Inside Kate Smith's Kitchen

"Hello, everybody. This is Kate Smith."

How often you've heard that cheery greeting! The rich, friendly tones of the speaker's voice bring instant recognition apart from the spoken words and you find yourself responding as you would to the warm handclasp of an old friend.

Well, after all, this is an old friend I am presenting to you here, this Catherine Elizabeth Smith, who for years has been bringing the moon over the mountain and into your living room.

You've learned to love Kate Smith for the songs she sings and the lovely way she sings them, to admire her for the kind things she does for children and soldiers -- the sick and distressed all over the country. But you'd love her for herself if you could meet her, away from studio and mike, as I did, in her own New York apartment.

"I think it has a homey, comfortable look, don't you?" asked Smith when I expressed my admiration for the lovely living room in which she greeted me. It was indeed both homey and comfortable, the type of place you know Smith would like.

The walls are in the palest, softest shade of apple green, the curtains of crushed rose damask. Couches and chairs, upholstered in light green silk brocade, boast of down-filled pillows into which you sink in complete and happy relaxation.

A desk, as tall as the nine-foot windows, is of Italian inspiration, the fireplace mantle is American colonial and the three loveliest of the many lamps are Chinese.

"My furnishings do not conform to any period, you will notice," Smith explained, as she saw me making mental notes of my surroundings. "They're what I like, though -- just livable. I'm out of sympathy with all-modern interiors, though I don't mind one or two modern things."

The most conspicuously modern thing in Smith's living room is her radio -- a huge one, taking up almost one entire end of the room. But let's leave this room and go on out to the kitchen, to which my hostess led the way with pride and pleasure.

Here you would find that everything is modern indeed.

"I have every electric cooking device imaginable," said Smith, pointing out these various possessions. "I have an electric waffle iron, toaster and mixer. Then, though the mixer has a reamer for fruit, I also have, for good measure, an electric fruit juice extractor. And I have three electric percolators -- one of which makes 18 cups of coffee! I'm so electric-minded that I even own a nutcracker and an ice cube crusher which also work by electricity."

The colors used in Smith's kitchen are green and cream. The saucepans conform to the general color scheme, too, being of that new enamelware that is green on the outside, with black bottoms for better hearing and with measuring lines inside each saucepan which add to their practicability.

The woodwork in the kitchen is cream, the linoleum and curtains green, while those two colors are combined in the edgings of the well-stocked kitchen shelves.

Once we had reached the culinary department it did not take me long to discover that here indeed is one radio hostess who knows her groceries. That's not meant to be facetious, either, for though Smith happens to broadcast for the A&P stores, her cooking experience dates back far beyond any connection with her present sponsors.

"Even as a child," she told me, "I always was allowed to fuss around in the kitchen. And I loved it!"

She still loves it, does Smith. So much so that, to this day, her idea of joy is to get out into the kitchen and fix up a scrumptious meal for her friends, or for her mother, who comes frequently to visit her.

"Mother is a wonderful all-around cook, Smith declared with proud conviction, "but she says my pies and cakes are better than hers! I'm a pretty good baker, I guess, for I can make breads and rolls and coffee cakes, as well as the more showy sweets. And my doughnuts are great."

Her chuckle as she said this was a delight to hear.

"I use a yeast-raised dough for my doughnuts," she continued; "they're real old-fashioned, you see. I can make up a batch of four dozen and in two days they're all gone."

Smith didn't tell me how many of these she herself consumes, but as she refuses to diet I imagine she cooperates in the inroads on this generous supply.

For Smith likes to eat and insists on having food with her meals. No bird rations or calorie charts for her! No anemic piece of lettuce tastefully (?) dressed in mineral oil, masquerading as lunch! No dinner consisting of a lean lamb chop and a slice of pineapple! No meal, actually, that would even remotely conform to the Hollywood Diet ever appears in Smith's home. That's why a bid to dine at her house is not just another dinner invitation, but a golden opportunity to learn what an honest-to-goodness home-cooked meal should be.

