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[quote=Anonymous][quote=Anonymous]I used a paid version of AI (the highest payment tier) and gave it this prompt:

Can you tell me what the Asian grandma personal essay is that lots of candidates have been getting paid AI help with? Using words like spitting oil and sizzling rice? Is there a sample essay you can provide to give me a sense for what everyone is saying is a pervasive themed essay this cycle?

If not, then draft a personal essay about cooking with your Chinese grandmother. sizzling rice. Spitting oil. vivid imagery. What I learned. Go.

__________

The oil hits the wok with a violent hiss, spitting droplets that dance across the stovetop like tiny meteors. My grandmother doesn't flinch. At seventy-eight, Lao Lao has been baptized by hot oil more times than she can count, each scar on her weathered hands a testament to decades of feeding our family.
"Too timid," she scolds in Mandarin, watching me hover the spatula above the rice. "Food doesn't respect fear."
I push the day-old rice into the wok. It crackles and pops, each grain turning from pale to golden as it meets the heat. The kitchen fills with the smell of sesame oil, soy sauce, and my own inadequacy. In school, I calculate derivatives and write essays about Shakespearean tragedy. But here, in Lao Lao's narrow Queens kitchen, I am still a student struggling with the most fundamental lesson.
She learned to cook during the famine years, when a handful of rice was more precious than gold. "We couldn't waste even one grain," she tells me, her gnarled fingers teaching mine how to fold the egg into the rice with precision. Every movement is economy. Every ingredient, purpose.
I watch her dice scallions with a cleaver that's older than my mother, each cut so uniform they could have been measured with calipers. There are no recipe cards here, no measuring cups. Just instinct honed over decades, passed from her grandmother to her mother to her, and now—if I can learn to stop being afraid of the heat—to me.
The rice sizzles, releasing steam that fogs my glasses. I used to think this was just fried rice, something I could order for $8 from the place down the street. But as Lao Lao guides my wrist through the tossing motion, I realize I'm learning something that can't be delivered in a takeout container.
"In cooking," she says, "you must commit. Add the ingredient or don't. Hesitation makes everything soggy."
It occurs to me that she's not just talking about fried rice.
At school, I'm the student who triple-checks every answer, who reads each essay prompt five times before starting. I've built a life around certainty, around right answers and clear rubrics. But standing here, with oil spitting at my forearms and the smell of toasting garlic filling my lungs, I'm learning that some of life's most important knowledge comes from instinct, tradition, and the courage to lean into the heat.
Lao Lao tastes the rice with the wooden spoon, nods once, then ladles a portion into my bowl. It's not perfect—some pieces are slightly scorched, others not quite crispy enough. But it's mine.
"Next time, better," she says, already washing the wok. "But this time, good enough to eat."
I take a bite. The rice is hot, savory, alive with flavor. And for the first time in her kitchen, I'm not afraid of burning.[/quote]

I would admit the Grandma. The grandkid sounds like a perfectionist dime a dozen, so I'd only admit her if her stats/ECs and teacher rec's are crazy good.[/quote]

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