Anonymous wrote:Damn why does it always have to be an Asian grandma? Don't Black, Italian, Mexican, French grandmas also cook???

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

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.

I am admitting this student/AI. What software did you use?

I'd rather now say (it's pretty expensive per month - I use it for work). But I am now having fun ripping into AI personal statements (I don't have a kid going through the process right now, so I have that luxury, I suppose).

Here's one I just asked for: asking for a different take on a cliche essay topic (if Asian cooking grandma is #1, what's #2) - sports injury (soccer, kid was goalie at a small private high school). I made no changes to the output.

___________

The pop in my shoulder was quieter than I expected. No dramatic crack, no scream—just a soft, wet sound that somehow I heard over the roar of the crowd. I was airborne, diving for the ball, when my arm caught the post at the wrong angle. The penalty shot sailed past me into the net, but I barely noticed. I was too busy watching my senior season disappear.
At Riverside Academy, we don't have a football team. Soccer is Friday nights. Soccer is homecoming. The entire school—all 340 of us—crowds the bleachers, and for those ninety minutes, we're not just a small private school in suburban Connecticut; we're a community united by something bigger than calculus tests and college applications.
And I was supposed to be the anchor of that community. Captain. Starting goalkeeper for three years. The guy with Division III scouts watching from the sidelines.
"Six to eight weeks," the orthopedist said. "No contact sports this season."
I did the math in my head. Our season was ten weeks long. By the time I could play again, we'd be lucky if we were still in contention for playoffs. Most likely, my high school soccer career was over.
The first week, I showed up to practice in my sling and sat in the bleachers. Coach Mendoza said I didn't have to come, that I should focus on healing. But where else would I go? Soccer had been my identity since freshman year. Without it, I wasn't sure who I was supposed to be.
From the bleachers, I saw things differently. I watched Jake, our backup keeper, freeze during one-on-ones, his footwork all wrong. I saw our defense drift too far forward, leaving gaps I used to yell at them to cover. And I realized something: I could still see the game. I just couldn't play it.
"Jake's dropping his hands too early on high shots," I told Coach after practice.
Coach looked at me for a long moment, then handed me a clipboard. "You've got practice on Thursday. Teach him."
So I became something I never expected: a coach. Every practice, I worked with Jake on positioning, on reading the striker's hips, on the split-second decision of when to come off the line. I filmed our games on my phone and made cut-ups of defensive breakdowns, which we'd watch during lunch in Ms. Morrison's empty classroom.
"Why are you helping me?" Jake asked once. "I took your spot."
"You didn't take anything," I said. "We're on the same team."
The truth was more complicated. Watching Jake improve, seeing our defense tighten up because I'd taught them to communicate better, gave me something I didn't expect: purpose without performance. I'd always measured my value in saves, in shutouts, in scouts' nods from the sidelines. But from the bench, in street clothes, I was learning that contribution doesn't always show up in the box score.
We made it to the state semifinals—the furthest Riverside had gone in twelve years. Jake played the game of his life, making seven saves in our 2-1 loss to the eventual champions. When the final whistle blew, my shoulder ached from jumping and cheering, and my voice was hoarse from screaming instructions from the sideline.
In the locker room afterward, Coach gathered us together. "This season was special," he said. "Not because of how far we got, but because you learned what it means to be a team. You learned that everyone has something to contribute, even when it doesn't look like what you thought it would."
He was looking at me when he said it.
The thing is, I did get recruited. Not by the D-III schools that used to scout me, but by something better: by the eleven guys who voted me captain even though I never played a game senior year. By Jake, who wrote in my yearbook that I made him the goalkeeper he never thought he could be. By the understanding that my value to the team wasn't in my athletic ability alone—it was in my knowledge, my leadership, and my willingness to serve the team in whatever capacity they needed.
On homecoming night, they gave me a jersey with "COACH" on the back and let me walk out with the seniors for the coin toss. The crowd cheered, not because I'd made some incredible save, but because I'd shown up, day after day, to give everything I had to something bigger than myself.
That's the save I'm most proud of—the one where I saved my own understanding of what it means to matter.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:This would be an easy T20 admit:

The first sound I ever associated with comfort wasn’t a lullaby or the hush of bedtime stories—it was the crackle of sizzling rice in my grandmother’s wok. When she cooked, every sound, smell, and motion became part of a choreography she had mastered over decades. Garlic hit the oil like punctuation marks, sharp and precise. Soy sauce hissed, sweet and smoky. Rice sizzled and popped until each grain turned crisp, golden, and alive. My grandmother never used recipes; she relied on instinct, tasting and adjusting as she went. Watching her, I began to understand that cooking—and by extension, life—was about balance, attention, and transformation.