Nancy Wood in Radio Stars, March 1936

Old Time Radio · Music · Kate Smith · Cooking · CBS ·

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Fibber McGee and Molly at Home in Chicago

News of their impending assault on the screen capital had just broken when I called on Jim and Marian Jordan, who are Fibber McGee and Molly as well as sundry other quaint characters on a weekly radio program.

I found them at a modest but quite fetching home in Peterson Woods, an attractive, spic-and-span district of Chicago's North Side, neither exclusive nor ritzy. It is the Wistful Vista of the McGee radio script.

No fashionable showplace, this. If the Jordans abhor anything more than a sustaining program it's a showoff. Just a two-story dwelling of mustard colored brick exterior and severely practical design, set on a 30- by 25-foot lot. Pretty, homelike, inviting. Something any well-paid working man might aspire to own.

With the ink scarcely dry on a lucrative movie contract, it seemed reasonable to expect a jubilee spirit at the Jordan menage. Instead, there was a hangdog look in the keen brown eyes of the short-sleeved little gent who stood in the front yard.

I tried hard to keep it in my noggin that these genial, bluff, commonplace folk were famous funmakers, beloved of millions, bound for Hollywood and new glory. Yet something was wrong. Some intangible shadow. The bluebird must be around somewhere, but I didn't hear him warbling.

"About that movie contract now," I ventured at last as we sat in the streaming sunlight of the Jordan solarium. "I suspect that's an answer to an oft-spoken prayer. Jim and Marian, you're riding high!"

Jim didn't hear it at all.

But Marian had heard. She sighed.

"Yes," she said dully, "that movie contract. It's thrilling, of course. It's fine to be appreciated. Pretty soon now," and she seemed on the verge of tears, "we'll be off for the coast."

"Say, what is this?" I blurted suddenly. "Is it a victory celebration or a wake? You'd think a movie contract was a mortgage foreclosure, the way you both take on."

"Might as well take our home on a foreclosure as take us away from the home," Jim broke in darkly. For the first time I got an inkling of where the trouble lay. Marian nodded. She turned to me.

"It's this way," she explained. "Ever since we were married down by the Schnapps factory in Peoria, Jim and I have longed for a home, pictured and planned it in our minds. This is it."

"But your success has brought you the home. And aren't you happy about a new chance in a new field? Don't you get a kick out of the figures on that contract? Why, you'll be able to build an even better home."

Jim answered quickly: "It isn't that we aren't appreciative. Marian doesn't mean that. Sure, success built this home. Incidentally, we don't want a better one. We're happy in this home -- when we're here, which isn't often enough or long enough. Certainly we're glad to enter the movies. But it means going away from Wistful Vista. If we could just take time out, now, to enjoy our dream home! But we can't. Gotta keep going. It's part of the game."

This was a new Jim, this philosopher. I wanted him to continue. But Marian interjected another doleful note.

"There are the children, too. Don't forget the children, Jim. They were part of our dreams."

It developed that the Jordans, during the several weeks' work in the studio (they talked like it would be years, eons) were leaving behind 16-year-old Kathryn, comely high school junior, and 13-year-old Jimmy, eighth grader, who sings like Bing Crosby (says Jim).

"Let me show you the house," Marian cried impulsively. "Then maybe you'll understand what we're talking about."

She did, and I did.

The Vanastorbilts wouldn't go for this home, but any middle-class family would dote on it. There are three large rooms downstairs, besides the solarium. Three inviting bedrooms upstairs. In the basement, a huge playroom for the younger generation.

Appointments are beyond reproach, though Marian, a self-disparaging sort of person, sometimes referred to her "interior decorator's nightmare."

"No frills or freaks," the First Lady of the House of Jordan cheerfully admitted. "But every inch is utilized. We built this hose to live in -- if they'll let us.

"Jim inspected and gave his personal blessing to every timber and brick and nail. He slunk around the place day and night, til the neighbors began to think that the joint was haunted."

Jim probably knew what he was doing, at that. He's been not only a carpenter and a student of architecture, but also a timekeeper, machinist, day laborer, soldier, insurance agent and problem child around Peoria.

