Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Guilt slammed into me when I thought about the fact that they’d also paid for me to go to culinary school in the last few years and given me a big down payment for a house. “I understand,” I said gently, taking my mother’s wrists and pushing her hands down. “And I want to help. I just think taking a risk on a few new ideas here and there might be a good way to infuse new energy into the place.”
“What energy?” Now she was studying my face with that critical look a mother somehow perfects during the teenage years. “You look exhausted. Can you get a nap in before your shift at the pub tonight?”
“Maybe. But I’m dog-sitting for Mr. Buckley this weekend, so I have to go feed Fritz and let him out at some point.”
“But you’ve got bags under your eyes.”
“I’ll put some tea bags on them later.”
“It’s already six-thirty. We open in half an hour. Maybe you should go put the tea bags on now.” My mother was always hopeful I’d meet the love of my life one Saturday morning at the breakfast counter. “You never know who might walk in.”
“Yes, I do. First Gus, then grumpy old Larry, and maybe Fergus McGee. They’re all seventy years old, and they don’t give a shit about the bags under my eyes. They just care that the coffee’s hot.”
My mother pursed her lips and folded her arms.
“I promise to get a nap in later,” I lied. “Now drag Dad out of the office, go home, and finish packing for your trip. I’ve got this.”
She sighed, her arms falling to her sides. “I suppose I could use a little extra time to help your father. He’s moving slower than ever these days.”
Worry needled its way under my skin. As much as they drove me nuts, I loved my parents fiercely—they were kind and generous and beloved in the community for good reason. My mom had the biggest heart of anyone I knew, and the best memory. She never forgot anyone’s name or what their favorite dish was, and she always remembered to ask about the elderly grandmother they’d mentioned or the pet who needed surgery or the sick friend who needed prayers. She was the reason everyone always felt so welcome at Moe’s—she made everyone feel like family. She’d worked tirelessly to keep this place alive.
And my dad and I had a special bond. He’d taught me to cook my first dish—spaghetti and meatballs with the DeLuca family sauce—and shared with me his philosophy about why cooking mattered so much. Food is love, he always said. Food is family and friends, tradition and celebration. Food puts the flavor in life! When I’d decided to follow in his footsteps and become a chef, he’d cried tears of joy. I knew he saw me carrying on the DeLuca legacy, and I was proud to do it. I just wished I had a little more freedom to interpret the legacy for myself. Put my own spin on it.
But tradition was everything to my family. And my family was everything to me.
“He works too much,” I said, glancing toward the office where my father sat at the desk in a chair that was now perfectly shaped to his backside. He’d retired from the kitchen five years ago because he couldn’t be on his feet so much anymore. Lately, his back had been bothering him. Heart problems ran in his family, but the DeLuca men were notoriously terrible about seeing doctors.
My mother laughed. “If that isn’t the pot with two jobs calling the kettle black.”
“Dad is going on seventy, Mom. It’s not the same. He should think about retiring completely.”
“He will when he’s confident you’re ready to take over,” my mother said. “But he doesn’t want to overwhelm you. I barely got him to agree to this vacation.”
“I’m going to kick him out of here right now,” I said, heading into the kitchen. When I reached the office, I knocked on the open door. “Hey, Dad.”
He turned in his swivel chair, a grin overtaking his face. “Hi, angel. I was just thinking about you.”
“You were?” I leaned against the doorframe, noting the bags under his soft brown eyes and the salt-and-pepper combover he wore to hide his receding hairline.
“I was remembering when you’d come into the diner early with me—before dawn sometimes—and bake biscuits,” he said. “You’d stand at my side on your little stool and fold the dough just so with your little hands.”
I smiled at the memory. “But not too much, because you didn’t want me to melt the chilled butter. I remember we’d put the butter in the freezer before we made the dough.”
“That’s the secret,” he said, winking at me. “What can I do for you?”
“You can get out of here and take a vacation.”