I chose common app prompt #1 which is to tell a story central to your identity
The itching sensation burns as my throat gradually closes. My breath whistles and crackles like a pressure cooker as I force air through my tortured airways. Sharp pain racks my chest and my face flushes with warmth. I claw desperately for the Benadryl in my wallet, then for the Epipen in my bag as I realize Benadryl won't be enough. My head spins as I attempt to pop open the cap on the slim tube holding my life. With leaden limbs, I make one last herculean effort before losing my battle with that stubborn golden cap and succumb to hypoxia.
I have died in my dreams.
Looking at me, one would never guess that I love to cook. As the saying goes, never trust a skinny chef. Rest assured: I am wholly trustworthy. Though it may seem contradictory, if it weren't for my allergies, I probably would not have discovered the wonderful world of food. My passion started in fifth grade, after a class party. For an hour, I watched as my classmates inhaled cookies and cake. The only thing worse was the pity my friends and teacher lavished upon me. Disgusted, I was determined to find an alternative. I started experimenting with different substitutes, until I had perfected my own unique recipes: applesauce for eggs, soy milk for cow's milk and so on. By the end of the year I could eat cake and cooking had taken on a life beyond preparation for class parties. Very few things are impossible. As Randy Pausch said, "The brick walls are not there to keep us out. The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something."
In cooking, failure is to be expected. For some, like me, it happens fairly frequently. The first time I attempted to make tomato sauce completely from scratch, I nearly gave myself food poisoning. After reducing the red wine nearly to the point of burning, I stewed the freshly chopped tomatoes, seeds and all, in water for a few hours. The result looked, and tasted, like ashes dissolved in water. It took me four nights of disappointment to get the recipe right. My cooking has grown as much by failure as by success.
Though I have plenty of reasons to hate my allergies, I find that I can't. Life with food allergies has molded me into who I am. They have forced me to adapt; to learn responsibility and independence. So why feel sorry for me? I don't.
The itching sensation burns as my throat gradually closes. My breath whistles and crackles like a pressure cooker as I force air through my tortured airways. Sharp pain racks my chest and my face flushes with warmth. I claw desperately for the Benadryl in my wallet, then for the Epipen in my bag as I realize Benadryl won't be enough. My head spins as I attempt to pop open the cap on the slim tube holding my life. With leaden limbs, I make one last herculean effort before losing my battle with that stubborn golden cap and succumb to hypoxia.
I have died in my dreams.
Looking at me, one would never guess that I love to cook. As the saying goes, never trust a skinny chef. Rest assured: I am wholly trustworthy. Though it may seem contradictory, if it weren't for my allergies, I probably would not have discovered the wonderful world of food. My passion started in fifth grade, after a class party. For an hour, I watched as my classmates inhaled cookies and cake. The only thing worse was the pity my friends and teacher lavished upon me. Disgusted, I was determined to find an alternative. I started experimenting with different substitutes, until I had perfected my own unique recipes: applesauce for eggs, soy milk for cow's milk and so on. By the end of the year I could eat cake and cooking had taken on a life beyond preparation for class parties. Very few things are impossible. As Randy Pausch said, "The brick walls are not there to keep us out. The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something."
In cooking, failure is to be expected. For some, like me, it happens fairly frequently. The first time I attempted to make tomato sauce completely from scratch, I nearly gave myself food poisoning. After reducing the red wine nearly to the point of burning, I stewed the freshly chopped tomatoes, seeds and all, in water for a few hours. The result looked, and tasted, like ashes dissolved in water. It took me four nights of disappointment to get the recipe right. My cooking has grown as much by failure as by success.
Though I have plenty of reasons to hate my allergies, I find that I can't. Life with food allergies has molded me into who I am. They have forced me to adapt; to learn responsibility and independence. So why feel sorry for me? I don't.
