Now she makes ice cream with her mom, Maria Lupes, who moved to L.A. from Houston. Lupes is still mastering spinning the ice cream, Mancini said, but she makes the batter for their tacos and hand forms each one — hundreds every week.
They usually spend two weekday mornings in their commercial kitchen, arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. On Fridays they traverse L.A. and Orange County, dropping off pints to eight retail locations: Sara’s Market in East L.A., El Sereno Green Grocer, Flask in Highland Park, the Golden Poppy Market in Cypress Park, Ignite Smoke Shop in Hancock Park, Altadena Beverage and Market, Exotics Only in South Gate and Alta Baja Market in Santa Ana. Weekends are reserved for pop-ups and catering, often drawing lines and selling out at their in-person appearances.
Lupes didn’t expect to enter the ice cream business, but says she’s not surprised she wound up working with her daughter — their time in the kitchen is a kind of extension of Mancini’s high school years, when they sold knock-off designer clothes together at a booth in a Texas flea market. Now, they work in a kind of assembly-line format, filling ice cream tacos, dipping them in chocolate hard shells and then into nuts, pretzels or other toppings, before laying them flat on their sheet pans, then continuing the cycle.
“She saw I was struggling, and wanted to learn,” Mancini said. “I was like, ‘I guess we’re doing this now!’”
For Mancini, the ice cream isn’t simply her trade but a tool.
The ice cream taco is a fan favorite.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Mental health is still far from fully accepted as a public concern in many areas of U.S. Latino culture, Mancini noted.
“We were brought up to think therapy is for white people complaining about their problems,” Mancini said. “Like, ‘You don’t need that, you’re strong.’ I think sometimes when you grow up in immigrant families that came from hardship, everyone’s just stuck in survival mode.”
When she received her diagnosis, she was shocked. Then she felt waves of relief, finally being able to explain a decade of behaviors.
According to the American Psychiatric Assn., not only are Latinos more likely to experience a “lack of culturally tailored services and culturally competent mental health professionals” in the U.S., but they face an additional barrier to seeking aid due to cultural stigmas against it. A 2011 study on mental-health stigmas within Latin communities found strong correlation between members of the community seeking distance from those who have been recently or currently treated for depression, and noted that being labeled depressive can signify “personal weakness.”
When Mancini finally launched her own ice cream operation, she named it in ode to the Sad Girl character played by Angel Aviles in “Mi Vida Loca,” a film shot in L.A. and one she grew up watching. Then, she began to notice how fitting it was, thinking back on the time she spent depressed on the couch eating pints of store-bought ice cream and marathoning shows on VH1.
Clockwise from bottom left, Sad Girl Creamery’s vegan peanut mazapan pretzel taco, strawberry tres leches shortcake taco, milk and cookies taco, and Che taco, at the creamery’s commissary kitchen.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Fully aware that mental health has become a pointed tool of commerce — with brands and companies relying on it to sell serums, bath bombs, vacations, home goods and anything else that can be marketed as related to self-care — Mancini tries to keep her outreach and public posting on the subject as personal as possible. She does not use it to sell her ice cream, but instead spread awareness via the platform she’s amassed through her sweets.
The moment she began posting about her mental health journey, followers flooded her Instagram DMs to thank her for raising awareness, voice solidarity and ask for resources.
But Mancini said she wants to be clear: She is not a medical professional, and simply tries to provide resources such as hotline numbers and websites.
SueEllen Mancini, left, and her mother Lupes of Sad Girl Creamery outside of their commissary kitchen in Culver City.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Balance remains a struggle for her business too. Eventually, Mancini hopes to debut a Sad Girl Creamery ice cream shop, though she and her mom currently lack the capital to do so. Until then, they try to find the sweet spot between expansion and getting the most out of their rented, shared kitchen space.
The spatial constraints don’t send Mancini spiraling though; the life that she’s carved out with Sad Girl Creamery has helped maintain her sanity, wonky blast freezer and all. And through her budding ice cream business, she says she’s helped others with theirs too, one pint and post at a time.
