The first time I ever had kishk, I was 13, and condemned to stay with my Tant Muna and my 30-something cousin Rania in their apartment in Garden City, Cairo, for two weeks.

There was nothing to do except read Rania’s collection of Cosmopolitan magazine (I learned a lot about sex in that time period) or watch Seinfeld reruns on the dish (if the reception was good.)

The highlight of the day was a communal dinner, at around 4 p.m., on the formal dining room table. Tant Muna was proclaimed the best cook in the Gharib family, but by the time I rolled around, she must have lost her touch. The food was the usual Egyptian: macarona bechamel, kofta, mahshe, which I would eat without fanfare, then retreat back to the balcony for more Cosmo.

One day during my stay, my cousin Ihab, also in his thirties, said he was coming by the apartment for a visit. Ihab was kind of a big deal in our family. He lived in Canada for awhile, spoke French, and dated white women. We were all excited, and Tant Muna made a big fuss about dinner. She finally settled on kishk and chicken livers.

I had never heard of kishk before or eaten it at any time in my 13 years of existence. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, because it was paired with chicken liver, and liver is just gross.

It was time to eat and I held my breath. Tant brought out the plate of livers, little pink round balls floating in a pinkish-brown sauce, and the kishk, a plain yogurt sauce served cold in individual bowls. I inspected mine: It looked like gravy with too much flour, with a film of white skin at the top. She encouraged me to take my pita bread, break off a little bit of liver, then dip it in the kishk.

Oh hell no.

I had a bite, nearly gagged, and excused myself to the bathroom. I resolved to stay in there as long as humanly possible so that dinner would somehow magically pass and I would be free from eating any more livers and kishk.

In those days I always carried around a notebook and pen (I was still very much into Harriet the Spy) and wrote “What is this yogurt shit?” backwards, using the mirror à la Leonardo da Vinci, to pass the time in the bathroom. I ripped my little note up into shreds and tossed it into the trash.

I heard Tant calling my name, so I returned.

My antics were a success; the meal had passed, probably because Tant and Rania were distracted by Ihab’s amazingness. Dinner was followed by the usual tea and fruit, then it came time for Ihab to leave.

At the door, he leaned close to my ear and said in a low voice: “What is this yogurt shit?”

I jumped back and looked at him in bewilderment. He had put my da Vinci note back together!

In a small voice I replied, “Kishk?”

He winked and smiled, then turned to go. He was as bored to pieces as I was.

This piece was originally published in my magazine, The Runcible Spoon