Fruit of the Family Tree: Nana Rolls
How one Albright Marshall treat continues kneading generations together.
There is something to be said about food made with love and wrapped in a story. And on that Sunday in June 2023, there was love in abundance as we gathered to make “Nana Rolls” in honor of my grandmother, Crystal Albright Marshall.
We all met at my cousin Robin’s house in Corona, California. Robin is number seven of the Marshalls’ grandchildren. The first Marshall grandchild, Crystal, who so proudly carries our grandmother’s name, came the farthest, traveling down from Stockton, CA; and Aunt Babs, the youngest Marshall daughter, came the shortest distance since she was living in the “mother-in-law suite” at her daughter Robin’s house. Katie, the Marshalls’ youngest great granddaughter, drove in from Altadena, and as the sixth grandchild of Crystal and Rufus, I came over from Ontario, CA. Samanta Helou Hernandez, our photographer, dear friend, and producer of the Heart Mountain Wyoming Foundation’s Making a Neighborhood exhibit, Ubered in from the ole Dayton Heights/J-Flats neighborhood.
Three generations of Albright-Marshall women and our adopted friend gathered on this slightly overcast Sunday to photograph the process of making our grandmother’s increasingly well-known rolls. In February 2023, we were informed that my Aunt Barbara, Cousin Robin, and I had been awarded the LaDonna Zall Compassionate Witness Award by the Heart Mountain Wyoming Foundation. While our names are on the award, it was truly for Crystal and Rufus Marshall and others of the Albright clan. For the support, love, and protection they had given to so many of their Japanese friends and neighbors in the Dayton Heights community when President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, forcing their relocation because they were seen as threats to the national security of the United States after the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. With one swipe of the pen, this loving community was nearly wiped away into history.
In turn, the Marshalls and Albrights sheltered family treasures, took on power of attorney for bank accounts, property and businesses for several of their Japanese neighbors, wrapping them in compassionate care until they could return from internment and rebuild their lives.
But to truly know the Marshalls was to know the beauty, spirit, and nourishment of their food, and on this June Sunday in preparation for the Making a Neighborhood exhibit in Wyoming, we were honoring that tradition with these wonderful little “Nana Rolls.”
For most Black women, working outside of the home usually wasn’t a choice, it was a necessity; and it was no different for my grandmother, Crystal Albright. After Crystal graduated from Hollywood High School in 1907 as part of the first full four-year class to graduate from the school, she worked six months of the year at the New Age newspaper, an LA-based, Black-owned periodical where she learned the printing business from the ground up. The other six months, she homesteaded a property in the Antelope Valley. She split the time working and improving the 160 acres with her father, George Washington Albright.
Through her 20s, Crystal picked up several skills by which she could make a living. One day, she was returning to the homestead in her horse drawn wagon, hauling supplies that had been shipped to her on the train from Los Angeles, when suddenly a man driving a Chevrolet pulled up beside her and asked, “Are you Albright’s daughter?” She said she was and he said, “I understand you’re a printer.” She told him she had been working at it for several years. He then asked her, “Well, how would you like to come work for the Antelope Valley Ledger-Gazette?”
And so she did. Crystal made $10 a week working three days a week with men who were known as “tramp printers.” In those days (1910’s), local newspapers were springing up all over the country, particularly in the west, and a printer could always find work. So once again, she figured out how she could split her time between the homestead and her work at the Gazette.
Crystal was always good at figuring out how to make things work, especially at times like this when she was juggling so many responsibilities. But after a few months into her new schedule, arriving home from the Gazette and approaching her little cabin, Crystal knew something was wrong. The cows, chickens, and pigs were nowhere to be seen and the front door was open. With the shotgun by her side that she carried in the wagon, yet never had to use, she approached the front door only to find her little cabin had been ransacked. The beautiful jars of preserved fruits and vegetables in the pantry were gone, plates lay broken on the floor and the stack of quilts that Crystal and her mother Josephine had spent hours and hours making for the winter months were gone as well.
“…and I just sat down on the floor and I cried and I cried and I cried. Then, I thought, ‘Well this isn’t going to get me anywhere.’ So I got up and I went down to the Sheriff’s office in Palmdale to report what had happened. Then, I swallowed my pride, used their telephone, and reached out for help…”
No matter how independent and self-confident and capable you know yourself to be, there are times in life when you take the next step only with the help of the people who love you. And for Crystal this was certainly one of those times.
Word of Crystal’s plight spread quickly among her friends and relatives, and everyone jumped to her assistance. People sent weekly boxes of produce as well as nonperishable things for her pantry, while others sent a dollar or two a week. And Josephine went into what her great grandchildren would one day call “warp speed” by quilting and tatting as fast as her fingers could fly to make sure her daughter would be wrapped in warmth and love for the cold winter months ahead. The answers to Crystal’s prayers got her back on her feet again, and at the end of that six-month period she turned a healed homestead back over to her father.