Now she makes ice cream with her mom, Maria Lupes, who moved to L.A. from Houston. Lupes is still mastering spinning the ice cream, Mancini said, but she makes the batter for their tacos and hand forms each one — hundreds every week.
They usually spend two weekday mornings in their commercial kitchen, arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. On Fridays they traverse L.A. and Orange County, dropping off pints to eight retail locations: Sara’s Market in East L.A., El Sereno Green Grocer, Flask in Highland Park, the Golden Poppy Market in Cypress Park, Ignite Smoke Shop in Hancock Park, Altadena Beverage and Market, Exotics Only in South Gate and Alta Baja Market in Santa Ana. Weekends are reserved for pop-ups and catering, often drawing lines and selling out at their in-person appearances.
Lupes didn’t expect to enter the ice cream business, but says she’s not surprised she wound up working with her daughter — their time in the kitchen is a kind of extension of Mancini’s high school years, when they sold knock-off designer clothes together at a booth in a Texas flea market. Now, they work in a kind of assembly-line format, filling ice cream tacos, dipping them in chocolate hard shells and then into nuts, pretzels or other toppings, before laying them flat on their sheet pans, then continuing the cycle.
“She saw I was struggling, and wanted to learn,” Mancini said. “I was like, ‘I guess we’re doing this now!’”
For Mancini, the ice cream isn’t simply her trade but a tool.
The ice cream taco is a fan favorite.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Mental health is still far from fully accepted as a public concern in many areas of U.S. Latino culture, Mancini noted.
“We were brought up to think therapy is for white people complaining about their problems,” Mancini said. “Like, ‘You don’t need that, you’re strong.’ I think sometimes when you grow up in immigrant families that came from hardship, everyone’s just stuck in survival mode.”
When she received her diagnosis, she was shocked. Then she felt waves of relief, finally being able to explain a decade of behaviors.
According to the American Psychiatric Assn., not only are Latinos more likely to experience a “lack of culturally tailored services and culturally competent mental health professionals” in the U.S., but they face an additional barrier to seeking aid due to cultural stigmas against it. A 2011 study on mental-health stigmas within Latin communities found strong correlation between members of the community seeking distance from those who have been recently or currently treated for depression, and noted that being labeled depressive can signify “personal weakness.”
When Mancini finally launched her own ice cream operation, she named it in ode to the Sad Girl character played by Angel Aviles in “Mi Vida Loca,” a film shot in L.A. and one she grew up watching. Then, she began to notice how fitting it was, thinking back on the time she spent depressed on the couch eating pints of store-bought ice cream and marathoning shows on VH1.
Clockwise from bottom left, Sad Girl Creamery’s vegan peanut mazapan pretzel taco, strawberry tres leches shortcake taco, milk and cookies taco, and Che taco, at the creamery’s commissary kitchen.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Fully aware that mental health has become a pointed tool of commerce — with brands and companies relying on it to sell serums, bath bombs, vacations, home goods and anything else that can be marketed as related to self-care — Mancini tries to keep her outreach and public posting on the subject as personal as possible. She does not use it to sell her ice cream, but instead spread awareness via the platform she’s amassed through her sweets.
The moment she began posting about her mental health journey, followers flooded her Instagram DMs to thank her for raising awareness, voice solidarity and ask for resources.
But Mancini said she wants to be clear: She is not a medical professional, and simply tries to provide resources such as hotline numbers and websites.
SueEllen Mancini, left, and her mother Lupes of Sad Girl Creamery outside of their commissary kitchen in Culver City.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Balance remains a struggle for her business too. Eventually, Mancini hopes to debut a Sad Girl Creamery ice cream shop, though she and her mom currently lack the capital to do so. Until then, they try to find the sweet spot between expansion and getting the most out of their rented, shared kitchen space.
The spatial constraints don’t send Mancini spiraling though; the life that she’s carved out with Sad Girl Creamery has helped maintain her sanity, wonky blast freezer and all. And through her budding ice cream business, she says she’s helped others with theirs too, one pint and post at a time.