Now, when I think about how I approach learning, I realize I inherited her kitchen philosophy. In school, I treat knowledge like a collection of ingredients: each subject has its own flavor, texture, and challenge. Math is the structure—the starch that holds everything together. Literature is the seasoning, revealing subtle layers of human experience. Science is the heat, transforming raw observation into understanding. I’ve learned that education isn’t about mastering one recipe and repeating it perfectly. It’s about experimenting with proportions, blending different elements, and knowing when to trust my instincts.

Like my grandmother, I often find meaning in the process, not just the result. When I write essays, I hear her voice reminding me to “taste as you go.” I draft, step back, and revise—not unlike adding a pinch of salt to bring out hidden flavors. When I study chemistry, I see echoes of her cooking: precise measurements, reactions that depend on timing, and a touch of creativity that turns repetition into discovery. She once told me that the secret to perfect sizzling rice was listening—really listening—to the sound it makes just before it burns. In the same way, I’ve learned to listen closely: to my teachers’ feedback, to the unspoken questions in a text, and to the quiet thoughts that surface when I’m alone.

That listening deepened during my neighborhood walks, which have become a kind of moving meditation. I started walking regularly during the pandemic, when the world seemed both frozen and chaotic. Each route became its own lesson. There’s the corner house with the overflowing garden where an elderly man waves at every passerby—a reminder that small kindnesses can anchor a community. There’s the cracked sidewalk where weeds push through concrete, a quiet symbol of resilience. There’s the hill that makes my legs ache but rewards me with a view of rooftops fading into the horizon, teaching me that perspective often comes after effort.

Walking also helps me process the ingredients of my day. I think about what went well, what I’d like to improve, what new spices of experience I can add tomorrow. I notice how every detail—the smell of rain, the rhythm of footsteps, the echo of laughter from a nearby park—connects me to the world beyond myself. These walks remind me that learning isn’t confined to classrooms or textbooks. It happens in moments of curiosity, empathy, and reflection—in every question I ask and every pattern I notice.

My grandmother never finished school, but she taught me one of the most important academic habits: patience. When her rice stuck to the wok, she didn’t panic; she adjusted the flame. When she ran out of an ingredient, she improvised. Her kitchen was a lab where errors were invitations, not failures. That same mindset guides me as a student. When I struggle with a math proof or stumble through a new language, I don’t see it as a dead end but as a simmering problem waiting to release its flavor. I’ve learned to approach challenges not as obstacles but as ingredients that, when handled carefully, enrich the final dish.

As I prepare for college, I find myself drawn to environments that value curiosity and collaboration—the academic equivalent of a bustling kitchen, where ideas are exchanged like shared plates. I want to study in a place where I can bring my own spices to the mix and learn from others’ recipes for thinking. I imagine late-night study sessions that feel like cooking marathons: messy, unpredictable, but ultimately nourishing.

When I cook now, I still hear the crackle of sizzling rice, but I also hear something else—the quiet rhythm of my own growth. Each grain that leaps from the wok reminds me that learning is alive, kinetic, and a little unpredictable. Just like my grandmother’s dishes, my education will never be about following a single recipe. It will be about tasting, adjusting, and daring to create something that reflects who I am becoming.

Reeks of AI. Really really bad.

