I mixed up a pitcher of Mrs. Bertha L. Turner’s Old Pacific Slope Punch on a lazy summer Sunday afternoon. It was the type of afternoon in August that could definitely be described as The Dog Days. Too hot, a lot humid. The kind of day that makes your brain melt into a hazy buzz. What would be the harm in taking it just a little farther?
This punch came from The Federation Cookbook: A Collection of Tested Recipes by the Colored Women of California. It was from Pasadena, ballparked around 1910. I first saw reference to it in Jubilee by Toni Tipton-Martin. If you haven’t looked into that book, you should stop and do that now. It’s full of gorgeous pictures, rich history and lush recipes. As for The Federation Cookbook, I had recently found a copy and was drooling over the contributions. While many looked delicious, I wanted to choose something that would keep me–and the kitchen–cool. That brought me to Bertha’s Old Pacific Slope Punch.
The first thing I noticed about this recipe was that it made 3 gallons. That’s got to be a clue, right? Who’s Bertha cooking for? Also, since I was essentially drinking alone (ehem) and didn’t have a death wish, I thought it would be wise to cut down the size quite a lot. The abbreviated amount would be good for having your best friend over.
The drink came together exactly as suggested. I squeezed the lemons, dropped in what looked like way too much sugar, then added the red wine. I gently poured in some “charged water”–which must mean sparkling, right? I topped a mason jar with zested sugar, just to give it a little sparkle, loaded the cup with lemon and ice and poured myself a tall glass. The result was a sweet, fizzy spritzer with that heart-opening-warmth that claret produces so effectively.
I had no problem finishing it off while improvising the best gnocchi dish I have ever constructed. Was Bertha with me? I’m not sure I believe in such things, but then again, I soon learned that her heart was the size of the ocean and her cooking was infamous. So perhaps, in a way, she was.
Mrs. Bertha L. Turner
Bertha L. Turner was born Bettie Lee, in 1867, Kentucky, to Squire (Henry) Lee and Sophia Mitchell. By 1870, Squire was working as a farm hand while Sophia was keeping house. At that point, Bettie Lee was 3 years old and one of four children. Interestingly, Squire was a veteran of the Civil War. In Lexington Kentucky, he enlisted, and according to the U.S. Descriptive List of Colored Volunteer Army Soldiers, 1864, he was a slave when he joined up.
It’s very likely that Sophia, as well as Bertha’s older siblings were also born in slavery, but by 1870 they had literally fought for freedom and received it, technically. The simple truth was that antebellum Kentucky would still have been a dangerous place for the whole Lee family.
By 1880, when Bertha was 13, she had moved to Marion, Indiana. Her mother was single and doing laundry to get by, while taking care of Bettie, Benjamin, Sally and Leander. Soon Bertha’s stepfather entered the picture. His name was Edward Dupree and he was also a veteran of the Civil War.
It was in Indiana that Bertha started a family. Bertha married James Turner on 6 December 1891, when she was 24 years old. By 1895, they had their one and only son, Raymond. By 1900, Raymond was living with his grandparents, while Bertha and James worked in the home of a man named Sterling R. Scott, an ice manufacturer. Bertha was a servant while James was the butler.
And then something changed.
Somewhere between 1900 and 1906 Bertha, James and Raymond moved. They left Indiana for the orange scented breezes of Pasadena, California. Was the move a long-planned dream finally come to fruition? Was it a spur of the moment departure? I’m not sure, but by 1906 they had landed in the Southland where the business was buzzing and the conversation was flowing. I’m no historian, and am a newbie to California research, but looking at the society columns, publications and happenings in Pasadena at the turn of the 20th century gave me the impression that Bertha had landed in the middle of–and contributed to—a cultural moment akin to the Harlem Renaissance.
Bertha soon established a catering business, first out of Fair Oaks–and later Worcester –addresses. Her food sounded amazing. Just look at this coverage of a fairy tale dinner Bertha served up in 1917.
It was around this time that Bertha began to cater for various clubs around town, specifically Club No. 2 and the Shakespeare Club (a charitable organization incorporated in 1898). She was an installation at the Shakespeare Club for 2 decades and contributed to their recipe book, Dainties that are Bred in a Book (1936).
Bertha wasn’t only invested in food. She also appeared to be community-minded and charitable-with a focus on equality. In Pasadena, she joined the National Federation of Colored Women and Sojourner Truth societies. Bertha was often in leadership roles and traveled to national gatherings from time to time. It’s very likely that Bertha’s participation in the Federation Club was what spurred The Federation Cook Book.
Bertha was a patroness of the arts. As a business woman, she was known to sponsor many local events, especially ones that reflected on history or lifted others up. In the clipping, below, you can see Bertha was a patroness of the town-wide Fifty Years of Freedom celebration.
Bertha participated in the story of Anthony Burns. In case you don’t know this one, Anthony Burns had escaped slavery (in Virginia) and made it to Boston only to be captured under the Fugitive Slave Act of 1853. A big trial ensued which drew mobs of abolitionists to the courthouse, then down to the docks as Anthony was returned.
The Fifty Years of Freedom production showcased dozens of stories in what looked to be a sort-of living history event.
