I come from Glendale, in California, not to be confused with the city of the same name found in the neighboring state of Arizona. If people ask me where I’m from, though, I invariably say Los Angeles, of which Glendale is a suburb – a big one, big enough to have its own power generating plant! One can see the skyline of downtown LA from Glendale just over the hills of Los Feliz, Silverlake (where I lived prior to moving to the desert), and Elysian Park (famed for being the home of the Dodgers – a group of overpaid men who hit a ball thrown at them with a stick then run around a lawn while people eating hot dogs and peanuts watch them).
Glendale has many claims to fame. From environmental consciousness and sustainability to actual fame. As far back as 1928, Glendale was the first city to earn the “Miss American Green Cross” distinction from a short-lived but visionary environmental organization dedicated to saving America’s trees.
Designated as one of the original Glendale city landmarks in 1977, and originally displayed at the Glendale High School campus, the statue (at right) was rededicated and moved to its new and permanent location – Miradero, the estate of Glendale founder Leslie Brand – in 1992. The conservation legacy lives on today as since 1982 native trees have been protected by the City of Glendale Indigenous Tree Ordinance.
And what do Walt Disney, Clark Gable, Nat King Cole, Michael Jackson, and my parents have in common? They all call Glendale’s Forest Lawn Cemetery their final resting place. My parents weren’t famous though, but they were “stars” to me.
Glendale has an estimated population of 200,831, and 54.5% of its residents are immigrants; by comparison, California’s average of foreign-born residents is about 27%, and the national average is 13%. So I imagine Glendale is the kind of place Stephen Miller of the Trump administration would hate – which is fine… please stay away because we Glendalians aren’t buying what you’re selling.
One thing we are buying is ice cream. Head north on the street I grew up on, turn right onto Glenwood Road, from there hop onto Stocker Street, and turn left after about a mile onto Central Avenue. There, across from the supermarket my mom called “Little Ralphs” (to differentiate it from Big Ralphs on the corner of Brand and Glenoaks which they tell me is a Trader Joe’s now) sits an unassuming shop. It is the original Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors Ice Cream, possibly Glendale’s least known but most significant claim to fame.
note how the right side of the B and the left side of the R form the number 31
Of course, everybody has heard of “31 Flavors,” a name intentionally chosen to suggest customers could have a new flavor every day of the month. But who are Baskin and Robbins? They were brothers-in-law Burt Baskin and Irv Robbins. Irv (Robbins) opened his first store, Snowbird Ice Cream, in 1945 in Glendale, and the following year, Burt (Baskin) opened his first store, Burton’s Ice Cream Shop, in nearby Pasadena. The pair joined forces, opening new stores together so that by 1948 they collectively had 6 stores. By 1949, that number had increased to over 40 ice cream shops. It wasn’t until 1953 that they began calling the stores “Baskin-Robbins,” after their surnames. Today Baskin-Robbins is the largest chain of ice cream parlors in the world. President Barack Obama is a former employee.
You might say that ice cream runs through my veins. You might say it is what makes a Wilkinson a “Wilkinson of Glendale.” My father had very few vices. He enjoyed beer and red wine, but not to excess. He was fanatical about the game of tennis – both playing it, watching it on television, and attending professional tournaments like the BNP Paribas Open, the fifth largest tennis tournament in the world, combining the men’s ATP World Tour and the women’s WTA Tour, which is played at the Indian Wells Tennis Garden every March just down the road from me here in the Coachella Valley. He was an avid hiker, and the Verdugo Mountains that form Glendale’s dramatic backdrop afforded him many trails to, as I used to say, “go for a walk and look at a view.”
But nothing, and I do mean nothing, held a candle to his love of ice cream. When he wanted to coax my sister or me to accompany him on one of his hikes, he’d bribe us by promising a trip to that 31 Flavors on Central (see above) afterwards, which I have to believe he enjoyed just as much as we did. And in his senior senior years (he lived to be 93) when we hired Ricardo to look after him following the death of my mother, the first thing he’d say to my sister when she came by to look in on him was “we’re out of ice cream.” That was before “hello.”
Here at Stonewall Gardens Assisted Living in Palm Springs, our main meal of the day is at noon; our entrees have a decidedly Southern flare as our head chef hails from the South, and they are followed by dessert, usually cake, though she slips fruit concoctions in occasionally. Jello makes an appearance now and then.
But dinner is another matter. And yes, if you want to get pedantic about it, John who lives in Apt. 17, it is more appropriately called “supper,” dinner being a large meal (whether eaten at midday or later in the afternoon or evening) and supper being a smaller meal eaten later. I know the difference, I just don’t care! At dinner… uh, supper… uh, in the evening when the sun is in the west and slowly descending out of sight behind Mount San Jacinto, we have a lighter meal – sandwiches, soups, salads, the occasional quesadilla – followed by ice cream.
For the last ten years, it was vanilla ice cream. Your only choice was whether you wanted the caregiver to squeeze some chocolate sauce out of a bottle onto it. Steve, or “mother” as we call him, at our table started bringing his own caramel sauce and sharing it amongst the four of us, much to the chagrin of the rest of the dining room, stuck as they were with the prospect of rather uninspiring vanilla with or without chocolate sauce.
But Regina who took over the kitchen about six months ago has brought more than just a Southern sensibility to our menu. She has worked hard to give our residents choices, like offering a chicken alternative when the main entrée is fish.
And the vote.
About a week ago, by secret ballot, each of us got to vote for what kind of ice cream should be served at the end of each day. In a perfect world, it would be wonderful if there were 31 flavors like at Baskin-Robbins to choose from each night, but in an assisted living community that would not be practical (or affordable). So she put it to a vote.
There were some exotic choices on the ballot like Rocky Road and Pistachio. I was torn between Coffee and Mint Chocolate Chip, though I went with the latter, having devoured that flavor so many times after hikes with my dad. And while Mint Chocolate Chip had the support of half my table, the other half had different ideas and exerted influence on nearby tables to go along with them like Texas Republicans redrawing their Congressional Districts map. In the end, we Mint Chocolate Chippers didn’t stand a chance.
Last night was the big reveal. Anticipation mounted as Andrew, the Monday night caregiver, went from table to table like Flo from Mel’s Diner on 70s sitcom Alice, shouting “order up” and asking “whatelitbe hon?” while holding a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and iced tea in the other.
Dinner supper the meal consisted of vegetable soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. My regular table at the Stonewall Gay Gray Café (at left) was full, so I sat with Hans, our newest resident who despite his German-sounding name just moved here from Hawaii.
After finishing our meal and discussing how we can’t bear to watch the news anymore because it’s all so disheartening, a smile came across our faces. Andrew placed two bowls of frozen dairy deliciousness in front of us.
Butter pecan had won.