Now she makes ice cream with her mom, Maria Lupes, who moved to L.A. from Houston. Lupes is still mastering spinning the ice cream, Mancini said, but she makes the batter for their tacos and hand forms each one — hundreds every week.
They usually spend two weekday mornings in their commercial kitchen, arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. On Fridays they traverse L.A. and Orange County, dropping off pints to eight retail locations: Sara’s Market in East L.A., El Sereno Green Grocer, Flask in Highland Park, the Golden Poppy Market in Cypress Park, Ignite Smoke Shop in Hancock Park, Altadena Beverage and Market, Exotics Only in South Gate and Alta Baja Market in Santa Ana. Weekends are reserved for pop-ups and catering, often drawing lines and selling out at their in-person appearances.
Lupes didn’t expect to enter the ice cream business, but says she’s not surprised she wound up working with her daughter — their time in the kitchen is a kind of extension of Mancini’s high school years, when they sold knock-off designer clothes together at a booth in a Texas flea market. Now, they work in a kind of assembly-line format, filling ice cream tacos, dipping them in chocolate hard shells and then into nuts, pretzels or other toppings, before laying them flat on their sheet pans, then continuing the cycle.
“She saw I was struggling, and wanted to learn,” Mancini said. “I was like, ‘I guess we’re doing this now!’”
For Mancini, the ice cream isn’t simply her trade but a tool.
The ice cream taco is a fan favorite.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Mental health is still far from fully accepted as a public concern in many areas of U.S. Latino culture, Mancini noted.
“We were brought up to think therapy is for white people complaining about their problems,” Mancini said. “Like, ‘You don’t need that, you’re strong.’ I think sometimes when you grow up in immigrant families that came from hardship, everyone’s just stuck in survival mode.”
When she received her diagnosis, she was shocked. Then she felt waves of relief, finally being able to explain a decade of behaviors.
According to the American Psychiatric Assn., not only are Latinos more likely to experience a “lack of culturally tailored services and culturally competent mental health professionals” in the U.S., but they face an additional barrier to seeking aid due to cultural stigmas against it. A 2011 study on mental-health stigmas within Latin communities found strong correlation between members of the community seeking distance from those who have been recently or currently treated for depression, and noted that being labeled depressive can signify “personal weakness.”
When Mancini finally launched her own ice cream operation, she named it in ode to the Sad Girl character played by Angel Aviles in “Mi Vida Loca,” a film shot in L.A. and one she grew up watching. Then, she began to notice how fitting it was, thinking back on the time she spent depressed on the couch eating pints of store-bought ice cream and marathoning shows on VH1.
Clockwise from bottom left, Sad Girl Creamery’s vegan peanut mazapan pretzel taco, strawberry tres leches shortcake taco, milk and cookies taco, and Che taco, at the creamery’s commissary kitchen.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Fully aware that mental health has become a pointed tool of commerce — with brands and companies relying on it to sell serums, bath bombs, vacations, home goods and anything else that can be marketed as related to self-care — Mancini tries to keep her outreach and public posting on the subject as personal as possible. She does not use it to sell her ice cream, but instead spread awareness via the platform she’s amassed through her sweets.
The moment she began posting about her mental health journey, followers flooded her Instagram DMs to thank her for raising awareness, voice solidarity and ask for resources.
But Mancini said she wants to be clear: She is not a medical professional, and simply tries to provide resources such as hotline numbers and websites.
SueEllen Mancini, left, and her mother Lupes of Sad Girl Creamery outside of their commissary kitchen in Culver City.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Balance remains a struggle for her business too. Eventually, Mancini hopes to debut a Sad Girl Creamery ice cream shop, though she and her mom currently lack the capital to do so. Until then, they try to find the sweet spot between expansion and getting the most out of their rented, shared kitchen space.
The spatial constraints don’t send Mancini spiraling though; the life that she’s carved out with Sad Girl Creamery has helped maintain her sanity, wonky blast freezer and all. And through her budding ice cream business, she says she’s helped others with theirs too, one pint and post at a time.
