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[quote=Anonymous][quote=Anonymous][quote=Anonymous][quote=Anonymous]I hope someone out there wrote a great essay about what a terrible cook their grandma is.[/quote]

Can the AI generating person have one generated about bad-cook grandmas, please?[/quote]

Here you go. I'm telling you this is fun. It's really thinking hard (and quite long) for these new essays.

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My grandmother burned water once. I'm still not sure how that's physically possible, but she managed it. The pot was scorched black, the kitchen smelled like a tire fire, and Nana stood there with the oven mitt still on, looking genuinely confused about what had gone wrong.
"I was just boiling it for tea," she said.
We didn't have the heart to tell her she'd forgotten to actually put water in the pot.
Nana's cooking is legendary in our family, but not in the way she thinks. Her Thanksgiving turkey is so dry it could be used as insulation. Her pasta has the texture of rubber bands. Once, she made chocolate chip cookies without the chocolate chips and insisted they were "minimalist biscotti." My cousin still won't eat anything brown.
The strange thing is that Nana loves cooking. She watches the Food Network religiously, collects recipes from magazines, and talks about flavor profiles like she understands what they mean. Every Sunday, she invites the whole family over and insists on making dinner. And every Sunday, we show up.
But here's what actually happens: My aunt arrives two hours early with a "side dish" that could feed twelve. Uncle Mike brings his grill "just in case." Mom packs Tupperware containers of prepared food in her trunk. By the time Nana's roast chicken emerges from the oven (black on the outside, raw in the middle), there's already a full meal laid out on the counter.
"Oh, you shouldn't have," Nana says every time, beaming.
We all nod. "We know you're doing the main course."
When I was younger, I thought we were lying to her. That felt wrong. I asked my mom why we didn't just tell Nana the truth, maybe suggest she stick to hosting and let someone else handle the food.
Mom gave me this look. "Your grandmother raised four kids by herself after your grandfather died. She worked two jobs, kept everyone fed, and made sure we all graduated high school. She knows her cooking isn't good."
"Then why does she keep doing it?"
"Because she wants to give us something."
That didn't make sense to me then. It felt like a participation trophy approach to family dinners. But last year, I started paying attention to what actually happens at these Sunday meals.
Nana sets the table with cloth napkins, even though we're just family. She puts out the fancy plates her mother brought from Poland, the ones with the tiny blue flowers that nobody else is allowed to touch. She lights candles. While everyone else is cooking, she's moving through the house making sure there are fresh towels in the bathroom, fluffing pillows, checking that my little cousins have enough toys to keep them busy.
And during dinner, she's the one who notices that my aunt looks tired and needs someone to watch the kids next week. She's the one who remembers that my cousin has a job interview on Tuesday and asks about it. She's the one who makes sure my uncle, who's been divorced for six months, doesn't sit alone at the end of the table.
The cooking is terrible. But the meal is perfect.
Last Sunday, Nana's pot roast was so tough my dad joked that it could be used as a hockey puck. We ate my aunt's lasagna instead. But when it was time to clean up, I noticed something. Nana had still set aside the best piece of her roast, wrapped it in foil, and labeled it for my uncle to take home.
"He's been eating frozen dinners," she whispered to me. "At least this is homemade."
I didn't point out that homemade isn't always better. Because that wasn't really the point.
My college essay could have been about a lot of things. Academic achievement. Debate team. The community service project I organized. All the stuff that proves I'm capable and accomplished and ready for the rigor of higher education.
But I keep thinking about my grandmother, who fails at the same task every single week and keeps showing up to try again. Who creates space for her family to gather, to help, to be needed. Who understands that sometimes the gift isn't what you make, but that you asked everyone to come together.
I hope I'm half as stubborn about the things that matter.
And I really hope my roommate knows how to cook.[/quote]

Also, which app are you using to generate these?[/quote]

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