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Because his mother still bore traces of an Italian accent—as well as having a habit of mixing words from two languages in a single sentence—the eat came off sounding as if there was a short a vowel at the end of it.
“Mom, it’s my knee that needs help, not my stomach.” Still, whatever she’d brought smelled delicious.
“You need to keep up your strength.” She moved toward the kitchen where a Viking range was visible from the living area. “Lasagna.”
“With béchamel sauce?”
“Just like you like it.”
“The staff on the show must adore you if you’re always sharing special dishes.” Like someone else he knew. Except his mother had her own local show, Flavors of Italy with Camilla Serenghetti—her name had been added to the title in recent years.
His mother turned back from the kitchen and frowned. “It’s not because of the staff that I worry. It’s the new television station owners. I’m not sure they like my cooking.”
“You’re kidding.”
“There’s talk, chiacchierata, about big changes. Maybe no cooking shows.”
“They’re considering canceling you?”
Camilla’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Per piacere, Jordan. Please, watch what you say.”
Jordan knew this show was his mother’s baby. And his father had made a guest appearance—finally coming out of the funk into which he’d sunk after his stroke.
“Mom, they’re not going to cancel you. They’d be crazy to.”
“Not even if they want to bring the television station in a new direzione?”
“You mean take the station in a new direction.” He was so used to correcting his mother’s English, it was second nature. She’d been doing a mash-up on her adopted language as long as he could remember.
“Take, bring, whatever. Open the light means turn on. You understand me, sì?”
Jordan smiled. “More importantly, your viewers understand and love you. You speak the international language of food.”
A look of relief passed over his mother’s face. “Years of trying recipes on my family paid off. And you ate my pastina con brodo. Always. Good kids make great cooking skills.”
He loved his mother’s pasta in broth. He’d grown up on it. Even today, the aroma of it brought him back to childhood. He’d been served the dish every time he’d been ill or injured—anything from the common cold to the more serious episodes that had landed him in Welsdale Children’s Hospital.
He also knew how much the show meant to his mother as far as giving her a late-life second act. Jordan schooled his expression. “How’s Dad? Besides drowning in pastina con brodo, I mean.”
His mother served the same dish to every ill family member. And because his father had never fully recovered from his stroke, his mother could continue with her culinary cure-all indefinitely. In fact, Jordan was surprised she hadn’t brought more of her signature dish with her today on her visit to his apartment.
“Giordano, don’t be fresh. Your father is okay with his health. The show, not so good.”
Jordan relaxed a little at news of his father. Serg Serenghetti’s health had been a cause for concern for his family ever since his stroke a few years ago. For his mother’s benefit, however, Jordan teased, “Next you’ll be telling me that you’re vlogging to build up your audience.”
“No, mia assistente on the show already does it for me.”
“And a star is born.” He was surprised his mother even knew what vlogging was, but he supposed he shouldn’t be astonished that a cooking show would have already been posting videos online.
“Hmm. Tell that to your father.”
Jordan crinkled his eyes. “What does that mean? You just said Dad was fine.”
“Yes, with his health.”
“Wait, don’t tell me... He’s having a hard time with the fact that you’re the breadwinner now?”
“You know we don’t need the money.”
