Aprilbaby's California Life

The It's-It Girls: The Missing Piece of San Francisco's Culinary History

Any San Franciscan knows that It's-It Ice Creams - once sold only at Playland-at-the-Beach - are as unique to San Francisco's history as the Buena Vista's Irish Coffees, Hippie Hill, Carol Doda of the Condor Club and sourdough bread.  And while many San Franciscans remember missing It's-Its after the demise of Playland in 1972, and then joy at seeing the ice creams re-emerge in markets not too many years later, they probably don't know the entire story.

The missing piece to the It's-It tale involves my mother Nancy and her friend Priscilla; their contribution to the ice cream treat's history even got them recognition from Herb Caen in one of his columns and labeled "the It's-It Girls" by another writer.

Over the next week or so, after a little more research, I'll write in more detail about how my mother and Priscilla became the "It's-It girls."  But for now, I'll post these photos (taken in 1973 or 1974) of my mother (the brunette on the right) and Priscilla (the blonde on the left) standing in the It's-It booth my father made and hand painted.  The little girl is Priscilla's daughter, Jocelyn.  Hey, she's eating an It's-It...That was one of the perks of being an It's-It girl's kid. (Photos contributed by Priscilla)

Thanks to ex-San Francisco resident (but always a San Franciscan) Pondering Pig for reminding me about my It's-It memories.  His great San Francisco posts always get me remembering.

Things My Grandma Still Teaches Me

This Thanksgiving, my Grandma taught me something, even though she's no longer alive. (On left, Grandma holding my baby sister - 1966)

Our friends Jenny and Fred invited us over for Thanksgiving dinner.  Jenny called me about three weeks before to ask if we could come.

"Yes," I said.  "But can I..." I paused.

"What?" Jenny asked. 

"Can I cook some things?"

She laughed.  "You're asking me if you can cook?"

"I know it's weird.  I'm one of those fiends that spends days in the kitchen.  But I get all zenned (is that a word) out... you know, the house smells good, the radio's on and I'm in my zone.  Thanksgiving's probably my favorite holiday."

So I begged Jenny if I could just make some specific things:  Apple-sausage stuffing, orange-cognac cranberries and Madeira-shallot gravy that my mom and I have been making since we found the recipes in a 1982 Bon Appetit Magazine.  All the recipes are so good my mom has been making them in the town of Roanne in France.  I know, Thanksgiving in France?!  And with people from all over the world no less.  But they all love it.

Then I asked Jenny if I could make a dessert.  "Maybe a carrot cake?" 

She laughed again, as if she were Tom Sawyer tricking me into white-washing her picket fence.  "Sure, carrot cake would be great."

But I love to cook.  I'm nuts that way... and in many other ways too, but this is how I'm nutty about cooking.

Just before Thanksgiving, my mom called from France to say that she would be unreachable due to heading from Paris to Roanne to cook her Thanksgiving feast in the little French town.  "I just made Grandma's Applesauce-Spice cake... you have to make it!  It's so good," she said to me.

I remembered it, of course.  Grandma would often make it for special occasions.  "I don't know.  I kind of had my heart set on carrot cake." 

So when I sat down to make my shopping list and to find my carrot cake recipe, what recipe should I find in my messy book of special recipes?  My Grandma's Applesauce-Spice cake AND the cream cheese frosting recipe that goes with it, right there in front of my stacks of recipes.

Naturally, I had to make it.  I think I even bit my lip at the thought of making a cake from scratch.  As bullheaded as I am about taking the long way with everything else, I always resort to box cake mixes due to my few scratch recipe cakes turning out like tasteless boulders.

I wrote down the ingredients to Grandma's recipe -  Raisins?  Eh, I'm not crazy about them.  But I'll get them for Grandma.  Nuts? They're good, but in cake?  Oh well, I'll get them.  I need a sifter?  I sift like I iron - never.  Alright!  I'll buy a sifter.