I don’t know when or why Crystal turned on to another lifepath, but she did. At some point in her late 20s, she not only turned the homestead over to her father for another six months, but for good. The New Age newspaper was barely holding on when its editor, Fred Roberts, decided to move on to teach in Bayonne, Mississippi. As Crystal said:
“…[he] just left us holding the bag and the bag got too big for us to hold, so we all quit!”
It was around this time that her best friend, Bessie Patterson, talked to Crystal about her work for Prudential Life Insurance Company in their cafeteria, located in downtown Los Angeles. Bessie also worked in private homes, cooking for white families and serving large parties. She told Crystal that she could get her work serving tables to start out until she learned the ins and outs of the trade. Crystal had always loved to cook, after all.
Both of them also started taking classes at the Herald-Express Newspaper building. The classes were taught by Kate Brew-Vaughn who was an author, demonstrator, radio host, and one of the most all-around respected voices in the field of cooking in the early 20th century.
While there, something brought Crystal and Bessie to the attention of Mrs. Brew-Vaughn. She asked the two women if they might be interested in working for her. She explained that they would wear uniforms and actually prepare the dishes on stage as she discussed the recipes. For the next two years, Crystal honed her skills and talents, demonstrating contemporary recipes for home cooks and professionals alike.
And then came Rufus…
Crystal met Rufus Marshall through mutual friends shortly before World War I, and while she had worked all through her 20s at building the skills needed for an independent life, Crystal knew this was a man, strong and capable, whom she could build a life with. They corresponded all through the first World War.
Upon his return, Rufus spent the next two years working as a Pullman Porter while Crystal continued her work serving, demonstrating, and working large parties in order to save enough money for a married life. The couple married on March 16, 1921. Crystal’s mother, Josephine Albright, held the deed to one of the five family-owned lots on Westmoreland Avenue in her own name. As a wedding present, she signed the deed over to her daughter and son-in-law and the little house at 556 N. Westmoreland Avenue was born.
Over the next seven years, the babies came like clockwork. Their first baby, a boy named James, was born with what was called "blue baby syndrome." This was a condition where the child’s blood cannot carry enough oxygen to nourish the body. James only lived three days. Then Josephine, named after her grandmother, was born in 1922; followed by Rufus, Jr. in 1924; and finally, Barbara, who arrived in January of 1927. With three children all under the age of six, Crystal worked sporadically and then only with the invaluable help of her mother and brother Wendell, who lived diagonally across the street at 537 N. Westmoreland Avenue, and her older brother Roy and his wife and three sons who lived next door to Josephine at 533 N. Westmoreland.
Over time, Crystal built up a steady clientele and a sterling reputation as a cook and caterer. It was through this work that she met Mrs. Wartenweiller, Mrs. Harvey (Mildred) Mudd and Mrs. Augustus (Ethel) Hoover. These three women kept Crystal well-employed, having her take care of everything from family dinners to large, catered cocktail parties. Crystal often had to hire extra help to work the large events. Her children pitched in on some of the small tasks when they were young, but their responsibilities increased as they grew older. Other women who were friends of the family, including young women from the neighborhood like Yoko Hoshizaki, built their skills, gained experience, and earned money under Crystal’s sponsorship.
In 1932, Mrs. Mudd told Crystal that the Mudd’s live-in maid wanted to take a month off during July and asked if she would come and fill in for her. Crystal thought about leaving her children for a month and said she didn’t think she’d be able to do it. But Mrs. Mudd was persistent and persuasive and offered her $80 for the stay. Recalling this in 1974, Crystal said, “That would be like someone offering you $500 for a month of work (in 1974 dollars)!” The money was important to the Marshalls, but this month also happened to be their oldest child’s 10th birthday. Crystal wrote this letter to her daughter:
“Dear Little Josephine – How sorry mother is not to be home when you are ten years old. But I’m sure next year things will be better for us. I will telephone you tomorrow afternoon as soon as I can. Be a sweet girl & tell Rufus & Barbara to hug you & kiss you 10 times for mother. Here is 50¢ to get something you think you need. With lots of love – Mother.”
I can only imagine how this next part happened. On the morning of her 10th birthday, Josephine wakes up early, even before the aroma of her father’s coffee reaches her bedroom. She dresses quickly, slips out of the back door and runs across the street to her grandmother’s house. As always, the door is unlocked and Josephine lets herself in. Her grandmother doesn’t seem surprised to see her. The two Josephines wait for the other to break the silence. “Mama won’t be here for my birthday dinner. Grandma, can you help me make Mama’s rolls?”
The little rolls were always on the table for special occasions. They were always Crystal’s rolls, but on this July 19, 1932, their preparation would be passed down from mother to daughter with the proud assistance of Grandmother Albright, who watched her granddaughter grow up before her eyes. Not until Crystal’s grandchildren were born and Crystal took on the moniker of “Nana” did the little rolls become known as “Nana Rolls,” but making them for whatever occasion became a rite of passage for generations to come.