Jim and Marian adroitly parried questions about the money involved in radio and movie contracts. Jim observed:

"We're getting a lot of dough, but we're in no position to do any plunging. We're going slowly, paying on annuities, looking to the future. In the movies, we're untried. In radio, nobody can say what's going to happen tomorrow."

About their home, they both are garrulous old gossips, pulling no punches.

"In the original contract it was supposed to cost $10,000," Jim recalled. "As it stands now, including furnishings, carpets, drapes and everything, I figure it's worth a good $15,000."

Here in their own home, at least, you couldn't doubt that the Jordans knew happiness.

Like millions of others, you see, home life and comfort and security are all that Jim and Marian Jordan care deeply about. Luxury formed no part of the earlier career of either, and now their success has caught them up, neither feels the need for extravagant things.

Nothing ever came easily for the Jordans, and what they have now they cherish. Even their romance was stormy. Jim was 17, Marian, 16, when they decided to marry.

Peoria frowned on youthful marriages. "Puppy love," sniffed the citizens, and asked, "How can that stripling Jordan support a wife?"

Jim wondered about that himself, but Marian didn't hesitate. Neither has ever been sorry; but the going, in spots, was painfully rough.

When the war came along, Jim volunteered In St. Nazaire he fell ill. Thereafter he fought the battle of pink pulls and pale liquids in a base hospital.

Meanwhile Marian taught violin, voice and piano to Young America, or to that part of Young Peoria she could interest. Reunited after the firing had ceased, they picked up four musicians who played 15 instruments and began hitting the tank towns.

The Jordans then saw vaudeville, but vaudeville didn't see them very clearly. In 1924 the doughty duo turned to radio, never suspecting they had grasped the magic key to success and the things they most wanted -- home life, comfort, security.

For 10 long years it looked like a sour idea, with the hard-working Jordans slotted for mediocrity. Marian and Jim toiled diligently and quite steadily around Chicago studios, never quite producing that extra spark that would mean stardom. They became the O'Henry Twins, the Smith Family, the Smackouts. They frolicked at the Saturday Jamboree, whooped it up with the Kaltenmeyer Kindergarten.

They were still in the dime-a-dozen class less than three years ago when, overnight, the Fibber McGee and Molly program was born. Smash hit -- meteoric rise -- fat contract -- permanent stardom.

For a while now, you're hearing the McGee radio broadcast as it originates in a Hollywood studio. Between times the beloved comics are toiling industriously to score a four-star knockout in their first cinemadventure. With the calm confidence and optimism of battle-scarred troupers, they are not losing sleep over the outcome of this epic in celluloid.

They will give their best and leave the verdict in the lap of the gods, hoping for a favorable payoff. And that'll be that.

Of deeper concern to Jim and Marian Jordan, if you could peep into their hearts, is the matter of their personal happiness. Call it a bluebird if you will. For the Jordans he's not in Hollywood at all, but in the solarium of the dream home that is Wistful Vista.

Elgar Brown in Radio Guide, June 12, 1937

Old Time Radio · Comedy · Fibber McGee And Molly · Jim Jordan · Marian Jordan · NBC · Chicago ·

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Radio Jingle Moves 1 Million Barrels of Burgermeister Beer

Burgermeister, Burgermeister
It's so light and golden clear,
Burgermeister, Burgermeister
It's a truly fine pale beer

This jingle has proved to be worth about $4 million a word so far. Sung to the tune of "Clementine" on a host of California radio stations, it has impelled thousands of Californians to switch to Burgermeister. Sales for 1951 are up 33% over 1950 with annual sales of close to one million barrels.

That wasn't the situation in 1944 when 55-year-old German-born Henry E. Picard took over as general manager. Then, Burgermeister was but one of San Francisco Brewing's 14 private label beers, and all were lagging in sales.

Picard, a merchandising expert, dropped the private label and draught beers and selected Burgermeister as the one beer to advertise and promote. As evidence of his sales-building confidence he burned up $10,000 worth of private labels in one afternoon. A limited budget, about $50,000, was put behind Burgermeister and, as there were four million Northern Californians to reach, radio chain breaks were an almost automatic selection.

Picard explains, "Chain breaks would allow us to deliver the maximum number of sales messages for the money expended. Chain break time could be bought on good stations adjacent to programs with high ratings, while, at the same time, announcements were available next to programs with low ratings."