Now she makes ice cream with her mom, Maria Lupes, who moved to L.A. from Houston. Lupes is still mastering spinning the ice cream, Mancini said, but she makes the batter for their tacos and hand forms each one — hundreds every week.
They usually spend two weekday mornings in their commercial kitchen, arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. On Fridays they traverse L.A. and Orange County, dropping off pints to eight retail locations: Sara’s Market in East L.A., El Sereno Green Grocer, Flask in Highland Park, the Golden Poppy Market in Cypress Park, Ignite Smoke Shop in Hancock Park, Altadena Beverage and Market, Exotics Only in South Gate and Alta Baja Market in Santa Ana. Weekends are reserved for pop-ups and catering, often drawing lines and selling out at their in-person appearances.
Lupes didn’t expect to enter the ice cream business, but says she’s not surprised she wound up working with her daughter — their time in the kitchen is a kind of extension of Mancini’s high school years, when they sold knock-off designer clothes together at a booth in a Texas flea market. Now, they work in a kind of assembly-line format, filling ice cream tacos, dipping them in chocolate hard shells and then into nuts, pretzels or other toppings, before laying them flat on their sheet pans, then continuing the cycle.
“She saw I was struggling, and wanted to learn,” Mancini said. “I was like, ‘I guess we’re doing this now!’”
For Mancini, the ice cream isn’t simply her trade but a tool.
The ice cream taco is a fan favorite.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Mental health is still far from fully accepted as a public concern in many areas of U.S. Latino culture, Mancini noted.
“We were brought up to think therapy is for white people complaining about their problems,” Mancini said. “Like, ‘You don’t need that, you’re strong.’ I think sometimes when you grow up in immigrant families that came from hardship, everyone’s just stuck in survival mode.”
When she received her diagnosis, she was shocked. Then she felt waves of relief, finally being able to explain a decade of behaviors.
According to the American Psychiatric Assn., not only are Latinos more likely to experience a “lack of culturally tailored services and culturally competent mental health professionals” in the U.S., but they face an additional barrier to seeking aid due to cultural stigmas against it. A 2011 study on mental-health stigmas within Latin communities found strong correlation between members of the community seeking distance from those who have been recently or currently treated for depression, and noted that being labeled depressive can signify “personal weakness.”
When Mancini finally launched her own ice cream operation, she named it in ode to the Sad Girl character played by Angel Aviles in “Mi Vida Loca,” a film shot in L.A. and one she grew up watching. Then, she began to notice how fitting it was, thinking back on the time she spent depressed on the couch eating pints of store-bought ice cream and marathoning shows on VH1.
Clockwise from bottom left, Sad Girl Creamery’s vegan peanut mazapan pretzel taco, strawberry tres leches shortcake taco, milk and cookies taco, and Che taco, at the creamery’s commissary kitchen.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Fully aware that mental health has become a pointed tool of commerce — with brands and companies relying on it to sell serums, bath bombs, vacations, home goods and anything else that can be marketed as related to self-care — Mancini tries to keep her outreach and public posting on the subject as personal as possible. She does not use it to sell her ice cream, but instead spread awareness via the platform she’s amassed through her sweets.
The moment she began posting about her mental health journey, followers flooded her Instagram DMs to thank her for raising awareness, voice solidarity and ask for resources.
But Mancini said she wants to be clear: She is not a medical professional, and simply tries to provide resources such as hotline numbers and websites.
SueEllen Mancini, left, and her mother Lupes of Sad Girl Creamery outside of their commissary kitchen in Culver City.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Balance remains a struggle for her business too. Eventually, Mancini hopes to debut a Sad Girl Creamery ice cream shop, though she and her mom currently lack the capital to do so. Until then, they try to find the sweet spot between expansion and getting the most out of their rented, shared kitchen space.
The spatial constraints don’t send Mancini spiraling though; the life that she’s carved out with Sad Girl Creamery has helped maintain her sanity, wonky blast freezer and all. And through her budding ice cream business, she says she’s helped others with theirs too, one pint and post at a time.
