Jenni B

I grew up in a small town in Northern California as a first-generation Filipino kid, which meant our house was loud, busy, and full of opinions. My dad was Navy his whole life, calm and steady, the kind of man who could nap through chaos. My mom more than made up for that. She was strong, sharp, and never whispered unless it was strategic. I had a sister, and like all sisters, we fought constantly over nothing and everything. I wanted to be her and beat her at the same time. Childhood was scraped knees, raised voices, and family dinners that lasted so long you forgot how they started.

My mom loved America. Not quietly. She loved the traditions, the rules, the holidays, and most of all Christmas. Christmas in our house was serious business. It was prime rib and mashed potatoes sitting proudly next to adobo, lumpia, and whatever masterpiece my Pampanga-born mother decided would prove, once again, that she was an exceptional cook. She cooked with pride and fed people like it was her personal mission. We were American, Filipino, loud, grateful, and very well fed.

So when I ended up in Monrovia, it felt familiar right away. The early years at Jenni B. were scrappy and full of learning, and then our daughter arrived and the store officially became part boutique, part nursery. We had a crib in the shop. People were asked to whisper during nap time, and incredibly, they did. When she was awake, she ran the place. By three, she wandered the store greeting customers like old friends and wishing everyone a very confident “Happy New You!” every January, as if it were official policy.

She’s grown now and off living her life, but the store is still here, and so are the people who’ve been coming in for almost twenty-four years. They’re not customers anymore. They’re family. Monrovia gave me space to build a life that felt a lot like the one I grew up in. Full of tradition, pride, and people who show up. And honestly, that feels pretty perfect.

After twenty-four years running a women’s boutique in Old Town Monrovia, you’d think I’d have mastered the art of Thanksgiving prep. But no — every November I become a pilgrim on a quest for the last remaining can of pumpkin purée in the San Gabriel Valley.

Yesterday I sent my husband out for “just three things,” which is marriage code for “may your journey be long and your spirit tested.” He returned hours later, having visited every grocery store between Duarte and Arcadia, clutching a single can of cranberry sauce like it was the Holy Grail. He swears the Smart & Final parking lot changed him as a man.

And yet... I love this time of year.
The smell of fireplaces. The way Myrtle Avenue somehow looks exactly the same as it did in 2001 when we opened the doors at Jenni B. The same twinkle lights. The same mountains watching over us. The same feeling that Monrovia exists in its own gentle pocket of time, refusing to rush, refusing to be anything but itself.

This week always makes me sentimental. I’m grateful for my family, for the ones still with us, and for the ones who used to sit at the table but now live in our stories.

I miss my Mom more than ever.

Mostly, though, I’m grateful for this town! This magical little place tucked right up against the foothills. and for all of you who have supported Jenni B. for twenty-four years. In a world that won’t stop changing, Monrovia somehow stays familiar, comforting, and beautifully small-town… even when the line at Vons is long enough to force personal growth.

Wishing you all a warm, joyful Thanksgiving! May your turkey be tender, your family patient, and may your spouse find all the ingredients on the first try.
Love
Jenni B.

Tomorrow promises to be a delightful Sunday in Monrovia, and I can already hear the clinking of glasses and the laughter of friends echoing through our charming streets. It’s a perfect day for Sunday brunch, where we’ll gather at one of the many places on Myrtle and indulge in all the deliciousness of Breakfast's fancy cousin

After we’ve stuffed ourselves silly, it’s time for a leisurely stroll down Myrtle. The air is crisp, and the storefronts are still clinging to the holiday spirit. We’ll pass by familiar faces, exchanging warm greetings and chuckling about how we all promised to start our New Year’s resolutions — but let’s be honest, who can resist another slice of that French toast?

As the day winds down, it’ll be time to face the inevitable: Taking down the Christmas decorations. They’ve been twinkling cheerfully in our living room, but now it’s time to pack them away. I’ll gather the family, armed with boxes and tape, ready to tackle the chaos in the garage. But wait! What’s this? A box of old board games? Suddenly, we’re caught up in a nostalgic trip down memory lane, recalling epic battles of Monopoly and Scrabble that turned into family feuds.

Before we know it, hours have passed, and those decorations are still up. “They can stay until after New Year’s,” I’ll declare with a grin, making an excuse that they’re just too pretty to take down yet. After all, who wouldn’t want a little extra sparkle as we prepare to welcome 2025?

So here’s to Sundays in Monrovia — filled with brunches, strolls down Myrtle, and just enough procrastination to keep the holiday spirit alive a little longer!