Californians have been hearing the "Burgie jingle" ever since its 1944 introduction but not always in the same way. Sometimes the jingle is speeded up; sometimes it's sung in a different key.

Despite the Burgermeister success in the last seven years, Picard modestly considers himself "an ordinary, straight-forward businessman." Now, with 50% of the ad budget going into radio, Picard still insists on a strict and simple advertising policy. No comparisons. No fancy claims. Nothing except "Burgermeister -- a truly fine pale beer. Picard's extra sales touch: San Franciscans within hearing distance can listen to to chimes atop the brewery building play "Clementine" at 10 a.m., 3, 5 and 8 p.m.

From Sponsor, December 31, 1951

Old Time Radio · Advertising · Business · Burgermeister · California · San Francisco ·

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WDAF Nighthawks and the Merry Old Chief

"Station WDAF, the Kansas City Star Nighthawks, just doing a little hawking" is a phrase familiar to radio listeners all over the United States and other parts of the world. For when the Merry Old Chief starts to dispense his happiness and good cheer at 11:45 p.m., fans invariably dial for Kansas City.

The Merry Old Chief is the most popular feature of the Nighthawks program. His original style of announcing, his ready wit, his million-dollar laugh and his unusual singing voice have endeared him to the hearts of many fans. Formerly a feature writer on the Star staff, Leo Fitzpatrick was made radio editor upon the opening of station WDAF. He won fifth place in the Radio Digest announcers' contest despite the fact that he had not been heard over radio during the entire length of the contest.

There is hardly a listener in the country who does not know by heart the catching signing-off words of the Nighthawks as they are repeated by the Chief each night. "WDAF, the Nighthawks, bidding good night to those on the Pacific coast, good morning to those on the Atlantic, goodbye to all until tomorrow night at 11:45 o'clock. Alright, Don, turn off the juice, crank the flivver, and let's go home."

The School of the Air program from 6 to 7 p.m. each night contains many entertaining and educational features for the whole family. It would be hard to say whether the Tell-Me-a-Story Lady or the Trianon Ensemble of the Hotel Muehlebach is the more popular feature of this program.

Mrs. J. Leon Coulter, the Tell-Me-a-Story Lady, has entertained the kiddies nightly with her bedtime stories since March 4, 1924, and has instituted for them a Laugh-in-Your-Dream club. Any kiddie may become a member by doing a kind act. Grownups as well as the youngers enjoy her stories and are included in the membership of the club. Although the club is only two months old, there are already 5,000 members.

Other regular features of the School of the Air programs are the readings of Cecile Burton; weekly talks by representatives of the Meat Council of Greater Kansas City; Health Conservation association; children's bureau; C.H. Cheney, under the auspices of the American Bankers Association; a personal message from Roger W. Babson, statistical expert; and a book review by Louis Mecker of the literary department of the Star.

WDAF's popular musical programs on Monday and Friday nights are unsurpassed for variety. A popular feature of these programs isthe flivver with its motor, horn, rattles, bumps, and everything. The Merry Old Chief is the driver and the listeners in are the passengers. The flivver takes imaginary trips around the town, transporting the radio audience to various theaters and hotels where entertainment is furnished by orchestras, soloists and vaudeville artists.

This remote control broadcasting involves an intricate system of special telephone lines. As many as 11 places may be connected with the Star's operating room in as many seconds.

WDAF is the institutor of one of the most unique and original ideas in the history of radio in the broadcasting of telephone conversations. This system, perfected by the Kansas City Telephone company, enables anyone to talk over the radio by calling the station on the phone. The calls are put directly through without the aid of a microphone other than the telephone transmitter. By this system also the station may transmit entertainment. Recently a full program was broadcast over telephone from various homes in Kansas City.

Since Harry Snodgrass has discontinued broadcasting from WOS, it is doubtful there is a pianist in the country as versatile as Lee, the "mystery man" of WDAF. His full name is Lee Mansfield and he is almost totally blind. He plays only by ear, being unable to see the notes on a sheet of music, and having once heard a piece he is able to reproduce it without mistake. He plays on the Nighthawks program every night, supplying numbers requested.

