First, I met my new super-frum neighbor. We bonded over trying to figure out our shared dryer situation—which, fine, cool. But the highlight? He got genuinely hyped that my kitchen is already cleaned and ready for Pesach. Like sir, forget the dryer—I’m basically your local chometz-free queen now.
Then I went to a bar and ended up talking to a group of soon-to-be IDF kids. They looked at me and said, “You don’t act Anglo.” I had to laugh—because I’m not. I made Aliyah to Hadera, okay? I can handle real Israelis all day.
A few minutes later, this kid at the bar turns to me and asks, “Do you know how to make fufu and egusi?” Like… do I look like I don’t?? Come correct, please.
Then I shared my mehadrin pizza with the bar owner, and suddenly the whole bar started calling me “dosi’ah.” Like LOL—no sweetie. I’m spiritual with seasoning, not that kind of religious.
And to top it all off, a group of Ashkenazi yeshiva boys asked if I could make them “a meal like yours… but with half the spice.” I said, “Bless your hearts(I lived in Texas). Baby steps.”