The Life Lesson of the Banana

Jim McKenzie
The Life Lesson of the Banana
Food Narrative, Essay #1
Generally when society thinks of a banana it usually has something to do with potassium. Athletes all over the world are extremely familiar with all aspects of the banana. Whenever an athlete starts to get a cramp, in their legs or their thighs, the first step they take to defeat the cramp is to eat a banana to get potassium. Just like banana's can be used to treat an athlete’s pain, they can also be used to teach a whiney child lessons in life that will stay with him forever.
Just like most children at the age of five or six I did not like to eat my vegetables. I would have to say that I hated vegetables more than I hated Barney (and I really hated Barney). I would have done anything just so I would not have to eat a nasty mushy banana. One night at dinner I was begging my mother not to make me eat my peas. I then told her that if she would let me eat a banana then I would not have to eat my peas. Surprisingly my mother fell for the bait. I thought this was going to be a cake walk. Man was I wrong. I actually had never eaten a banana before so I do not know why I decided to ask my mom for one. I will never forget that first glimpse of the banana. It was the most horrifying food I had ever laid my eyes on. The outside of the peel looked like mold growing under my dirty clothes pile. The feeling of the banana felt like a broken leg filled with fluid. It just got worse when I peeled the banana. When you look at a banana when it is peeled it almost looks like there are little hairs coming off of it. When I first placed the banana in my mouth I started to feel the little hairs tickle my throat. It was disgusting. The actual banana is extremely mushy and it made me feel like I was eating baby food. It was indescribable how that banana made me feel. It was almost like dying and then going to hell. I told my mother that I did not feel good and that I wanted to stop. She told me that I could not stop because I had given her my word and that a person’s word is stronger than any bond you could ever make. As I began to finish the banana it seemed like it was the most horrid banana ever made. I kept thinking that it was stale and had brown spots all over it. I eventually ended up finishing the banana and then running to the bathroom so I could regurgitate that terrible banana. That was the worst feeling ever. The smell of that banana seemed to stay with me for hours. I could not get it out of nose to save my life. I then ran upstairs and told my dad what my mother had made me do. He laughed and then said that she was right and that I had to stick by my word. He told me that I would remember this day and the lesson I learned from it for the rest of my life. He also told me that next time I would not try to get out of eating my peas. Even to this day I have not eaten a banana. Even during a football game, when I started to get a cramp, I would make the trainers give me chips or Gatorade instead of a banana. Even though that is probably one of the worst experiences I have ever had to go through, that particular experience has made me into the man that I am today.
Most people that know me know that I am a man of my word. No matter what the problem is if I gave my word to someone I will go through any means to make sure that my credibility is not lost. A banana in my eyes is an essential part of life that everyone has to have. Just like athletes have to have potassium to excel in sports, people have to be honest in every aspect of life so that they too can excel in the future. Just like in life it would be much easier to make an excuse or lie when you make a mistake, like it would have been much easier to tell your suffering child he can stop eating a banana. The whole point of the banana is that no matter how hard things can get, and trust me they will; if you stick to your word and be honest you will excel in life so much more than if you lie to get what you want.