It’s terrible.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:This would be an easy T20 admit:

The first sound I ever associated with comfort wasn’t a lullaby or the hush of bedtime stories—it was the crackle of sizzling rice in my grandmother’s wok. When she cooked, every sound, smell, and motion became part of a choreography she had mastered over decades. Garlic hit the oil like punctuation marks, sharp and precise. Soy sauce hissed, sweet and smoky. Rice sizzled and popped until each grain turned crisp, golden, and alive. My grandmother never used recipes; she relied on instinct, tasting and adjusting as she went. Watching her, I began to understand that cooking—and by extension, life—was about balance, attention, and transformation.

Now, when I think about how I approach learning, I realize I inherited her kitchen philosophy. In school, I treat knowledge like a collection of ingredients: each subject has its own flavor, texture, and challenge. Math is the structure—the starch that holds everything together. Literature is the seasoning, revealing subtle layers of human experience. Science is the heat, transforming raw observation into understanding. I’ve learned that education isn’t about mastering one recipe and repeating it perfectly. It’s about experimenting with proportions, blending different elements, and knowing when to trust my instincts.

Like my grandmother, I often find meaning in the process, not just the result. When I write essays, I hear her voice reminding me to “taste as you go.” I draft, step back, and revise—not unlike adding a pinch of salt to bring out hidden flavors. When I study chemistry, I see echoes of her cooking: precise measurements, reactions that depend on timing, and a touch of creativity that turns repetition into discovery. She once told me that the secret to perfect sizzling rice was listening—really listening—to the sound it makes just before it burns. In the same way, I’ve learned to listen closely: to my teachers’ feedback, to the unspoken questions in a text, and to the quiet thoughts that surface when I’m alone.

That listening deepened during my neighborhood walks, which have become a kind of moving meditation. I started walking regularly during the pandemic, when the world seemed both frozen and chaotic. Each route became its own lesson. There’s the corner house with the overflowing garden where an elderly man waves at every passerby—a reminder that small kindnesses can anchor a community. There’s the cracked sidewalk where weeds push through concrete, a quiet symbol of resilience. There’s the hill that makes my legs ache but rewards me with a view of rooftops fading into the horizon, teaching me that perspective often comes after effort.

Walking also helps me process the ingredients of my day. I think about what went well, what I’d like to improve, what new spices of experience I can add tomorrow. I notice how every detail—the smell of rain, the rhythm of footsteps, the echo of laughter from a nearby park—connects me to the world beyond myself. These walks remind me that learning isn’t confined to classrooms or textbooks. It happens in moments of curiosity, empathy, and reflection—in every question I ask and every pattern I notice.

My grandmother never finished school, but she taught me one of the most important academic habits: patience. When her rice stuck to the wok, she didn’t panic; she adjusted the flame. When she ran out of an ingredient, she improvised. Her kitchen was a lab where errors were invitations, not failures. That same mindset guides me as a student. When I struggle with a math proof or stumble through a new language, I don’t see it as a dead end but as a simmering problem waiting to release its flavor. I’ve learned to approach challenges not as obstacles but as ingredients that, when handled carefully, enrich the final dish.

As I prepare for college, I find myself drawn to environments that value curiosity and collaboration—the academic equivalent of a bustling kitchen, where ideas are exchanged like shared plates. I want to study in a place where I can bring my own spices to the mix and learn from others’ recipes for thinking. I imagine late-night study sessions that feel like cooking marathons: messy, unpredictable, but ultimately nourishing.

When I cook now, I still hear the crackle of sizzling rice, but I also hear something else—the quiet rhythm of my own growth. Each grain that leaps from the wok reminds me that learning is alive, kinetic, and a little unpredictable. Just like my grandmother’s dishes, my education will never be about following a single recipe. It will be about tasting, adjusting, and daring to create something that reflects who I am becoming.

Reeks of AI. Really really bad.

It’s terrible.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:This would be an easy T20 admit:

The first sound I ever associated with comfort wasn’t a lullaby or the hush of bedtime stories—it was the crackle of sizzling rice in my grandmother’s wok. When she cooked, every sound, smell, and motion became part of a choreography she had mastered over decades. Garlic hit the oil like punctuation marks, sharp and precise. Soy sauce hissed, sweet and smoky. Rice sizzled and popped until each grain turned crisp, golden, and alive. My grandmother never used recipes; she relied on instinct, tasting and adjusting as she went. Watching her, I began to understand that cooking—and by extension, life—was about balance, attention, and transformation.