Now she makes ice cream with her mom, Maria Lupes, who moved to L.A. from Houston. Lupes is still mastering spinning the ice cream, Mancini said, but she makes the batter for their tacos and hand forms each one — hundreds every week.
They usually spend two weekday mornings in their commercial kitchen, arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. On Fridays they traverse L.A. and Orange County, dropping off pints to eight retail locations: Sara’s Market in East L.A., El Sereno Green Grocer, Flask in Highland Park, the Golden Poppy Market in Cypress Park, Ignite Smoke Shop in Hancock Park, Altadena Beverage and Market, Exotics Only in South Gate and Alta Baja Market in Santa Ana. Weekends are reserved for pop-ups and catering, often drawing lines and selling out at their in-person appearances.
Lupes didn’t expect to enter the ice cream business, but says she’s not surprised she wound up working with her daughter — their time in the kitchen is a kind of extension of Mancini’s high school years, when they sold knock-off designer clothes together at a booth in a Texas flea market. Now, they work in a kind of assembly-line format, filling ice cream tacos, dipping them in chocolate hard shells and then into nuts, pretzels or other toppings, before laying them flat on their sheet pans, then continuing the cycle.
“She saw I was struggling, and wanted to learn,” Mancini said. “I was like, ‘I guess we’re doing this now!’”
For Mancini, the ice cream isn’t simply her trade but a tool.
The ice cream taco is a fan favorite.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Mental health is still far from fully accepted as a public concern in many areas of U.S. Latino culture, Mancini noted.
“We were brought up to think therapy is for white people complaining about their problems,” Mancini said. “Like, ‘You don’t need that, you’re strong.’ I think sometimes when you grow up in immigrant families that came from hardship, everyone’s just stuck in survival mode.”
When she received her diagnosis, she was shocked. Then she felt waves of relief, finally being able to explain a decade of behaviors.
According to the American Psychiatric Assn., not only are Latinos more likely to experience a “lack of culturally tailored services and culturally competent mental health professionals” in the U.S., but they face an additional barrier to seeking aid due to cultural stigmas against it. A 2011 study on mental-health stigmas within Latin communities found strong correlation between members of the community seeking distance from those who have been recently or currently treated for depression, and noted that being labeled depressive can signify “personal weakness.”
When Mancini finally launched her own ice cream operation, she named it in ode to the Sad Girl character played by Angel Aviles in “Mi Vida Loca,” a film shot in L.A. and one she grew up watching. Then, she began to notice how fitting it was, thinking back on the time she spent depressed on the couch eating pints of store-bought ice cream and marathoning shows on VH1.
Clockwise from bottom left, Sad Girl Creamery’s vegan peanut mazapan pretzel taco, strawberry tres leches shortcake taco, milk and cookies taco, and Che taco, at the creamery’s commissary kitchen.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Fully aware that mental health has become a pointed tool of commerce — with brands and companies relying on it to sell serums, bath bombs, vacations, home goods and anything else that can be marketed as related to self-care — Mancini tries to keep her outreach and public posting on the subject as personal as possible. She does not use it to sell her ice cream, but instead spread awareness via the platform she’s amassed through her sweets.
The moment she began posting about her mental health journey, followers flooded her Instagram DMs to thank her for raising awareness, voice solidarity and ask for resources.
But Mancini said she wants to be clear: She is not a medical professional, and simply tries to provide resources such as hotline numbers and websites.
SueEllen Mancini, left, and her mother Lupes of Sad Girl Creamery outside of their commissary kitchen in Culver City.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Balance remains a struggle for her business too. Eventually, Mancini hopes to debut a Sad Girl Creamery ice cream shop, though she and her mom currently lack the capital to do so. Until then, they try to find the sweet spot between expansion and getting the most out of their rented, shared kitchen space.
The spatial constraints don’t send Mancini spiraling though; the life that she’s carved out with Sad Girl Creamery has helped maintain her sanity, wonky blast freezer and all. And through her budding ice cream business, she says she’s helped others with theirs too, one pint and post at a time.