After an entire afternoon cutting french bread cubes, dicing apples and marinating sausage in cognac, sage and nutmeg... and everything else, I was tired.  Still, I had to make the cake (which I made into cupcakes).  So I sifted the flour before measuring, to get the flour airy.  Next, I sifted the flour once, twice and (Ow!! My hand's cramping!) three times to mix in the cloves, allspice, cinnamon and other spices.  But I almost cheated.  I almost just dumped it all into the bowl.  Who would know? No wonder I use box cake mix! I thought, as I was worn out and covered in flour.

I took the cupcakes out when browned, cooled and iced them.  Then my husband and I each tested one out - and, man!! They were the most airy, moist and perfectly flavored cakes I've ever made.

Her whole life, my grandma never once lectured.  She simply did.  She only spoke kindly about others (Yeesh, if I could only say the same!); she was patient; she was generous - from helping to raise her younger siblings after her father died to helping care for one of her sister's children to volunteer work with the handipcapped and letting my sister and me stay over many, many weekends - yet she never complained (not that I heard, anyway).  In that way, her life was a lesson for me (not that I come even close to living up to any of that) -  But I aspire to.   

So following this recipe to Grandma's Applesauce-Spice Cake was another lesson (or reminder):  That putting time and effort into things is always worth it.  Even if the cakes had burned, I would have known at least I tried my best.  But if I would have sifted any less than recipe called for, left out the raisins or the nuts, I would have never known just how good they could be.

Thanks, Grandma!

And thanks Fred and Jenny for inviting us over! 

AM: The Musician/Singer/Songwriter

Here's my review & accompanying interview on AM for LA Splash Magazine.

AM's the recent winner of the L.A. Weekly singer/songwriter of the year award.  AM, as in...on your A.M. dial - not as in...the early part of a day.  Those were the initials he was born with, but like kismet also represent his love for the music he grew up listening to on his A.M. radio airwaves.

I saw him for the first time last Monday night at the party for his remixed CD, titled "Mainstay," and his video debut at Cinespace in Hollywood.

His voice is soulful, and his music is a shimmering, harmonious blend, that sounds - at times - haunting and dreamy.  He's done so much of his own thing with the music that's influenced him it's hard to say, "He sounds like..."   But if I had to pick...hmmm... I'd say his voice sounds a bit like Beck's, but the music is such a beautiful collage it's hard to pin.

So if you're like me, disappointed with what's on most radio stations check out AM, and Fonogenics (an online music boutique) for other great music.

I asked AM, "Why don't I hear you on the radio?"

He said, "KCRW plays us." 

I felt like thumping myself on my head for two reasons: Of course!! The party was put on by KCRW, along with Fonogenics.  And for being so thick skulled; I've been wanting to hear some of my favorite writers like, Sandra Tsing Loh and Hollis Gillespie, on that station.  And why haven't I?  What?  Are my arms paralyzed and I'm completely incapable of pushing a radio button to 89.9 F.M.?  I mean, I could do that with my toes.  So... for the last two days when I'm not listening to my AM cd, I'm listening to KCRW.  And I didn't even have to use my toes.  What can I say? I'm a slave for quality. 

Somehow, whenever I see, hear, touch, read or taste something of skill, craftsmanship... something that someone spent time thinking about and creating... well, the world just seems to be filled with posibilities - and I have hope. 

L.A. Times Festival Of Books At UCLA

April 23, 2005
Creative Nonfiction Panel -
Saturday morning, I received one of the last tickets for the creative nonfiction panel, consisting of authors Patricia Hampl, Michael Dirda, Ann Patchett, Mark Salzman and Joe Lelyveld.

Listening to these well spoken, interesting and witty authors was so inspiring and informative that an audience member even asked the panel, "Do you find writing to be a form of therapy, because you all seem so incredibly healthy and articulate?"  True.  All of them spoke only pithy, pertinent pearls of wisdom (Oh, I love alliteration!) worthy of wrapping quotes around...but of course, I arrived without a pen.

