<p>So I'm a junior, and Dartmouth invited me to apply to visit for a weekend for free. I'm not too confident of my chances, and although I would like to go, I wouldn't be crushed it I didn't get accepted, so I decided to go with a really unique essay idea. I guess this is kind of like my first college essay! So I'd really love it if you guys made some comments since this is probably the first of many many essays!</p>
<h2>I'm posting it here because I'm too lazy to respond to lots of PM requests, and because it has a lot to do with my heritage, so I doubt people will steal it. Thanks in advance!</h2>
<p>B. Share a personal experience that helps to define your family.</p>
<p>It is another cozy Sunday morning, and after I awake from my deep slumber I pad quietly downstairs in my fathers thick woolen socks. I know from the sweet aroma wafting through our home that my mother is making yet another attempt to prepare bufroat.
We dont speak. The aura is one of stillness, concentration. My father is already long awake, and far removed from the tension that lurks in the kitchen, probably mowing the lawn or reading the Sunday edition of the Post in his study. My sister remains upstairs, sleepily making the 10-step trek from her bedroom to my parents to watch Sunday morning cartoons.
My mother herself, who is always dressed, always together, still dons her airy red-print nightrobe and satin headscarf. She does not bid me a good morning; she does not grace me with a smile. Her normally lively and personable mien has been usurped by that of a cold and rigid woman. This is not the first time.
I lean tentatively upon our linoleum island, keeping a close watch over my mother as she beats the pasty brown-specked mixture in the lampshade-sized blue bowl. Stir stir stir switch stir stir stir. The concoction is whipped into a state of turmoil, reminiscent of our household on any other day. But today is Sunday, and today my mother and her bufroat have flash-frozen our family, forcing us to relax, recharge, and reflect.
My dad, I imagine, is thinking about repairs. In another life, in another time, he might have been an ideal handyman or analyst. One of the printers prints blues instead of reds, and the second light bulb from the right has gone out in the basement powder room. His brilliant and intuitive mind is probably working through the motions, step by step. In his head, the printer and light bulb are no longer a concern, already repaired and in good working order.
During commercial breaks, my sister paradoxically contemplates books. Beyond the sea of pillows and bolsters that is her bed lies a secret library of trashy novels, novels that our classics-obsessed parents would never approve of. Gossip Girl, The A-List, The Clique. Through a combination of stealth and charm, she has bolstered the contents of her collection to epic proportions. She is most likely surreptitiously drawing up a plan of action for her next purchase.
What do I contemplate? Everything. My mind darts from place to place, a train with many stops and no definite destination. I have an English paper due tomorrow; I formulate a shell of a thesis and wonder how long into the night I will sit at my computer. There will certainly be a debate during tomorrows Model UN meeting, probably about international health standards; would Italy (my country) support foreign aid or limit it? What playlist should I use for my run tomorrow? Who is going to cover the Obama rally next weekend? Speaking of running, where are my sneakers anyway?
Amidst all this thinking, my mother, the one silently imploring us to explore ourselves, is stirring. She is enraptured in her task, and if she is thinking of anything else, I cannot tell. The paddle-like spoon she uses is thick and wooden, and has been in our family for generations. Her grip is strong, and for good reason-the mixture is as thick as freshly poured cement.
Bufroat, when made correctly and with care, is a tangerine-sized fried African delicacy, closely related to the doughnut. The perfect bufroat is elusive, and my mother has been chasing this dream since before I can remember. Every culture has its impossible-to-perfect specialty foods- the Spanish and their flan, the Greek and their baklava, the French and their everything. Ghanians have bufroat.
A medley of flours and butter and milk and nutmeg, it takes 2 days to prepare: it must rise to twice its size overnight. The first few times my mother tried it, it did not rise. I can recall her sitting on the floor of the kitchen, brow furrowed, looking at the blue bowl as if the intensity of her gaze could make the dough do what she so badly wanted it to do. In a frenzy, she would move the bowl from place to place, near windows, outside, from cold rooms to hot rooms, over air vents and under counters, hoping, praying, wishing for a yeasty miracle.
Now it rises every time. After jumping this first hurdle, one must stir, clockwise, counterclockwise. Stir stir stir switch stir stir stir, for eternity and a day, pounding away the very air bubbles that were so elusive in the first place. Then it sits for a bit, resting as a metal pot, always the one with the jiggly handle, is filled 1/3 full with canola oil (We used palm oil in Ghana, she told me once, but its full of saturated fat) and heated to a fearfully high temperature.
With her bare hands, my mother reaches into the bowl and grasps a sticky handful of dough. She rolls it deftly from an amorphous glob into a perfect ball, and fearlessly plops it into the oil. The oil spatters and crackles angrily, breaking the silence. Yet my mother is not afraid, as I would be. She continues without pause, until the pot is full. Only then does she even look at me, and acknowledge my presence. The task is nearly complete.
From nowhere appears a wooden chopstick, my mothers tool of choice for turning the stubborn balls over in the oil for additional cooking. I abandon my train of thought and search her eyes for any signs on the outcome of the bufroat. She looks away quickly, instead poking around in the oil with her stick.
The first batch is done, removed from the oil with a slotted spoon and set on dozens of paper towels to drain. They are dark brown and crisp on the outside, but color and appearance alone are not good indicators of the quality of the bufroat. A taste test is crucial. My mother will not be the first to take a bite, and accordingly my father is called to perform his duty. If it is good, the crunch of the outside will not overwhelm the soft sweetness within. If it is good, my father will smile and cheer and congratulate my mother on another job well done. If it is good, my mother will be happy.
My family gathers in the kitchen. We have spent almost the entire morning alone, and miss each others company. The great taste test is done, and my father pronounces the bufroat fantastic. The spell my mother cast over the house is broken as the bufroat is consumed and blue bowl and wooden spoon are put away for another Sunday.
We joke and we laugh as we gather around our kitchen table, simultaneously pleased about having a bit of time alone with our thoughts and relieved to have escaped from solitude. My mother is happiest of all, her usual radiance returned 5-fold.
She must be proud, I surmise, that she and her bufroat are the glue that holds our family together.</p>
-it’s the time crunched journalist in me) and I’m not in editing mode yet- it’s too fresh. </p>