Now she makes ice cream with her mom, Maria Lupes, who moved to L.A. from Houston. Lupes is still mastering spinning the ice cream, Mancini said, but she makes the batter for their tacos and hand forms each one — hundreds every week.
They usually spend two weekday mornings in their commercial kitchen, arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. On Fridays they traverse L.A. and Orange County, dropping off pints to eight retail locations: Sara’s Market in East L.A., El Sereno Green Grocer, Flask in Highland Park, the Golden Poppy Market in Cypress Park, Ignite Smoke Shop in Hancock Park, Altadena Beverage and Market, Exotics Only in South Gate and Alta Baja Market in Santa Ana. Weekends are reserved for pop-ups and catering, often drawing lines and selling out at their in-person appearances.
Lupes didn’t expect to enter the ice cream business, but says she’s not surprised she wound up working with her daughter — their time in the kitchen is a kind of extension of Mancini’s high school years, when they sold knock-off designer clothes together at a booth in a Texas flea market. Now, they work in a kind of assembly-line format, filling ice cream tacos, dipping them in chocolate hard shells and then into nuts, pretzels or other toppings, before laying them flat on their sheet pans, then continuing the cycle.
“She saw I was struggling, and wanted to learn,” Mancini said. “I was like, ‘I guess we’re doing this now!’”
For Mancini, the ice cream isn’t simply her trade but a tool.
The ice cream taco is a fan favorite.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Mental health is still far from fully accepted as a public concern in many areas of U.S. Latino culture, Mancini noted.
“We were brought up to think therapy is for white people complaining about their problems,” Mancini said. “Like, ‘You don’t need that, you’re strong.’ I think sometimes when you grow up in immigrant families that came from hardship, everyone’s just stuck in survival mode.”
When she received her diagnosis, she was shocked. Then she felt waves of relief, finally being able to explain a decade of behaviors.
According to the American Psychiatric Assn., not only are Latinos more likely to experience a “lack of culturally tailored services and culturally competent mental health professionals” in the U.S., but they face an additional barrier to seeking aid due to cultural stigmas against it. A 2011 study on mental-health stigmas within Latin communities found strong correlation between members of the community seeking distance from those who have been recently or currently treated for depression, and noted that being labeled depressive can signify “personal weakness.”
When Mancini finally launched her own ice cream operation, she named it in ode to the Sad Girl character played by Angel Aviles in “Mi Vida Loca,” a film shot in L.A. and one she grew up watching. Then, she began to notice how fitting it was, thinking back on the time she spent depressed on the couch eating pints of store-bought ice cream and marathoning shows on VH1.
Clockwise from bottom left, Sad Girl Creamery’s vegan peanut mazapan pretzel taco, strawberry tres leches shortcake taco, milk and cookies taco, and Che taco, at the creamery’s commissary kitchen.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Fully aware that mental health has become a pointed tool of commerce — with brands and companies relying on it to sell serums, bath bombs, vacations, home goods and anything else that can be marketed as related to self-care — Mancini tries to keep her outreach and public posting on the subject as personal as possible. She does not use it to sell her ice cream, but instead spread awareness via the platform she’s amassed through her sweets.
The moment she began posting about her mental health journey, followers flooded her Instagram DMs to thank her for raising awareness, voice solidarity and ask for resources.
But Mancini said she wants to be clear: She is not a medical professional, and simply tries to provide resources such as hotline numbers and websites.
SueEllen Mancini, left, and her mother Lupes of Sad Girl Creamery outside of their commissary kitchen in Culver City.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Balance remains a struggle for her business too. Eventually, Mancini hopes to debut a Sad Girl Creamery ice cream shop, though she and her mom currently lack the capital to do so. Until then, they try to find the sweet spot between expansion and getting the most out of their rented, shared kitchen space.
The spatial constraints don’t send Mancini spiraling though; the life that she’s carved out with Sad Girl Creamery has helped maintain her sanity, wonky blast freezer and all. And through her budding ice cream business, she says she’s helped others with theirs too, one pint and post at a time.