Bullwinkle's Rocky -
After getting some spicy tuna rolls with extra wasabi and chopsticks, I sat down for lunch on a lawn right next to the stage where June Foray (the voice of Rocky the Squirrel from "Rocky And Bullwinkle" - one of my favorite cartoons, along with "Fractured Fairy Tales") was answering children's questions.  One older boy asked, in his best booming Bullwinkle impersonation, "Were you also the voice of Natasha?" to which Ms. Foray responded, "Excuse me?"  Then, after hearing the question clearly, she let loose with her deep Russian Natasha voice, "Must get squirrel, Dahlink."

Authors I Met & Books I Bought -
I then walked the campus investigating the different booths, and found Angel City Press's booth, full of California and L.A. related books, where I picked up a copy of "Curbside L.A." by Cecilia Rasmussen.

Next, I bought "Wild L.A.: A Day Hiker's Guide" by John McKinney - a book composed entirely of L.A. County specific hikes, which I'm really excited about since I tend to stick to my usual walking areas: Solstice Canyon, Malibu Creek Park and Stoney Point, to name a few.  In the book the author included the distances of each hike, clear details on which directions to take, as well as some great history about each area. (The author, John McKinney, in photo signing my book.)

Then I made a fool out of myself when I saw Marcia Wallace, an actress from one of my favorite shows as a kid, "The Bob Newhart Show," at a book signing table.  I asked if I could buy one of her books... Duh!  But, in my defense, I was a little flummoxed by seeing someone I grew up watching on T.V.  Ms. Wallace was so sweet, she and her equally lovely friend, Carol Wood - writer and webmaster, somehow ended up asking me about my daughter and if I write, and I, of course, was only to happy to answer.   But once I left, I glanced down at the book cover of Marica Wallace's book "Don't Look Back We're Not Going That Way!" and read "How I overcame a rocky childhood, a nervous breakdown, breast cancer, widowhood, fat, fire and menopausal motherhood..." I wished I took time to ask her more about herself, rather than gush about the television show she was on decades ago. (Below right, Ms. Wallace having to wait for my camera's three second delay.)

Finally, I thought about attending the Carrie Fisher interview with Sandra Tsing Loh, but then decided to listen to Laurie Notaro read from her new book "We Thought You Would Be Prettier." The self-named "dorkiest girl alive" (Laurie, I can relate!) had the audience howling, while simultaneously dealing with the wind knocking over her book display sign and reading aloud how she resorted to flipping off an 8-year-old summer camp kid at her YMCA. (Laurie Notaro, below)

Loving California - Is It In My Genes?

I love books.  I love to search for them, to buy them, to read them and, inevitably, to fall asleep with them.  I have books lining shelves in nearly every room - and on my coffee table.  But the only books that make it to the table are books related to California: California mid-century architecture, California art, California kitsch, California landscaping... you get the idea.   

(Front and Back of book with quote)

I hadn't really looked at the smallest coffee table book, which was a gift, until my husband picked it up and noticed that one of the two quotes on the back is by a relative of mine, Kevin Starr.  Other than being my mother's cousin, he's the California State Librarian Emiritus and writer of a series of books on the history of California.  In some of those books he infuses the experiences of his relatives, many of which are also mine, who originally came from Ireland to live in San Francisco - where another five generations remained, for a while anyway. (Photo on right are my great-great grandparents who are also Kevin Starr's great-grandparents, the Thomas Nortons. I don't know her first name.)

Whenever I see Kevin's colorful books lining bookstore shelves, or see him interviewed on CNN or PBS, I admire how he spreads his enthusiam for this state, and wonder - though his passion is obviously a lot more serious than my book collection and blog - if our mutual interest is somehow written into my DNA.  Or is it just the San Diego sea breeze that I breathed in the morning of my birth that makes me unable to imagine living anywhere else on the planet.

