For half a century Valerie Bertinelli has shown up in our living rooms like the friend who never needs an invitation—first as the teenage Barbara on One Day at a Time, later spooning olive oil and laughter into weeknight dinners on the Food Network. On September 24 she pulled out her phone, propped it on a flour-dusted counter, and told followers the news that had already leaked in trade headlines: the cooking show that carried her signature dimples and “we’ve got this” pep talk will film its final season this winter.
She filmed the Instagram clip in one take, no glam squad, hair twisted into the same messy knot home cooks recognize from their own taco nights. Eyes shiny but voice steady, she called the decision “mutual and amicable,” thanking the crew who’ve chopped parsley beside her for fourteen seasons. “I’m not hanging up my spatula,” she promised, patting the worn wooden handle that’s appeared in so many episodes it deserves its own IMDB page. “I’m just turning the page.”
Fans flooded comments with recipes they’d dared to try because she admitted the first flip always breaks—stuffed peppers, lemon ricotta cookies, the turkey meatballs that converted in-laws. One woman wrote that she cooked Valerie’s carbonara the night her mother entered hospice; another said the show’s upbeat theme felt like “a porch light left on.” Those stories, Bertinelli later tweeted, are the real seasoning of her career.
Behind the scenes the split reflects a broader shift: Food Network is pivoting to competition-heavy formats, while Valerie craves deeper conversations about food, grief, and the messy middle of midlife. Sources say streaming platforms have already courted her for a docu-style series blending travel, therapy-sofa honesty, and the Italian-American classics she learned at her mother’s stove. She hinted as much in the video’s closing: “The ingredients are changing, but the heart stays the same.”
For now she’s promising more Instagram Lives shot in her actual kitchen—flour on the lens, dogs barking, recipes scribbled on the back of grocery receipts. The set may disappear, the lights may dim, but the invitation to pull up a chair remains open.
