Stop Running. Start Showing Up.
On Service, Shabbat, and Learning Not to Run
It’s taken me a while to understand this, but I think I’m finally starting to get it: service — real service — is what matters.
Not the kind you’re paid to provide. Not “let me know if I can help.” I’m talking about the kind of service that lives in your bones. The kind that says, I’ll show up for you even when no one’s watching.
For most of my life, I’ve cooked for people. I’ve fed them, cared for them, put everything I had into a plate of food and sent it out hoping it might make a difference, even just for a moment. There’s a kind of love in that — one I didn’t always recognize as such. And for some reason, I kept running from what that meant about who I am.
Maybe I thought I was supposed to be chasing something bigger. Something louder. Something more impressive. But I see it more clearly now: there’s no outrunning yourself. Eventually, life strips away your distractions and leaves you with a mirror. And you either look — or you don’t.
I looked. And what I saw was someone who’s always been trying to take care of people, even when I didn’t know how to take care of myself.
The past few years haven’t been easy. The shift from cooking to sales was not some natural evolution. It was a hard pivot — from something tactile and creative to something sharp-edged and constant. Sales is a mental game. There’s no time off. No mise en place. No service window. Just pressure, strategy, and persistence.
And let me be clear: I’ve never had much interest in playing politics. It’s never been my strength. I’d rather be honest, even if it stings. Tell the truth, so you don’t have to keep track of your lies. Work hard. Be kind. It’s not revolutionary, but it’s real.
Still, I miss the magic of cooking. Because when you get it right — really right — food has the power to transport people. It becomes more than just sustenance. It’s memory. It’s joy. It’s presence. You create something fleeting, beautiful, and shared. If you’re lucky, you’ll remember it forever. And if you’re really lucky, you’ll have someone to remember it with.
I wish there were more time for that now. More long dinners. More full tables. More nights where everyone stays just a little longer than they meant to. But as we get older, life gets busier, and our circles tighten. We don’t hold onto friends the way we used to.
And then — I found Shabbat.
Or maybe Shabbat found me. After my wife came back from visiting Israel with her cousin following October 7, we started hosting Friday night dinners. No big plan. No agenda. Just a simple idea: create space to gather. A pause in the week. A reason to cook, to connect, to welcome whoever walked through the door — friends, family, neighbors, strangers.
It made sense. It felt like a homecoming. And slowly, it became something sacred.
If you want to know real joy, try feeding people without expecting anything in return. Take care of others while you can — because eventually, we all need someone to take care of us.
That’s what I’ve learned. That’s what I’m still learning.
The table is where it all comes together. Where love becomes action. Where memory is made. Where service becomes its own reward.
So no, I don’t regret the hard years. I just wish I had stopped running sooner.
Almost Ripe 