“You have to eat a kolache,” at least six friends insisted.
The week I was inTexas. I (left) watched for this mysterious pastry, described to me as “flaky, hot goodness” filled with sausage or jam. Apparently, a large Eastern European population had settled here at one point, bringing with them their traditional, tasty dish.
Each day on the drive to campus, we would pass a kolache drive-through, but could never stop. We were on the way to an interview or a sociology class or were exhausted from a late night of observing ministry.
On our last night, we were still kolache-less. I felt like I had been hunting a unicorn until Sandi Ireland, the mentor of Diana, our story subject, sent me a text message: “Left you kolaches at the hotel front desk. Have a good flight.”
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