The smell of golden-fried pork egg rolls stacked upon one another is the first thing that grabs my attention. The grease glistens on the perfectly wrapped folds of the crispy dough envelopes, and I can almost feel the satisfying crunch against my tongue. My mouth waters. I follow the buffet line, my eyes dancing over the burnt orange crab legs reaching out of the steaming tray, beckoning me. My brow furrows, and I start to sweat. Further down the line, curly pink shrimp tails seem to spill out over the rim of a bowl of cocktail sauce, teasing me. I quickly grab a bowl of egg drop soup and a handful of crispy noodles and run back to my table.

I didn’t always follow a kosher diet. I learned the main rules back when I was in first or second grade of Hebrew school — don’t mix milk and meat and don’t eat pork or shellfish — but my mother was pretty lax about our eating habits because we just weren’t that religious. We didn’t go to synagogue regularly. We didn’t mingle with a lot of other Jewish families. We didn’t even know the names of the months of the Jewish calendar.

Looking back now, though, I see that we were always culturally Jewish, and we did the things that most people expect Jews to do: we celebrated Chanukah, my family went to synagogue on high holy days, and my older sister and I attended Hebrew school for a few years. My family, much like the other Jewish families we knew, also tended to overdo the “no pork” part, avoiding pigs altogether (my mom wouldn’t even shop at Piggly Wiggly grocery stores because of the pig on the sign).

I remember the exact point in my life when I decided to make the switch to a kosher diet. I had just come back from a 10-day trip to Israel, an environment in which the people were beautiful — tan and slender, with big eyes and welcoming smiles — and the food was unusually delicious (especially for being kosher).

Every day we ate kosher dishes that were more delicious than any I had ever had back in Kansas: warm, crisp falafel (smashed chickpeas rolled into balls and fried) on soft pita bread, stacked high with fresh salads and tangy sauces, and juicy shawarma (slices of marinated meat roasted on a rotating spit) that melted in your mouth before you even had a chance to chew it three times. These foods were abundant in Israel, on every street corner and in every restaurant. I was convinced that my transition to an all-kosher diet would be a smooth and satisfying one. I could not have been more wrong.

Coming home was a gastronomic disappointment. Instead of finding fresh falafel and shawarma on every corner, I was stuck with the less appetizing versions of the foods I used to relish: plain hamburgers replaced scrumptious bacon cheeseburgers, boring cheese pizzas replaced flavorful pepperoni pizzas, and I couldn’t eat shrimp or lobster or crab, ever. And it just kept getting worse. My dietary makeover gradually leaked into the tiniest parts of my life, like my snack foods.

For instance, I remember the very last powdered gem donut I ever ate. It was spring break, and my friends and I were lounging around a hotel room. Each one of us had bought a favorite treat to share with the group, and mine had been a bag of Hostess powdered gem donuts.

I offered one to a vegetarian friend, but she declined it on the basis that they contained beef fat. I didn’t believe her, and shoved one in my mouth. Then I checked the ingredients, just for fun, only to find that she had been right. Then I saw the dreaded words: Contains milk products. I almost choked on the damned thing. Beef fat and milk — meat and milk mixed together. That was a kosher faux pas, a no-no, a cardinal rule never to be broken.

I slowly chewed the remainder of the donut in my mouth and swallowed carefully, eyes shut tight, afraid a bolt of lightning would strike me down then and there. I rolled the top of the bag shut and sadly gave them away. That was the start of what is now my barter system with G–d (The lack of an “o” in the word is similar to not taking the Lord’s name in vain, an old Hebrew school habit I never broke).

After that, food took on a much more significant role. It wasn’t merely nourishment for my body, but was a way to express my Judaism in a manner that made sense to me. I knew I could never follow every kosher law as strictly as G–d would want, so I began to think in terms of spiritual negotiation.

If, for instance, I followed the main laws as well as I could, then when a monster craving hit, a little piece of bacon would go unpunished. If I checked the labels of the bread I bought and made sure there was no milk in case I made a turkey sandwich, then G–d just might overlook that taco I ate that I “forgot” to order without cheese. If I’d had a particularly rough week, G–d would not begrudge me a small shrimp cocktail.

And maybe, just maybe, if I didn’t eat that sausage, egg and cheese McMuffin that I desperately desired, then G–d wouldn’t be so mad at me for dating a non-Jew.

I saw it as give and take, weighing my options and choosing the lesser of two evils. That way, I got instant gratification; I felt that my kosher decisions were impacting my life now, rather than waiting for their benefits on Judgment Day.

This has become my permanent view of how things work. Instead of being bitter about the foods I’m no longer allowed to enjoy every day, I can withstand cravings easier because I haven’t completely abolished those foods from my life. I’ve never had a one-on-one with G–d, so I have no idea how He feels about the whole set-up. However, I’ve gotten no indication that He’s severely upset.

Some people might call it cheating. Frankly, it just might be. But it’s the only way I can justify the importance of a kosher diet in my life. I’m healthier because of my switch to a more kosher diet, but I’m happier because of my new way of approaching it. Nothing else really matters.

Now pass me an egg roll. It’s been a rough week.