Now she makes ice cream with her mom, Maria Lupes, who moved to L.A. from Houston. Lupes is still mastering spinning the ice cream, Mancini said, but she makes the batter for their tacos and hand forms each one — hundreds every week.
They usually spend two weekday mornings in their commercial kitchen, arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. On Fridays they traverse L.A. and Orange County, dropping off pints to eight retail locations: Sara’s Market in East L.A., El Sereno Green Grocer, Flask in Highland Park, the Golden Poppy Market in Cypress Park, Ignite Smoke Shop in Hancock Park, Altadena Beverage and Market, Exotics Only in South Gate and Alta Baja Market in Santa Ana. Weekends are reserved for pop-ups and catering, often drawing lines and selling out at their in-person appearances.
Lupes didn’t expect to enter the ice cream business, but says she’s not surprised she wound up working with her daughter — their time in the kitchen is a kind of extension of Mancini’s high school years, when they sold knock-off designer clothes together at a booth in a Texas flea market. Now, they work in a kind of assembly-line format, filling ice cream tacos, dipping them in chocolate hard shells and then into nuts, pretzels or other toppings, before laying them flat on their sheet pans, then continuing the cycle.
“She saw I was struggling, and wanted to learn,” Mancini said. “I was like, ‘I guess we’re doing this now!’”
For Mancini, the ice cream isn’t simply her trade but a tool.
The ice cream taco is a fan favorite.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Mental health is still far from fully accepted as a public concern in many areas of U.S. Latino culture, Mancini noted.
“We were brought up to think therapy is for white people complaining about their problems,” Mancini said. “Like, ‘You don’t need that, you’re strong.’ I think sometimes when you grow up in immigrant families that came from hardship, everyone’s just stuck in survival mode.”
When she received her diagnosis, she was shocked. Then she felt waves of relief, finally being able to explain a decade of behaviors.
According to the American Psychiatric Assn., not only are Latinos more likely to experience a “lack of culturally tailored services and culturally competent mental health professionals” in the U.S., but they face an additional barrier to seeking aid due to cultural stigmas against it. A 2011 study on mental-health stigmas within Latin communities found strong correlation between members of the community seeking distance from those who have been recently or currently treated for depression, and noted that being labeled depressive can signify “personal weakness.”
When Mancini finally launched her own ice cream operation, she named it in ode to the Sad Girl character played by Angel Aviles in “Mi Vida Loca,” a film shot in L.A. and one she grew up watching. Then, she began to notice how fitting it was, thinking back on the time she spent depressed on the couch eating pints of store-bought ice cream and marathoning shows on VH1.
Clockwise from bottom left, Sad Girl Creamery’s vegan peanut mazapan pretzel taco, strawberry tres leches shortcake taco, milk and cookies taco, and Che taco, at the creamery’s commissary kitchen.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Fully aware that mental health has become a pointed tool of commerce — with brands and companies relying on it to sell serums, bath bombs, vacations, home goods and anything else that can be marketed as related to self-care — Mancini tries to keep her outreach and public posting on the subject as personal as possible. She does not use it to sell her ice cream, but instead spread awareness via the platform she’s amassed through her sweets.
The moment she began posting about her mental health journey, followers flooded her Instagram DMs to thank her for raising awareness, voice solidarity and ask for resources.
But Mancini said she wants to be clear: She is not a medical professional, and simply tries to provide resources such as hotline numbers and websites.
SueEllen Mancini, left, and her mother Lupes of Sad Girl Creamery outside of their commissary kitchen in Culver City.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Balance remains a struggle for her business too. Eventually, Mancini hopes to debut a Sad Girl Creamery ice cream shop, though she and her mom currently lack the capital to do so. Until then, they try to find the sweet spot between expansion and getting the most out of their rented, shared kitchen space.
The spatial constraints don’t send Mancini spiraling though; the life that she’s carved out with Sad Girl Creamery has helped maintain her sanity, wonky blast freezer and all. And through her budding ice cream business, she says she’s helped others with theirs too, one pint and post at a time.
