Goucher Eats: Baugettes and bread snobbery

Kathryn Walker
Co-Features Editor

Once upon a time, in a semester far, far away and across the seas, I was a bread snob with a capital S.  I was constantly on the prowl for another tasty-looking baguette, another opportunity to literally sink my teeth into the crux of French

Bauggettes on display in a French shop. (Photo: Google Images)

Bauggettes on display in a French shop. (Photo: Google Images)

culinary culture. I actually carried around a reusable bag in my purse that served as a baguette-holding device in times of dire need.
Walking out of a boulangerie with a warm baguette nestled under my arm, I could think of nothing better than sitting down and dipping the bread into olive oil or sandwiching some cheese into the insides, or even just tearing off a portion with my teeth. Sunday brunch was always accompanied by at least four baguettes which were consumed faster than you could say bon appétit. Fresh, handmade, and coated very softly with flour, baguettes acted as my third utensil at every meal, standing by until the moment came when the last bit of sauce or soup called out “Mop me up!” and the baguette made its appearance acting as the handy plate cleaner.
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Goucher Eats: Pumpkin proliferations and fall folly

Kathryn Walker
Co-Features Editor

With a thunderous THWACK, a cleaver splits in half the orange oozy insides of the pumpkin, outside husk and all.  Fresh from the family garden of a friend, it is gleaming

Kathryn Walker preparing her pumpkin Scones. (Photo: Kathryn Walker)

Kathryn Walker preparing her pumpkin Scones. (Photo: Kathryn Walker)

with endless possibilities of consumption: pie, soup, bread; roasted, sautéed, raw … and then I realize that in the process of imagining the endless ways that this pumpkin could end up in my stomach, I’ve inadvertently sliced open my own finger.
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Goucher Eats: Welcome to the Good Life

Kathryn Walker
Staff Writer

One week ago, I found myself tramping through the dim morning half-light to pick up my family from the airport.  My body couldn’t figure out if it wanted to sleep or wake-up: my eyes were half shut with fatigue while my legs churned beneath me, powering me down the road to the train station all the way to the airport where I found myself standing and waiting with my 20 pound backpack for my family to come out of customs.  Fortunately, I had bought five pain au chocolate the morning before for the incoming stampede of Walkers.  My rational: they needed to start off their trip correctly.  And so armed with croissants from a Meilleur Ouvrier de France, or the French equivalent of an Oscar for culinaires,  I stood there in the Charles de Gaulle airport ready to welcome them to the Good Life of Eating in Paris.

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