The late summer sun bathes the rooftops of the Beqaa, beginning a tale not marked by the calendar, but recognized by its scent. A sour, fragrant aroma drifts in with the early morning breeze, announcing the arrival of the kishk season. In these lands, kishk is not merely a provision stored in jars for winter soups, but a family ritual imbued with a deep sense of belonging, condensing fifteen days of patience, cleanliness, and the labor of human hands.
Mrs. Bayan Al-Sayed Ahmed Al-Deirani, known as Um Adnan, moves across the roof of her house in Qasr Naba, Beqaa, as though performing a ritual passed down through generations. She carefully spreads clean white cloths beneath the blazing sun. Bending over the pots of bulgur, she begins the process with the grain itself. She rinses the bulgur with water two, three, and four times, washing it with her hands until the water becomes completely clear and free of any impurities.
She then transfers it to large sieves, patiently allowing it to drain before spreading it across wide cloths, where the heat of the sun embraces it for two or three days, until it dries completely and hardens between the fingers.
Baalbek Kishk with Mrs. Bayan Al-Sayed Ahmed Al-Deirani in Lebanon, as part of Annahar’s Mouneh file
Um Adnan pauses for a moment, gazing toward the open horizon, as if recalling memories of ancient bread-making and the voices of mothers: “They used to help one another in the family, waiting for the bulgur to finish boiling, roasting potatoes and corn over the blazing fire, while children would compete to eat the hot ‘boiled wheat’ with sugar and orange blossom water.”
Once the bulgur has hardened and dried, the most important stage begins, when all the senses interact with the mixture.
Um Adnan brings buckets of yogurt and begins pouring it over the bulgur, soaking it little by little. Every household in the Beqaa has its own taste preference. Some favor pure goat yogurt for its sharp acidity that authentically stings the tongue, while others prefer the milder taste of cow yogurt, or a mixture that combines the intensity of the former with the sweetness of the latter.
Baalbek Kishk with Mrs. Bayan Al-Sayed Ahmed Al-Deirani in Lebanon, as part of Annahar’s Mouneh file
Sea salt is carefully added, at a rate of about 5 kilograms for every 50 kilograms of kishk, to preserve the jar and regulate the rhythm of fermentation.
Over the course of about two weeks, the containers transform into a living entity, turned daily by Um Adnan’s hands. She kneads the dough, gradually feeding it with yogurt.
Asked about the secret behind kishk’s pure white color, she smiles, recalling years of experience: “The skill is not in the dry measurement dictated by scoops, but in the woman’s eye and the feel of her hand. She keeps adding yogurt and kneading until it becomes soft and comfortable beneath her hand.”
During these days, family members and neighbors do not simply watch. They gather around the large containers to catch the “balila,” the bulgur swollen with the freshness and initial acidity of the yogurt before it dries, eating it with unmistakable delight.
Next comes the initial cutting and kneading stage. The dough is rolled into small balls and spread on cloth to dry slightly. Then, hands begin rubbing them to break them apart.
In the past, before machines, this day resembled a village wedding. The hostess would invite her neighbors, while laughter and friendly competition would rise over who could smooth her bowl the most, culminating in a grand communal lunch of hot kishk pies adorned with Baalbek soujouk, fresh pickles, and clusters of grapes.
Baalbek Kishk with Mrs. Bayan Al-Sayed Ahmed Al-Deirani in Lebanon, as part of Annahar’s Mouneh file
From the open air and sun-drenched rooftops of Qasr Naba, the journey moves to the heart of Baalbek, particularly inside the mill, where Ms. Manal Shams awaits the first batches at dawn.
Amid the roar of machines and the fine white kishk dust filling the air like the scent of fresh dough, a new stage begins at daybreak. Manal explains as she steadily transfers the kishk: “From 5 AM, we go up to the roof, rubbing it consistently until it dries completely. Then it can be ground at the mill to become fine kishk on its own, while the bran and fine chaff are separated.”
Meanwhile, Um Adnan points out that the true value of this dish does not lie in the cost of its ingredients, but in the human effort invested in making it: “The basic ingredients of kishk are simple and very cheap; bulgur, yogurt, and salt are all available. But what is costly? Its labor! A continuous 15-day process… between wetting, kneading, salting, and turning it under the sun.”
Baalbek Kishk with Mrs. Bayan Al-Sayed Ahmed Al-Deirani in Lebanon, as part of Annahar’s Mouneh file
Um Adnan emphasizes that kishk is an extremely delicate and sensitive substance. It absorbs any surrounding aroma within moments, which is why the use of household fresheners or perfumes nearby is prohibited, and why absolute purity and cleanliness are required in every area it touches.
After being ground in Baalbek, the heated kishk returns home to cool. The next morning, Um Adnan takes it back to the sun in Qasr Naba for one final day, allowing it to breathe in the air and release the last drop of moisture.
Only then, when the woman descends from the roof carrying a white, sour powder, soft as silk and carrying the earth’s and natural yogurt’s protein, does she feel reassured about her provision.
She tastes a fingertip, sensing the flavor of fifteen days of patience, warmth, and exhausting effort, knowing that the coming winter will be warm and that the authenticity of the home will be celebrated.
