By Sruly Meyer

Three years ago, I got a DM from someone asking if I wanted to be on a PBS home cooking show.

I thought it was spam, but I decided to call the number anyway.

It was real.

I did two rounds of interviews, only to find out the show was filming over Rosh Hashana. I had to decline.

After that, I honestly thought maybe because of Yom Tov and Shabbos, and maybe also because of kosher, this dream was never going to happen.

Then, seven months ago, I got another DM. This time from someone asking if I wanted to be on a brand new Food Network show.

I didn’t think it was spam, but I was nervous it would be a waste to even respond after what happened with the PBS show.

I’m so glad I didn’t ignore that DM.

I know I’ve been posting a lot about this. Maybe you read an article I was interviewed for, or heard me speak about it, but you really can’t imagine what it felt like.

Words don’t fully describe the feeling I had then, the feeling I have now, and the feeling I think I will always carry close to my heart.

I was at a very low point in terms of how a lot of things were going. I felt like the world had become bitter and tragic. The news alone can make anyone feel that way, but for me it was deeper.

I felt like I had lost faith in people. I was losing hope that good things still happen.

During the three months of interviews, and waiting to hear if I was advancing in the casting pool, I didn’t let myself believe for even one second that this would actually happen.

I remember it clear as a bell. Even an hour before I got the email, I had already been told an email was coming, and I still thought it would be a nice, “We really loved you, but…” kind of email.

Truthfully, even after I got the email saying I was officially cast on the show, I was in shock.

I was getting emails about wardrobe, flights, special requests, and all the details. Even as I stood in my closet trying to choose clothes, it still hadn’t hit me.

Forty-eight hours later, I was on a plane to California.

I still didn’t believe it.

I met the first cooks on the ride from the airport to the hotel. They were just regular people. Excited to be on this journey.

And I was sitting there, very aware of my yarmulka, my beard, the tzitzis strings at the side of my pants.

Wondering. What are these people going to think about me?

When we got to the hotel, I went to my room to put my stuff down. I was going to go back downstairs and start introducing myself to the other cooks who were already there, and then I saw my baseball cap on the bed.

I was about to grab it.

Maybe I should ease them into it, I thought.

I remember that moment now just as clearly as I did that day. And I decided I was not going to do that.

I came here to be who I am.

There were dozens of other cooks representing their families, their hometowns, their cultures, and even their religions.

I came as the kosher cook.

I was going to introduce myself as me. And that yarmulka on my head is part of me. Keeping kosher is part of me. My Judaism is part of me.

Yes, I made jokes. I laughed. I got to know so many cooks. We talked for hours. We got to know each other deeply.

They got to know me.

Not someone hiding a part of himself because he was nervous.

They got to know me.

And you know what? They were amazing. They embraced me. They accepted me. They treated me the same as everyone else.

People asked me if it was hard to keep that secret of being on the show. It wasn’t hard at all.

You know why? Because that was just a TV show.

The details of the show aren’t what  I walked away with. It was the people there and the experience.

The cooks. The time we spent together. The bonds we made. That is what gave me back that faith.

The ability to make a Kiddush Hashem on a scale of millions.

The strength to not try to fit in, but to stand out. To be me.

My personality and my Judaism, not separate from each other, but together.

When I see clips of myself on this show and I see my yarmulka, the pride that fills me is hard to explain.

When I see the other cooks, it reminds me of the time we spent together, and how those bonds continue to grow even now.

That I didn’t have to hide myself to connect with people, and that they accepted the full me, is a feeling that is hard to describe.

Maybe that feeling is my faith in people being renewed.

Maybe I can’t describe it because it had been gone for so long.

Is the world actually better since this experience?

Maybe not.

But the lesson I took away is that even when things feel hard, in the world or in your own head, good things can still happen.

And maybe when we focus on that, it helps us do things that actually make the world better.

One person at a time. Being our authentic and kind selves. Being proud of our Yiddishkeit!