Now she makes ice cream with her mom, Maria Lupes, who moved to L.A. from Houston. Lupes is still mastering spinning the ice cream, Mancini said, but she makes the batter for their tacos and hand forms each one — hundreds every week.
They usually spend two weekday mornings in their commercial kitchen, arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. On Fridays they traverse L.A. and Orange County, dropping off pints to eight retail locations: Sara’s Market in East L.A., El Sereno Green Grocer, Flask in Highland Park, the Golden Poppy Market in Cypress Park, Ignite Smoke Shop in Hancock Park, Altadena Beverage and Market, Exotics Only in South Gate and Alta Baja Market in Santa Ana. Weekends are reserved for pop-ups and catering, often drawing lines and selling out at their in-person appearances.
Lupes didn’t expect to enter the ice cream business, but says she’s not surprised she wound up working with her daughter — their time in the kitchen is a kind of extension of Mancini’s high school years, when they sold knock-off designer clothes together at a booth in a Texas flea market. Now, they work in a kind of assembly-line format, filling ice cream tacos, dipping them in chocolate hard shells and then into nuts, pretzels or other toppings, before laying them flat on their sheet pans, then continuing the cycle.
“She saw I was struggling, and wanted to learn,” Mancini said. “I was like, ‘I guess we’re doing this now!’”
For Mancini, the ice cream isn’t simply her trade but a tool.
The ice cream taco is a fan favorite.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Mental health is still far from fully accepted as a public concern in many areas of U.S. Latino culture, Mancini noted.
“We were brought up to think therapy is for white people complaining about their problems,” Mancini said. “Like, ‘You don’t need that, you’re strong.’ I think sometimes when you grow up in immigrant families that came from hardship, everyone’s just stuck in survival mode.”
When she received her diagnosis, she was shocked. Then she felt waves of relief, finally being able to explain a decade of behaviors.
According to the American Psychiatric Assn., not only are Latinos more likely to experience a “lack of culturally tailored services and culturally competent mental health professionals” in the U.S., but they face an additional barrier to seeking aid due to cultural stigmas against it. A 2011 study on mental-health stigmas within Latin communities found strong correlation between members of the community seeking distance from those who have been recently or currently treated for depression, and noted that being labeled depressive can signify “personal weakness.”
When Mancini finally launched her own ice cream operation, she named it in ode to the Sad Girl character played by Angel Aviles in “Mi Vida Loca,” a film shot in L.A. and one she grew up watching. Then, she began to notice how fitting it was, thinking back on the time she spent depressed on the couch eating pints of store-bought ice cream and marathoning shows on VH1.
Clockwise from bottom left, Sad Girl Creamery’s vegan peanut mazapan pretzel taco, strawberry tres leches shortcake taco, milk and cookies taco, and Che taco, at the creamery’s commissary kitchen.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Fully aware that mental health has become a pointed tool of commerce — with brands and companies relying on it to sell serums, bath bombs, vacations, home goods and anything else that can be marketed as related to self-care — Mancini tries to keep her outreach and public posting on the subject as personal as possible. She does not use it to sell her ice cream, but instead spread awareness via the platform she’s amassed through her sweets.
The moment she began posting about her mental health journey, followers flooded her Instagram DMs to thank her for raising awareness, voice solidarity and ask for resources.
But Mancini said she wants to be clear: She is not a medical professional, and simply tries to provide resources such as hotline numbers and websites.
SueEllen Mancini, left, and her mother Lupes of Sad Girl Creamery outside of their commissary kitchen in Culver City.
(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Balance remains a struggle for her business too. Eventually, Mancini hopes to debut a Sad Girl Creamery ice cream shop, though she and her mom currently lack the capital to do so. Until then, they try to find the sweet spot between expansion and getting the most out of their rented, shared kitchen space.
The spatial constraints don’t send Mancini spiraling though; the life that she’s carved out with Sad Girl Creamery has helped maintain her sanity, wonky blast freezer and all. And through her budding ice cream business, she says she’s helped others with theirs too, one pint and post at a time.