A few years ago I ran into Kevin at the L.A. Times Book festival at UCLA, and invited him and his beautiful wife, Sheila, over for a spaghetti dinner; I picked his brain, between bites, about a book idea I had - because that's the selfish sort of person I am... If I feed you, I need something in return. That's what It felt like, anyway.

Well, as of this date, I've never written that amazing book, and next April I will return to UCLA's book festival to drool over more books and admire the people who actually sat down to write them, like Kevin - who I hope goes on for many more years sharing his love and knowledge of California, the state we love so much.

The Quote: "California has always been a figment of its own imagination...." Kevin Starr

Now I just hope Kevin doesn't discover that I outed him on the internet as being a relative of mine.

R.C. Bates, the Walking Poet

This is R.C. Bates. He's a poet I've met a few times in Silverlake, just east of Hollywood. He walks up and down Sunset Boulevard, past hipsters drinking spearmint tea at the Casbah Cafe, through artists, musicians, and other Silverlake dwellers - many with the LA Weekly rolled under their arms; he walks by the cafes crowded with hungry twenty-something types who awoke around noon from a hard night of partying - he walks.

Months ago, as I was sitting on a bench in front of the Silverlake Conservatory of Music, while waiting for my daughter to finish her guitar lesson, R.C. approached me. He held before me his collection of thin poetry books, each filled with his words. I so admired his courage to put his thoughts into book form, and his bravery to look people in the eye and try to sell bits of his soul, that I bought one.  After rummaging in my purse for money and finding none, I wrote him a check for five dollars.

Today, while my daughter was at her lesson, I walked up Sunset boulevard past the eclectic shops of antiques, collectibles, incense and vintage wear toward an outdoor farmers' market.

There were tables of crusty breads, pastries, cherries, apricots, homemade candles, buckets of irises, sunflowers and orchids; the sound of a live jazz band floating through the air. I was happy.

There was R.C. Bates at the other end of the market in his top hat, leather vest, faded jeans, and sandals. In his leathery hands, jeweled by thick silver rings, were his colorful books of poetry.

I walked up to him, and was happily surprised that he remembered me from months ago.

After catching up, we jumped in to a philosophical talk on life/death, yin/yang, lightening/sunlight, positive/negative, then mutually agreed that life is too short to focus on the darkness.  Then he walked with me back down Sunset Boulevard toward my daughter.

"So, last night I got my scooter ripped off," R.C. said out of the blue. "I thought...that poor guy who took it..."

"Why? Was it a piece of crap?" I asked.

He threw his top hatted head back and laughed. "Exactly!" he said, "the poor slob is going to find the tires are popped, the engine always quits.." he laughed some more. Then he abruptly stopped laughing and said, "The way I see it, the guy who took that piece of junk probably saved my life. I could have been riding it today and might've
been hit by a car."

"What a great way to think about that," I said.  "You'll never know, but you could-a been right.  Maybe he saved your life."

Then we both laughed.  I laughed, because if in the same situation, I'd have been pissed; he laughed...I don't know why... maybe because I laughed.

"I wish more people thought like you," I told him.

"Well, I've learned that usually things happen for a reason, and rather than get mad at the guy who took it, I figure his karma will catch up to him. And life is too short to think negatively."

"I know people who moan and groan about everything, and waste so much time focusing on what's awful," I said. "I only wish somehow It'd be possible to give them your attitude."

Then, as we approached my daughter who was walking up the street with her guitar case strapped to her back, I told him how much I admired him for selling his poetry.

"Ah man!" he laughed and said, "My wife was after me for a long time, she'd say 'stop watching T.V. and get up and write,' so I did."

I knodded,"Yeah, I say the same thing whenever I'm done watching t.v. 'I could have done something, but instead I watched other people doing things."

"Yep, life's too short," R.C. confirmed in his laid back rasp of a voice that tripped off his tongue like a brook sliding down boulders, which I still heard faintly as I walked away, playing over in my head...life's too short.

His attitude lingered with me for the rest of the day.