San Francisco Chronicle Arts & Entertainment - Spoken Edition

Leslie Sbrocco traces the genesis of “Check, Please! Bay Area Kids” to a note she received from a fan last February. “In her handwritten letter (she wrote), ‘Dear Leslie, I am a huge fan of the show, I am 7 years old and one day I will have your job,” Sbrocco recalls, laughing as she tells the story. “I thought, ‘I love her! This is a girl with gumption!’” The gumption-filled four-part special premieres Thursday, Nov. 29, on KQED-TV.

Thanksgiving was over. As I said to my wife as the final dishes were washed last Thursday evening, it’s no time to relax. The battle continues. We were still reeling from the beating we took at Thanksgiving. Only one of our four children came to dinner. The other three went off to celebrate with their significant other’s families. “Christmas is going to be different,” I bravely announced as I wrapped up the leftovers and placed them in the fridge.

Posted on Next Door in the Sunset district, a Tuesday, Nov. 13 entry noticed by Charles Moody: “Question: The air seems very smoky today.

Long ago, when I asked my mother the date of her birthday, she replied, “I was born in a year with two Augusts.” How odd her answer seemed to me at the time. Why couldn’t she tell me the date listed on her driver’s license? I would come to learn that the Chinese lunar calendar has occasional leap years — such as the year she was born — which adds a month to align the calendar.

Holidays were rotated between Aunt Mildred, Aunt Rita and my mother in a way that I never understood, but in 1968, Nurse Vivian drew Thanksgiving. This was the autumn a year after the Summer of Love. The times they were a-changing, and she got it into her head that she was tired of turkey, even though she cooked it only once a year. This was also the year that she had gotten her driver’s license, and so she drove the big red Chevrolet station wagon down to King Kullen Supermarket on her own.

I love to compete in sports. I grew up playing basketball, moved on to doubles tennis and golf when the body started breaking down, and look forward to competing in my sport of the future — bocce ball. I love to experience the thrill of victory, and can usually handle the agony of defeat. I just don’t like the thought of losing to an 11-year-old. Let me explain. I entered my local tennis club’s annual doubles tournament that was held the weekend before last.

Items have been culled from The Chronicle’s archives of 25, 50, 75 and 100 years ago. 1993 Dec. 1: The San Francisco Symphony, locked in intense contract negotiations with its musicians all day, last night canceled the Davies Hall concert scheduled for tonight with new music director Michael Tilson Thomas and actress Debra Winger. “The musicians would not play the rehearsal,” said general manager Brent Affink.

Earlier this month, my sons, Didi and Gege, raced around on their scooters at Stanford University, shouting with glee as they careened on the smooth walkways around the Quad. It was a couple of weeks before the choking haze of the Camp Fire would descend. On that perfect autumn day, the golden hour highlighted the Ultimate Frisbee players cavorting on the grassy Oval, the tile and sandstone arches, and the mural on Memorial Church, where my husband and I married.

Last weekend, Brian, Aidan and I visited the SASBs in San Anselmo, all of us there to visit with Betty, her mom, who had flown in from Kansas. One of the other guests, on her third glass of wine, asked, “What happened to San Francisco? It’s not what it used to be.” She asked as if it were my fault, and for just a few minutes I wondered what I had done to cause urban decay. Found the answer the following Wednesday, when I walked over to Civic Center Plaza to get avocado toast.

Last weekend, Brian, Aidan and I visited the SASBs in San Anselmo, all of us there to visit with Betty, her mom, who had flown in from Kansas. One of the other guests, on her third glass of wine, asked, “What happened to San Francisco? It’s not what it used to be.” She asked as if it were my fault, and for just a few minutes I wondered what I had done to cause urban decay. Found the answer the following Wednesday, when I walked over to Civic Center Plaza to get avocado toast.

I was checking email on my iPhone at the breakfast table a couple of weeks ago and was delighted to announce to my wife that she had finally joined an exclusive club. “Congratulations,” I said as I finished reading an email from an irate reader. “You just received your first hate mail.” She looked up from her yogurt and blueberries. “Me?” she asked. “What did I do?” I happily read her the email.

There was no way I was going to let election night 2018 happen the same way election night 2016 did. OK, so maybe I didn’t have any more control over Tuesday night’s results than I had two years ago. But if I couldn’t influence the results, at least I could choose the environment in which I heard them. I knew from past experience that sitting around, waiting for returns — even with good food and good wine — would only make me (more) anxious and agitated.

One and all and all welcomed to John’s Grill for... Mayor London Breed was resplendent in gold pumps (for the media, “because I’ve got to be on point,” she said, or maybe “en pointe”) and Willie Brown was resplendent in red shoes (“because I’ve always got to wear something red”). John Konstin, owner of John’s Grill, which hosted the annual election day party on Ellis Street, was just plain resplendent in hospitality.

In this centenary of Ingmar Bergman, the great Swedish director’s admirers — both professional and personal — have been traveling the world, bringing him to life by telling tales etched in their memories. He wasn’t exactly an easygoing man, said Katinka Faragó, who has been described as his “right hand.

Items have been culled from The Chronicle’s archives of 25, 50, 75 and 100 years ago. 1993 Nov. 12: The stare, the chin, the jaw, the look, the bubble gum, the two-day beard, the swing, the follow through. More chin, more jaw … oh, now is the time to pay homage, to genuflect in the direction of the departed hero. He could stare; he could smear black stuff under his eyes. He could hit a fastball, a curveball, a sinker low and away. Enough already.