12/21/2025
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.
