Common App Prompt #1 - Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story. [No change]
I always ask for the kids' menu. Always. I don't do it for the tic-tac-toe, or even the crayons. I do it because that's where all the good food is. Chicken nuggets, burgers with no vegetables, and grilled cheese. I'm not interested in these today, though. I'll try them next time, I think to myself, knowing full well that I would think the exact same thing when the time came. My eyes go right down the page to the "M" section, where the only food that matters awaits.
My special relationship with mac and cheese started for a very simple reason: I hated vegetables. Everything about them was just plain disgusting. The smell, the taste, the texture, all of it was flat-out awful. I refused to eat anything that a vegetable had touched, fearing that its taste had been contaminated. That, combined with my parents' distaste for fast food, left my options for the title of "favorite food" pretty limited. Luckily for me, macaroni and cheese appeared at the annual Deerfield Elementary Thanksgiving Feast. I didn't know it at the time, but that first bowl condemned me to years of banter from friends and family over my love of a kids' menu item.
But it was totally worth it. The soft texture of the pasta, the creaminess of the sauce, and the obvious but mild taste of cheese combine to create a food unlike any other. The brand doesn't matter; each type of macaroni and cheese merges different ingredients, yet the end product is always delicious.
Despite its divine taste, mac and cheese has come to mean much more than a pleasant meal to me. With how long it's followed me through my life, it's no surprise that some of my most memorable moments have come with a side of macaroni and cheese.
I remember the long ride home from state championships with the robotics team after missing out on qualification for the word championship by three points. I remember stopping and Noodles and Co. for dinner, and seeing a couple seniors fighting back tears while I drowned my sorrows in a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Even though I felt bad, I knew they must've felt tem times worse. I still had three years to go, three more shots at it; they would never get another chance.
Ironically, though unsurprisingly, I celebrated our world championship division title the following year with mac and cheese at Panera. My friends and I were joking around, wondering how in the world we won against some of the best robots we'd ever seen. The topic somehow became how I wasn't dead from five days on a diet of Dippin' Dots ice cream, macaroni and cheese, and chicken tenders. "Is there an issue with that? I'll have you know I only consume the healthiest foods, I swear," I defended. We all burst out in laughter, half because of my unconvincing explanation, half because everything seems funny after five long days with only 20 hours of sleep.
The soccer team was on a six-game losing streak. We couldn't even seem to get a goal, let alone a win. So when we arrived at Oxford High School for our next game, we didn't expect anything different. Despite our lack of confidence, we sure didn't play like we lacked anything. We put up one goal after another, seven of them, with the captain Adam reminding us "It's still zero-zero, boys," after every one. The coach was elated with our performance, and invited us all to Outback for dinner. You know what I ordered.
It wasn't the food that made these experiences special; it was the people I had them with. Those moments and people have become a part of me that I never want to forget. I don't need pictures or trophies to do so; all I need is a bowl of macaroni and cheese.
Food connects people
I always ask for the kids' menu. Always. I don't do it for the tic-tac-toe, or even the crayons. I do it because that's where all the good food is. Chicken nuggets, burgers with no vegetables, and grilled cheese. I'm not interested in these today, though. I'll try them next time, I think to myself, knowing full well that I would think the exact same thing when the time came. My eyes go right down the page to the "M" section, where the only food that matters awaits.
My special relationship with mac and cheese started for a very simple reason: I hated vegetables. Everything about them was just plain disgusting. The smell, the taste, the texture, all of it was flat-out awful. I refused to eat anything that a vegetable had touched, fearing that its taste had been contaminated. That, combined with my parents' distaste for fast food, left my options for the title of "favorite food" pretty limited. Luckily for me, macaroni and cheese appeared at the annual Deerfield Elementary Thanksgiving Feast. I didn't know it at the time, but that first bowl condemned me to years of banter from friends and family over my love of a kids' menu item.
But it was totally worth it. The soft texture of the pasta, the creaminess of the sauce, and the obvious but mild taste of cheese combine to create a food unlike any other. The brand doesn't matter; each type of macaroni and cheese merges different ingredients, yet the end product is always delicious.
Despite its divine taste, mac and cheese has come to mean much more than a pleasant meal to me. With how long it's followed me through my life, it's no surprise that some of my most memorable moments have come with a side of macaroni and cheese.
I remember the long ride home from state championships with the robotics team after missing out on qualification for the word championship by three points. I remember stopping and Noodles and Co. for dinner, and seeing a couple seniors fighting back tears while I drowned my sorrows in a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Even though I felt bad, I knew they must've felt tem times worse. I still had three years to go, three more shots at it; they would never get another chance.
Ironically, though unsurprisingly, I celebrated our world championship division title the following year with mac and cheese at Panera. My friends and I were joking around, wondering how in the world we won against some of the best robots we'd ever seen. The topic somehow became how I wasn't dead from five days on a diet of Dippin' Dots ice cream, macaroni and cheese, and chicken tenders. "Is there an issue with that? I'll have you know I only consume the healthiest foods, I swear," I defended. We all burst out in laughter, half because of my unconvincing explanation, half because everything seems funny after five long days with only 20 hours of sleep.
The soccer team was on a six-game losing streak. We couldn't even seem to get a goal, let alone a win. So when we arrived at Oxford High School for our next game, we didn't expect anything different. Despite our lack of confidence, we sure didn't play like we lacked anything. We put up one goal after another, seven of them, with the captain Adam reminding us "It's still zero-zero, boys," after every one. The coach was elated with our performance, and invited us all to Outback for dinner. You know what I ordered.
It wasn't the food that made these experiences special; it was the people I had them with. Those moments and people have become a part of me that I never want to forget. I don't need pictures or trophies to do so; all I need is a bowl of macaroni and cheese.
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