Anonymous wrote: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.

Anonymous wrote:I’m an IEC.

I’ve read the same variation of 3 essays in more than two dozen apps on the last week and a half (cooking and ingredients as metaphor for how kid approaches life; Asian grandma cooking & sizzling rice imagery; neighborhoods walks revealing one’s values).

Kids do not realize how obviously AI they are and now they all follow the same exact format. It’s awful.

I don’t care how beautiful the writing is… The format of the essay is exactly the same and how the layers are revealed.

If your kid gets rejected or deferred from their early choice, please have them redo their personal essays. These are all red flags.

Anonymous wrote: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.

Anonymous wrote: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.

Anonymous wrote: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.

Anonymous wrote: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.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:What kind of services do you offer?

- were these for apps due this week or months from now? If the former, I don’t know of experienced/well know essay readers who take on last minute clients so I’m assuming you took on last minute clients (which says something about you AND the kid) or were lax in mandating earlier deadlines from your clients.

- what did you do for these clients other than post about it here?

Op here. Sorry - just back here now after the last few ED are in today.

I posted that this weekend as an FYI only - after conducting "Application Reviews" for the last fourteen days (our national firm takes on a fixed number of these in late October and late December, and it's somewhat easy to spot these issues). These clients were not full or comprehensive clients - just applicants who purchased ED1/EA reviews (Michigan was the most common EA school) and were hoping for a marked-up Common App. I provided each of them with comments over the last week or so; it's unclear what the final product looked like when submitted. Had I (or anyone else) read or been involved with the personal essays earlier, I'm confident they also would have spotted these issues.

I stand by the robotic nature of AI-influenced essays - the candidates were from around the country, and all sounded eerily similar - in a way that generally has not happened before. The AI glaze, as I call it, is real. Your eyes glaze over, and there is nothing at all memorable other than the "sizzling rice" or "spitting oil".

Anyway, the original point was for parents to read those personal statements. They shouldn't sound great or perfect. They should sound like a conversation with your kid - and tell the AO something important about them. GL to all of your children over the application season.

Anonymous wrote:What kind of services do you offer?

- were these for apps due this week or months from now? If the former, I don’t know of experienced/well know essay readers who take on last minute clients so I’m assuming you took on last minute clients (which says something about you AND the kid) or were lax in mandating earlier deadlines from your clients.

- what did you do for these clients other than post about it here?

Anonymous wrote:My kid is at Princeton and they shared college essays their first few months of schools. It started when seniors back in HS asked my kid about his essay and he asked his roommates, etc.

Long story short - they were all pretty meh. Sizzling rice w grandma. Commutes from poor neighborhood to rich one.. The books on my bookcase spanning diary of a wimpy kid to Cervantes. Tutoring this immigrant taught me about linguistics

This stuff doesn't matter as much as people think