Now, when I think about how I approach learning, I realize I inherited her kitchen philosophy. In school, I treat knowledge like a collection of ingredients: each subject has its own flavor, texture, and challenge. Math is the structure—the starch that holds everything together. Literature is the seasoning, revealing subtle layers of human experience. Science is the heat, transforming raw observation into understanding. I’ve learned that education isn’t about mastering one recipe and repeating it perfectly. It’s about experimenting with proportions, blending different elements, and knowing when to trust my instincts.

Like my grandmother, I often find meaning in the process, not just the result. When I write essays, I hear her voice reminding me to “taste as you go.” I draft, step back, and revise—not unlike adding a pinch of salt to bring out hidden flavors. When I study chemistry, I see echoes of her cooking: precise measurements, reactions that depend on timing, and a touch of creativity that turns repetition into discovery. She once told me that the secret to perfect sizzling rice was listening—really listening—to the sound it makes just before it burns. In the same way, I’ve learned to listen closely: to my teachers’ feedback, to the unspoken questions in a text, and to the quiet thoughts that surface when I’m alone.

That listening deepened during my neighborhood walks, which have become a kind of moving meditation. I started walking regularly during the pandemic, when the world seemed both frozen and chaotic. Each route became its own lesson. There’s the corner house with the overflowing garden where an elderly man waves at every passerby—a reminder that small kindnesses can anchor a community. There’s the cracked sidewalk where weeds push through concrete, a quiet symbol of resilience. There’s the hill that makes my legs ache but rewards me with a view of rooftops fading into the horizon, teaching me that perspective often comes after effort.

Walking also helps me process the ingredients of my day. I think about what went well, what I’d like to improve, what new spices of experience I can add tomorrow. I notice how every detail—the smell of rain, the rhythm of footsteps, the echo of laughter from a nearby park—connects me to the world beyond myself. These walks remind me that learning isn’t confined to classrooms or textbooks. It happens in moments of curiosity, empathy, and reflection—in every question I ask and every pattern I notice.

My grandmother never finished school, but she taught me one of the most important academic habits: patience. When her rice stuck to the wok, she didn’t panic; she adjusted the flame. When she ran out of an ingredient, she improvised. Her kitchen was a lab where errors were invitations, not failures. That same mindset guides me as a student. When I struggle with a math proof or stumble through a new language, I don’t see it as a dead end but as a simmering problem waiting to release its flavor. I’ve learned to approach challenges not as obstacles but as ingredients that, when handled carefully, enrich the final dish.

As I prepare for college, I find myself drawn to environments that value curiosity and collaboration—the academic equivalent of a bustling kitchen, where ideas are exchanged like shared plates. I want to study in a place where I can bring my own spices to the mix and learn from others’ recipes for thinking. I imagine late-night study sessions that feel like cooking marathons: messy, unpredictable, but ultimately nourishing.

When I cook now, I still hear the crackle of sizzling rice, but I also hear something else—the quiet rhythm of my own growth. Each grain that leaps from the wok reminds me that learning is alive, kinetic, and a little unpredictable. Just like my grandmother’s dishes, my education will never be about following a single recipe. It will be about tasting, adjusting, and daring to create something that reflects who I am becoming.

Reeks of AI. Really really bad.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I hope someone out there wrote a great essay about what a terrible cook their grandma is.

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

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

__________________


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.

wow, that was really good. what a nana. but shouldn't essay be about kid? or maybe it shows appreciation for family and kindness.
my mom was a bad cook - i never realized veggies could taste good bc she always overcooked them.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:Damn why does it always have to be an Asian grandma? Don't Black, Italian, Mexican, French grandmas also cook???

If your kid wrote about a grandma cooking- regardless of background - I would suggest they redo it for any future submissions.

That's sad. I enjoy the grandma essays.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I hope someone out there wrote a great essay about what a terrible cook their grandma is.

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

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

__________________


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.