In the succeeding years, Crystal and Rufus built Marshall’s Catering and took on larger clients, providing both full and part-time work for people in their sphere. Social clubs such as the Friday Morning Club, the Carthay Women’s Club, the Hollywood Studio Club, the Mining Ladies (a pet organization of both Mrs. Mudd and Mrs. Wartenweiller, whose husbands were both involved in copper mining in Cyprus) and the cafeteria of the Los Angeles Public Library in downtown L.A. were regular clients.
Many of the grandchildren remember the huge pink boxes that carried hundreds of open-face finger sandwiches shaped in small rectangles, crescents, or triangles and made with egg or chicken salad, deviled ham, or cream cheese and olives. They were topped with tinted cream cheese piped from pastry bags with various decorative tips forming flowers and leaves. And then there were delicate pâte à choux puffs filled with either sweet or savory delights. They remembered their grandfather Rufus, his stained white apron tied around the waist of his 6’ 4” frame, pulling a sizzling roast or golden blistered, juicy 28 pound turkey out of the O’Keefe and Merrit double oven. Neighbors and friends also remembered these catered events fondly since the leftovers that came home never went to waste.
But there came a day when no matter how good the Marshalls’ food was, no one could taste it. In February 1942, depending upon the area of the state of California you lived in, Japanese American citizens, non-citizens, and parents of citizens were required to report to assigned assembly centers, with only one or two duffle bags and/or suitcases per person. Carl Albright, Crystal’s oldest nephew, remembered the morning of April 1,1942 as the date of their friends’ and neighbors’ departure to who knew where, much less for how long.
Crystal invited all the Japanese families in the neighborhood for a small breakfast before leaving. She was heartbroken, yet she was prepared and would not take “no” for an answer to her invitation. She cooked all morning. Her daughter Barbara remembers the huge ham, fluffy scrambled eggs, Rufus’s strong coffee, sizzling sausage, and a mound of biscuits (or were they rolls?). Each family was invited to sit at the table in the warm kitchen. The little ones didn’t understand and frequently asked where they were going and when they were coming back. Barbara remembers that it was also a misty, gray day, as if one more question, one more word would set a flood of tears flowing from the sky.
When each family had finished, Rufus helped load their luggage into his green Plymouth and took them as a family unit to the staging area, where buses waited to take them all to their assigned assembly location. Hours later, the Albright and Marshall families shared a meal that none of them could swallow because pieces of their broken hearts were lodged in their throats.
One thing 17-year-old Takashi Hoshizaki remembers to this day is the Marshalls coming out to visit his family at the Pomona Fairgrounds, where hundreds of families were being held until their permanent relocation to the Heart Mountain, Wyoming internment/concentration camp. He wasn’t sure how they did it, but the Marshalls brought homemade apple pie and vanilla ice cream. The pie’s puffed top crust was high enough to fit a scoop of ice cream underneath, a taste and a gesture he would remember for the rest of his life.
Eighty years later, on this misty Sunday in June 2023, making Nana Rolls, we were happy and enjoying each other’s company. I could almost feel my grandmother standing there, watching her girls fussing over whose technique was the best.
“Your first rise is too wet; you should put more flour in.”
“No, yours is too lumpy.”
“I’ve never seen anyone knead dough that way.”
“What do you mean? There’s no other way to do it. You push with the heel of your hand and pull back with the tips of your fingers.”
“You need to knead it more, your dough is too tacky. It should feel like patting a baby’s bottom.”
By the time we had each taken our turn showing what we thought was the proper way to knead Nana’s dough, we had managed to avoid any major battles, and it was time for the dough, and the six of us, to rest and rise again.
Is it possible to know life through a flavor, an aroma, a texture, a feel? Can you taste love? On this Sunday, as we took the photographs which would go into the exhibit to honor my family and my grandparents in particular, you could taste the love.
When Robin took that batch of Nana Rolls out of the oven, lightly browned on top, a little deeper golden on the bottom, we passed around butter, grape jelly, and strawberry jam and dressed the little hot rolls the way each wanted. I took my first bite and immediately was struck by the presence of Nana. I was filled with the profound love of her daughter, granddaughters, and great granddaughter, flowing from her and to her. Next to Nana’s, these were the best Nana Rolls I had ever tasted.
For some of us, food is the language of love, and there was love in abundance on that misty Sunday in June.
Thank you Nana and Granddaddy.
This article concludes this four-part series. Please consider becoming a paid subscriber to Making a Neighborhood to support more work like it.
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ALSO NOTE: This article was supported in part by Quien Es Tu Vecindario, a local 501(c)3 in the neighborhood, through a grant from the L.A. County Department of Arts and Culture as part of Creative Recovery L.A., an initiative funded by the American Rescue Plan.
How does one nominate Kiwi for a Pulitzer? I’ve been reading every word and loving imagining the voice of Kiwi telling me all this herself. I grew up in another neighborhood in LA not far from Dayton Heights and have many close friends from there not knowing all this history. Thank you Kiwi Karen Burch. Love, Doreen Dodo Mercado.
How nice to keep family traditions and memories alive!