
with pecans, (trees we've touched at Monticello)
cinnamon, and ginger rolled -n- baked

served beside pumpkin gratin, fennel puree,
smashed red potatoes surrounding
roast turkey with Madeira gravy.
(A good Madeira's woefully underrated -
I increase one cup to two (wink, wink)

Turnips and parsnips "hide" in potatoes mashed,
(kids and husband will never know)
court chestnut stuffing upon antique china plates

and tummies gathered table side magically find room
for Martha Washington's chocolate mouse cake,
not to mention blueberry cobbler, raspberry tarts,
and pumpkin pie (perhaps a few hours later).

Everyone walks away happy, content, sleepy;
quilted tablecloth weary with a few more battle wounds,
(I forgot to mention cranberry relish)
husband clears while I make sure
wine doesn't go to waste...

and shelf the cookbook "stuffed" as well
with another year's blessings
of laughter, stories, celebration
snuggled within trusted, well-worn pages.

by Margaret Bednar, August 28, 2018

linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Weekend Mini Challenge - Let's Eat" and "https://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-tuesday-platform_28.htmlhttps://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-tuesday-platform_28.html".

My husband and I ate at the City Tavern (historic Philadelphia, PA) almost 20 years ago and the meal, prepared by Chef Walter Staib (author of "City Tavern Cookbook") was absolutely amazing.  We loved the setting, the history and Thomas Jefferson's biscuits!  Martha Washington's cake was amazing... It is an experience we have never forgotten and I honor it with cooking many of our family's Thanksgiving meals with the recipes from this book.  When I don't, we always feel like the day fell flat a bit... the food is that good.  It takes a lot of work, but I never regret it.  I have learned to make a few dishes a day or two before (keeping hands off the food is no easy task!)  I remember the first time I prepared a huge meal from this book it took like 12 hours... I think we ate at 8:30 pm and no-one was in the best of moods (especially me)  ha!  (for the record, I was a young and rather inexperienced cook).

I have found a YouTube a clip showcasing a cooking series Chef Staib is in - currently 8 seasons on Amazon Prime.  One can also go to the website HERE and buy videos.

The cookbook can also be purchased on the website above or just google it.