This morning, I stopped in front of a patisserie window in Toulouse and saw kouglof on display. Golden, dusted with sugar, crowned with almonds — it looked festive and familiar.
I was carried back to childhood memories. Growing up in Pittsburgh, my father used to bring home kugloff made by a very talented pastry chef. It was a rare treat, a cake that felt both special and comforting. I almost never see it at home anymore.
Standing in Toulouse, far from where those memories were made, the sight of kouglof reminded me of him — how food, even across cultures and continents, carries the thread of memory.