Anonymous wrote:This would be an easy T20 admit:

The first sound I ever associated with comfort wasn’t a lullaby or the hush of bedtime stories—it was the crackle of sizzling rice in my grandmother’s wok. When she cooked, every sound, smell, and motion became part of a choreography she had mastered over decades. Garlic hit the oil like punctuation marks, sharp and precise. Soy sauce hissed, sweet and smoky. Rice sizzled and popped until each grain turned crisp, golden, and alive. My grandmother never used recipes; she relied on instinct, tasting and adjusting as she went. Watching her, I began to understand that cooking—and by extension, life—was about balance, attention, and transformation.

Now, when I think about how I approach learning, I realize I inherited her kitchen philosophy. In school, I treat knowledge like a collection of ingredients: each subject has its own flavor, texture, and challenge. Math is the structure—the starch that holds everything together. Literature is the seasoning, revealing subtle layers of human experience. Science is the heat, transforming raw observation into understanding. I’ve learned that education isn’t about mastering one recipe and repeating it perfectly. It’s about experimenting with proportions, blending different elements, and knowing when to trust my instincts.

Like my grandmother, I often find meaning in the process, not just the result. When I write essays, I hear her voice reminding me to “taste as you go.” I draft, step back, and revise—not unlike adding a pinch of salt to bring out hidden flavors. When I study chemistry, I see echoes of her cooking: precise measurements, reactions that depend on timing, and a touch of creativity that turns repetition into discovery. She once told me that the secret to perfect sizzling rice was listening—really listening—to the sound it makes just before it burns. In the same way, I’ve learned to listen closely: to my teachers’ feedback, to the unspoken questions in a text, and to the quiet thoughts that surface when I’m alone.

That listening deepened during my neighborhood walks, which have become a kind of moving meditation. I started walking regularly during the pandemic, when the world seemed both frozen and chaotic. Each route became its own lesson. There’s the corner house with the overflowing garden where an elderly man waves at every passerby—a reminder that small kindnesses can anchor a community. There’s the cracked sidewalk where weeds push through concrete, a quiet symbol of resilience. There’s the hill that makes my legs ache but rewards me with a view of rooftops fading into the horizon, teaching me that perspective often comes after effort.

Walking also helps me process the ingredients of my day. I think about what went well, what I’d like to improve, what new spices of experience I can add tomorrow. I notice how every detail—the smell of rain, the rhythm of footsteps, the echo of laughter from a nearby park—connects me to the world beyond myself. These walks remind me that learning isn’t confined to classrooms or textbooks. It happens in moments of curiosity, empathy, and reflection—in every question I ask and every pattern I notice.

My grandmother never finished school, but she taught me one of the most important academic habits: patience. When her rice stuck to the wok, she didn’t panic; she adjusted the flame. When she ran out of an ingredient, she improvised. Her kitchen was a lab where errors were invitations, not failures. That same mindset guides me as a student. When I struggle with a math proof or stumble through a new language, I don’t see it as a dead end but as a simmering problem waiting to release its flavor. I’ve learned to approach challenges not as obstacles but as ingredients that, when handled carefully, enrich the final dish.

As I prepare for college, I find myself drawn to environments that value curiosity and collaboration—the academic equivalent of a bustling kitchen, where ideas are exchanged like shared plates. I want to study in a place where I can bring my own spices to the mix and learn from others’ recipes for thinking. I imagine late-night study sessions that feel like cooking marathons: messy, unpredictable, but ultimately nourishing.

When I cook now, I still hear the crackle of sizzling rice, but I also hear something else—the quiet rhythm of my own growth. Each grain that leaps from the wok reminds me that learning is alive, kinetic, and a little unpredictable. Just like my grandmother’s dishes, my education will never be about following a single recipe. It will be about tasting, adjusting, and daring to create something that reflects who I am becoming.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I hope someone out there wrote a great essay about what a terrible cook their grandma is.

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

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

__________________


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.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I hope someone out there wrote a great essay about what a terrible cook their grandma is.

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

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

__________________


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.

I can't decide to admit the first grandma or this one? This is a tough one. Maybe legacy grandma gets the nod as tie-breaker, or is that going to be frown upon?

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I hope someone out there wrote a great essay about what a terrible cook their grandma is.

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

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

__________________


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.

