The first time I had a knish was a formidable moment. My mother went to a Jewish deli and brought a few home, in addition to a slew of other delights, but my tiny, grubby hands were only attracted to the knish. I was intrigued by its weight, its shape and its size. When she told me its name, though, I was all in. "What a fun word," I thought! I loved the contrast and oddity of the sharp "kuh" sound that begins the word.
Culinarily, I think my initial assumption was that it was a dessert of sorts, but I could tell that its aroma was by no means sweet. Once I bit into the pastry and it gave way to rich, soft, perfectly seasoned potato, my mind was blown. I ate the rest of it with reckless abandon, flakes from the pastry on my shirt and chin, proudly noting my new favorite food.