The radio staff is exceptionally small for the hours the station is on the air and for its popularity. Fitzpatrick is radio editor of the Star, director and announcer of station WDAF and the Merry Old Chief of the Nighthawks. He is assisted by Don D. Johnson, chief operator; V. S. Batton, remote control operator and assistant announcer; Ralph H. Patt, assistant program director; and Martin McKiddy, corresponding secretary.

From Radio Digest, February 28, 1925

Old Time Radio · Variety · Nighthawks · WDAF · Kansas City Star · Leo Fitzpatrick · 1920s ·

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Phil Harris: Why Alice Faye Moved from Movies to Radio

Maybe I never should have taken Alice Faye as my bride on that day in May seven years ago. Until then, all this beautiful, big hunk of talent talks about is show business. Then she marries me, gets a house, has babies, and all she wants is to push one of those wire carts around the grocery store.

First thing you know I'm not allowed to make tours with my band any more, either. "We're through living by an upside down clock," Alice says. I've got my band on the Jack Benny show so I feel all right about it -- the biscuits are rollin' in regularly. But I'm thinking all the time, how can I get Alice back in front of the public again? She's too beautiful, too talented to retire.

Answer's obvious: radio. Doesn't take up so much time as picture making. I can shoulder all the organization, share the performing job, and she'll have time to herself. So now we got our own half-hour air show -- The Fitch Bandwagon -- right after Benny on Sundays.

Today I still run the orchestra for the Benny show and get off a few lines every week. Just before I scoot across the hall and start the Bandwagon going. To me Jack is the real father of radio, master of them all. I've been with him 12 years and I've soaked up everything I've seen the man do. Benny helped me launch the Faye-Harris Bandwagon. Alice and I play ourselves, you know. Not wantin' to copy anyone else, we figured like this -- let's get a nice story with a believable background and real breathin' people.

Our permanent characters are ourselves, our two children (Alice Junior and Phyllis); our business manager who is Alice's brother, Bill Faye (on the air we call him William); my old pal Frank Remley; Julius the grocery boy (he's the only one who doesn't actually exist in real life) and Mr. Fitch, head of the company that sponsors the program.

We were launched in the fall of 1946. We had the advantage that both of us were known; I had my fans from the Benny program and Alice had her big movie following. But ahead was a lot of unbroken ground; we hadn't proved anything on the air yet, as a team. A radio program has to have some age on it, the characters have to become established before the public really latches onto it.

We think we're in the groove now. One mistake we made in the first year was picturing the family life too sweet. The public likes it more normal, with struggles and troubles. Now the children say things that embarrass the devil out of us -- very realistic -- and I get into ruinous trouble. Alice is the understanding wife on whose shoulders everything falls.

Our children are too young (five and three) to play themselves. Two young actresses do their parts. Jeanine Roose, aged 9, who got her start doing child parts on the Benny program, plays Alice. Anne Whitfield, aged 9, who is Penny on One Man's Family, plays Phillis.

Phil Harris in Modern Screen, June 1948

Old Time Radio · Comedy · Fitch Bandwagon · Phil Harris · Alice Faye · Jack Benny · Bill Faye · Frank Remley · Jeanine Roose · Anne Whitfield · Family ·

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Bing Crosby Wants His Records Banned from Radio

How many times a day do you tune in your radio and hear records being played? Would you feel deprived if the station you listened to no longer played these records of your favorites?

That is the situation you may soon be facing. It's important enough for several of the networks' biggest stars to have joined hands in a concerted action to ban the records they have made from the air.

In January a decision was handed down in a Philadelphia court which forbade a radio station in the city to play two of Fred Waring's most popular recordings. It was the first time in the history of this country that a decision on this point had been made. Waring has been fighting for over a year for such a decision.

His point was this: The last time he made a record, quite a long time ago, he made it for a recording company that agreed to put a "For Home Use Only" label on each record. That is, you could buy it and play it on your phonograph, but radio stations weren't supposed to buy it and play it over the air. The Philadelphia station played it anyway, feeling that since no copyright precedent had ever been established, it had a perfect right to do as it pleased.