Anonymous wrote:This would be an easy T20 admit:

The first sound I ever associated with comfort wasn’t a lullaby or the hush of bedtime stories—it was the crackle of sizzling rice in my grandmother’s wok. When she cooked, every sound, smell, and motion became part of a choreography she had mastered over decades. Garlic hit the oil like punctuation marks, sharp and precise. Soy sauce hissed, sweet and smoky. Rice sizzled and popped until each grain turned crisp, golden, and alive. My grandmother never used recipes; she relied on instinct, tasting and adjusting as she went. Watching her, I began to understand that cooking—and by extension, life—was about balance, attention, and transformation.

Now, when I think about how I approach learning, I realize I inherited her kitchen philosophy. In school, I treat knowledge like a collection of ingredients: each subject has its own flavor, texture, and challenge. Math is the structure—the starch that holds everything together. Literature is the seasoning, revealing subtle layers of human experience. Science is the heat, transforming raw observation into understanding. I’ve learned that education isn’t about mastering one recipe and repeating it perfectly. It’s about experimenting with proportions, blending different elements, and knowing when to trust my instincts.

Like my grandmother, I often find meaning in the process, not just the result. When I write essays, I hear her voice reminding me to “taste as you go.” I draft, step back, and revise—not unlike adding a pinch of salt to bring out hidden flavors. When I study chemistry, I see echoes of her cooking: precise measurements, reactions that depend on timing, and a touch of creativity that turns repetition into discovery. She once told me that the secret to perfect sizzling rice was listening—really listening—to the sound it makes just before it burns. In the same way, I’ve learned to listen closely: to my teachers’ feedback, to the unspoken questions in a text, and to the quiet thoughts that surface when I’m alone.

That listening deepened during my neighborhood walks, which have become a kind of moving meditation. I started walking regularly during the pandemic, when the world seemed both frozen and chaotic. Each route became its own lesson. There’s the corner house with the overflowing garden where an elderly man waves at every passerby—a reminder that small kindnesses can anchor a community. There’s the cracked sidewalk where weeds push through concrete, a quiet symbol of resilience. There’s the hill that makes my legs ache but rewards me with a view of rooftops fading into the horizon, teaching me that perspective often comes after effort.

Walking also helps me process the ingredients of my day. I think about what went well, what I’d like to improve, what new spices of experience I can add tomorrow. I notice how every detail—the smell of rain, the rhythm of footsteps, the echo of laughter from a nearby park—connects me to the world beyond myself. These walks remind me that learning isn’t confined to classrooms or textbooks. It happens in moments of curiosity, empathy, and reflection—in every question I ask and every pattern I notice.

My grandmother never finished school, but she taught me one of the most important academic habits: patience. When her rice stuck to the wok, she didn’t panic; she adjusted the flame. When she ran out of an ingredient, she improvised. Her kitchen was a lab where errors were invitations, not failures. That same mindset guides me as a student. When I struggle with a math proof or stumble through a new language, I don’t see it as a dead end but as a simmering problem waiting to release its flavor. I’ve learned to approach challenges not as obstacles but as ingredients that, when handled carefully, enrich the final dish.

As I prepare for college, I find myself drawn to environments that value curiosity and collaboration—the academic equivalent of a bustling kitchen, where ideas are exchanged like shared plates. I want to study in a place where I can bring my own spices to the mix and learn from others’ recipes for thinking. I imagine late-night study sessions that feel like cooking marathons: messy, unpredictable, but ultimately nourishing.

When I cook now, I still hear the crackle of sizzling rice, but I also hear something else—the quiet rhythm of my own growth. Each grain that leaps from the wok reminds me that learning is alive, kinetic, and a little unpredictable. Just like my grandmother’s dishes, my education will never be about following a single recipe. It will be about tasting, adjusting, and daring to create something that reflects who I am becoming.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:Why not consider the number of sittings for SATs? Big difference between a kid who sat once and scored 1570 and another kid who sat 5 times to get a superscore.

I wish they would.

I also wish there was a counter that updated every time you submitted an app. So when college x is reading your app, they'll know if this is one of 8 you submitted or one of 18