By 1919, Bertha’s hard work was paying off, as was evidenced by a notice in the paper that she and James had bought a 5 passenger Chevy. Perhaps something like this?
And in 1924, she purchased a “palatial home” on Winona Ave. She soon lived at– and ran her catering business from–that address.
Bertha was living the life, but there is no question, there was real tragedy along with regular battles toward equality that she continually faced. For instance, in March of 1925, Bertha’s daughter-in-law, Elsie Dalton Turner, was driving on Fair Oaks with a passenger–17-year-old, Ada Dancy. A collision occurred which resulted in Ada’s death.
A news report ran later that month that primarily reflected the perspective of Mr. Lanthrop, a wealthy white man whose chauffeur, A.L. Johnson, caused the accident. (I am assuming Mr. Lanthrop was white because the newspaper always made a point of specifying “colored” or “negro” in reference to Black people and did not do so in identifying Lanthrop or Johnson). The resulting report showed a one-sided story. Bertha wrote a letter to the paper to point out biased reporting.
By August, Ada’s father had filed a lawsuit, but the newspaper trail dries up after that.
Tragedies aside, Bertha kept on working. And her skills were in high demand. I don’t know if you have ever heard of it, but there’s this little place in Southern California called the Hollywood Bowl. The Bowl opened in 1922, though its roots go back farther. It was an immediate magnet for the arts and quickly became a premiere destination for musicians touring the area. It’s the forever-home of the LA Philharmonic. You can take a peek at The Bowl’s timeline, here. Top artists still make the Bowl a primary venue.
Way back in the 1930s they featured the ballet Elysia, solo recitals by Roland Hayes and Symphonies Under the Stars.
And who was offering food in the Tea Garden at the Hollywood Bowl? The best cateress around, of course, Mrs. Bertha L. Turner.
Bertha ran concessions at the Tea Garden from, roughly, 1931-1934. I wonder if her cocktail of the evening was ever Old Pacific Slope Punch. What about that raspberry ice? Can you imagine crunching on that and taking in the symphony? I bet the whole place smelled divine when Bertha was roasting up spring lamb and rib roast. I don’t know if Bertha, herself, would have been cooking. At that point, she would have had a large staff. I wonder if she was able to sit and watch the productions or if she was working during that time.
Another face at the Hollywood Bowl was George Garner. George was a talented tenor; among other accomplishments, he soloed with the London Symphony Orchestra, sang at Westminster Abbey, and toured Europe for six years. In addition to his music career, George was also a staff correspondent for the California Eagle and, evidently, a dear friend to Bertha.
It’s from George that we learn about Bertha’s sudden health collapse in 1937.
George’s correspondence seems upbeat and hopeful, but the newspapers show a sudden downward spiral. Unfortunately, according to her death certificate, in May of 1937, Bertha was diagnosed with bladder cancer.
Also that year (August 1937), her catering equipment caught fire, taking out part of her garage on Winona Ave. Much of her equipment was damaged and she was cited by the court for having an improper incinerator. I’m not sure who attended to that citation, at the time, but I can’t imagine that Bertha would have been in any shape to address it, herself. It was, perhaps, Elizabeth Armstrong, who was in charge of the business in her stead. (Elizabeth was, apparently, a close acquaintance and was also the informant on Bertha’s death certificate).
Bertha passed away on 4 February 1938. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that the entire city mourned her. George wrote this, rather than a social update in the paper, that day:
There are no words to employ that might measure the extent of the loss that California sustains now and forever after: for hers was a niche that she alone could fill.
–George Garner
Here’s his statement in full.
Fine words about a woman who was truly extraordinary.
Bertha’s obituary that ran in the The Pasadena Star News gives us an even closer glimpse at her life, her philanthropy and even her faith. She not only employed legions of people in town, but she also provided scholarships for promising students, was a trustee at the A.M.E and more.
It includes this photo of Bertha decked out and holding what looks like a fur coat. I don’t know on what occasion the picture was taken, but it confirms what we’ve observed. Bertha was a class act.
Needless to say, Bertha Lee Turner was a fascinating person. She started her young married life as a servant to an ice manufacturer — and then she rose. In the Southland, she had the freedom, and the know-how, to become the charismatic, creative business-woman she was destined to be. She was a patron of the arts and a community leader. The daughter of actual freedom fighters, she too, fought for freedom and equality. She just happened to do it all while serving up caramel ice cream, hot buttered biscuits and heart-warming cocktails. That was Bertha’s way.
If you raise a glass this weekend, why not make it Old Pacific Slope Punch? And why not make it about Bertha? Her story is a story worth knowing.
Thanks so much for reading. If you enjoyed following this life story, you may like other Soulspun Kitchen Stories. Feel free to leave a comment, like and subscribe. If you make the recipe, I’d love to see it. Tag me on Instagram: @erinemoulton #soulspunkitchen
IMPORTANT: This research would not have been possible without the many hard working historians and archivists in Pasadena. Particularly, thanks to Meredith Reese of the LA Philharmonic Archives, Pat Zeider of the Pasadena Museum of History and Candace Campbell of the Pasadena Shakespeare Club. Without your helpful digging, I would never have gotten to know about Bertha. Any and all mistakes are, of course, my own.