Now a court has decided in Waring's favor. The case probably will be appealed to a higher court. It may take a year before a final judgment is handed down, perhaps by the Supreme Court itself.

Stars who have commercial programs feel strongly on this point. They claim that when a sponsor is paying them handsomely each week for a program on a large network of stations, local stations should not have unqualified liberty to play their records.

I asked Guy Lombardo for his viewpoint and he wrote me, in part:

"Imagine my astonishment to learn that during a recent broadcast for our present sponsor, whose network included a certain radio station in a Southern city, a smaller station in that same city, at the same hour, broadcast a 'sponsored' program using old Lombardo phonograph records, putting me in direct competition with myself! It is quite evident that the smaller station had sold its sponsor on the idea of capitalizing on the name and the fact that his program and our live program would be on the air simultaneously!"

That incident is not an ordinary one but it shows what can happen and it is a perfect example of why artists like Abe Lyman and Bing Crosby say it is unfair for their records to be put on the air while they're broadcasting. I wonder if you who tune in during the day to records of those bands and singers you like best, hear enough of their music to discourage you from tuning in to their regular network programs. If you do, isn't it logical for those stars to want their records banned?

Fred R. Sammis in Radio Mirror, April 1936

Old Time Radio · Music · Law · Copyright · Fred Waring · Guy Lombardo · Bing Crosby ·

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Ida Bailey Allen Cooks on the Radio

Ida Bailey Allen, known as the Nation's Homemaker, was found in her sunshiny and electrically equipped kitchen testing a recipe for Scotch soda scones, which was sent by a member of her National Homemaker's Club, which she organized last June, and of which she is now president. Each of her members are on their toes submitting their recipes in hopes of winning the monthly prize she offers for the best recipe.

This kitchen, located on the 15th floor of an office building overlooking the Hudson River, is quite thrilling. Oh so compact, and yet it contains the necessities so dear to a woman's heart, such as an electric ice-making machine, electric stove, colored dishes, tan kitchen table and chairs, glistening pots and pans, with dainty curtains completing the picture.

The writer was taken into Allen's office, a place where her personality is reflected. Cretonne drapes, flowers, a soft rug, a few pictures, books, a few comfortable chairs and a purring cat. Allen, who is an attractive looking woman, has created a niche for herself in this busy and hustling world.

When asked what prompted her to become a cooking expert, the mantle of years seemed to drop from her and once again she was a child. Pausing to think of those happy days, she said, "My mother is to blame for my success. When I was small, it was my delight to dress as a grownup and parade around in the kitchen, as mother said that eight years was not too young to learn to cook.

"She was everlastingly patient with me. Always encouraging and never fussy if I made a mess out of the kitchen -- something I could do very easily. Then, the big event of the week was the night I was allowed to prepare the evening meal and could invite a girlfriend for dinner. When I grew older, I preferred to invite the boys, as I was flattered by their praises. I became more absorbed in cooking problems and finally decided to take domestic science courses at college."

"What do you do with your spare time, if you have any?" asked the interviewer.

"I have so little spare time," she laughingly replied, "that I must crowd everything into a few hours. I am a real housekeeper and personally direct the education of my two children, Ruth Elizabeth, six years old, and Tom, 12 years old. The three of us are great pals and always together.

"At the present time we are studying French and have plenty of fun conversing in the French language. As I am very fond of singing, Tom, who plays the piano quite well, accompanies me while I practice. We go to the opera and take long walks together. After the children go to bed, I read and listen to my radio."

We then discussed broadcasting, a subject that she was very much interested in. Allen broadcasts every Tuesday morning at 11 a.m. from station WMCA, and has an invisible audience of over 10,000 people. She has gained so many friends during the last six months, they come to her with their problems! Who should discipline the children, the mother or the father? How to make ends meet on the husband's small salary? A couple are considering getting a divorce. Are they right in doing so? Those are just a few of the many with which she is confronted each week.

J.G. Forrest in Radio Digest, Jan. 30, 1926

Old Time Radio · Cooking · Ida Bailey Allen · New York · WMCA ·

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