A Happy Meal Narrative Essay 1

Sizzling, greasy burgers were carelessly tossed onto the grill, while large amount of golden, crispy fries were dumped into the steaming fryer. Other fryers were pulled out and had salt poured all over the delectable looking fries. The outside sign read over one million served, and cars swarmed the parking lot. Upon opening the doors, the long line of anticipating customers leading up to the counter astounded my young blue eyes. The term fast food seemed an oxymoron. Standing there holding mother’s hand, I would try not to step on the cracks of the little white tile floor because I believed that they were made of lava; however, as reigning lava champion of my family, I turned my attention to the large black countertop and the humongous menu that loomed over my head. “Kids cheeseburger, Mom,” I would tell her. Sadly, my special order of no onions would likely go unheeded by the uncaring employees. To be honest, those pieces of saturated fat called cheeseburgers were decent at best. Yet, my mother was ensnared by the thought of fast, inexpensive food, so we went for as long as I can remember. The arch king of the world was our dining resting place, often several times a week, and I loved McDonalds.
My dad was constantly moving from one place to the other because he was in the United States Air Force. That would have been fine, but with two little kids it became a heavy burden for the family to bear. At this point, we were currently stationed in Coral Springs, Florida but only for six months. Due to the short amount of time we would be spending there, my toys, my entertainment, were locked away in storage. Little children require constant attention, especially when they have no toys, and that can drive parents to the brink of mental deterioration. With no toys anywhere to be found, I began to search desperately for a playmate; my little sister, who was four, did not meet my much older and exceedingly more mature playing style. Furthermore, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, rather than Barbie and Ken, allowed me to rough house and to run around with my spherical cardboard weapon previously referred to as a wrapping paper roll. Miss Cleo saw six months of adolescent depression in my future unless something was done immediately.
In a miraculous accident, we stumbled inside of a McDonalds. The previous mortifying five hours of starvation had been caused by my mother‘s desire to shop. So, my sister and I were drug, kicking and screaming, to endure a colossal waste of our lives. Losing a few pounds and a small portion of my manhood, I was ready to escape the ball-and-chain of my stroller. Shopping had not been the only terrifying incident: the sky was dark, and a thunderstorm, my biggest fear at the time, was brewing. So at first, I was reluctant to enter because I found comfort at home, not in a random lava-filled McDonalds in Florida. While this was not my first McDonalds trip, it was more than likely the most memorable, because I stumbled on a hidden treasure, a plastic bag that contained my happy meal toy.
A toy! The customers got little plastic toys in their happy meals. The mastermind behind this idea was a genius. He deserved a medal or even a commemorative plaque. Either way he had a special place in my heart; my toy dilemma had been resolved. Yet to obtain my newly acquired prize, I had to consume my entire happy meal. Unfortunately, patience was a virtue that I lacked. Chewing was soon forgotten, and, in my great haste, I swallowed big mouthfuls of fries and cheeseburger. Forcing salty fries and an onion-filled cheeseburger down my small esophagus disgusted and embarrassed my mother. She watched in dismay; finally, she caved. My mother unleashed my new toy car from its plastic cage, and food became an after thought. Vrooooooooom… Vroooooom.. I raced my car everywhere¾ over counters, tables, chairs, even my little sister’s head. Happily exiting the facility with my new toy in hand, I could not wait to return to the restaurant that provided me so much joy.
Realizing the great deal of pleasure our trip to McDonalds provided, my parents decided it would be the perfect place to keep me fed and to supply me with a small, relatively inexpensive form of entertainment. Lacking the danger of a catastrophic storm allowed me to further investigation into this new place of wonder. By far, this was the biggest McDonalds I had ever seen¾ even to this day. My mom, not willing to deal with more car noises in the restaurant, ushered me outside to play in the undiscovered playground. Walking out, I was blinded by the large jungle gym that laid before me and was overwhelmed with the amount of kids my age; I had walked into little kid heaven. Making sure to remove my power ranger shoes and to stash them safely into one of the fifty small cubby holes, I ran and plunged into the ball pit and buried myself completely. Containing more than twenty rambunctious kids, the ball pit was enormous. From the ball pit, a large pirate net extended upward into a system of inter-webbed tubes. Multi-colored with large windows on the side, the tubes allowed me to wave to my mom before descending down the spiraling blue slide. Eventually, I found a playmate and spent the afternoon playing with him in the playground or crashing our new happy meal cars. The McDonalds happy meal had evolved from a source of nourishment to a meeting place of hyper little kids. From the toy surprises to loads of fun at the playground, McDonalds transformed my Coral Springs stay from utter loneliness to exciting adventures in the ball pit of doom.
Since becoming a poor college students my friends and I often journey to McDonalds to explore the dollar menu. It allows to reminisce, while still enjoying the social atmosphere that the greasy cheeseburgers and golden crispy fries create. Upon exiting, I realize that fast food restaurants provide for a more social environment that almost all other foods lack.

What is a dumpling?

What is a dumpling? The dictionary claims it to be either a rounded mass of steamed and seasoned dough, often served with soup or meat, or a dessert consisting of a wrapping of dough enclosing sliced apples or other fruit, boiled or baked. I consider a dumpling to be the part of a soup including: chicken, dumplings, seasonings, and the gravy with just the right thickness. There are several key factors to my chicken and dumplings. It has to be skinless chicken legs, bisquick to make the dumplings, country crock butter, and nature’s seasoning.

People all over the world eat dumplings. Anywhere from Korea and Japan to Germany and Russia. In every country they are made different ways. In some they are dough wrapped in shark skin. In others they are made of potatoes instead of flour. Even in America they are made several different ways. Some people, like my family, use drop dumplings and other people roll out the dough and cut it into strips. Some restaurants’ serve dumplings as a side but I can not understand that because when I eat dumplings there is always chicken and gravy. I have seen a bunch of recipes where people use celery, carrots, parsley, and onion. I do not see the use in all of the extra ingredients when just the few are perfect.

One day, a couple of years ago, my mom and I got the bright idea to make chicken and dumplings, I mean how hard could it be right? Wrong, we are definitely the worst cooks ever. For starters we boiled the wrong chicken, and then we added too much butter. By the time we got to the dumplings it was already a mess, but we had no clue at this time. So we added all the dumplings we had made and put the lid on. When we came back a few minutes later, they looked good. My favorite part of chicken and dumplings is definitely the dumpling, so we decided to add more butter and dumplings. They looked great but as we sat down to eat we realized that somehow we had burnt them. How do you burn chicken and dumplings? I really have no clue, but we did it. You couldn’t tell by looking at them but you could definitely smell them. We just thought the smell was something that spilt on the eye of the stove, we were obviously wrong. Till today we still have not attempted to make them.

My daddy is the only person that cooks them the way I like. He even cooked them for me the first weekend that I came home from school. I have tried many different recipes and even restaurants but no one compares to my dad, he is an awesome cook. He starts out by boiling skinless chicken legs in a stock pot with water and chicken broth. Then he adds the seasonings and leaves them to boil. As they are boiling he makes the dumplings with milk and Bisquick. After the chicken is done boiling he takes it out of the pot and puts it onto a plate, to cool off. He adds butter to the boiling water and then he drops the dumplings into the stock pot one after the other. Lastly he takes the chicken off of the bone adds it to the dumplings and lets it simmer. About twenty minutes later as I take the first bit of this long awaited moment all I can think about is how tasty they are and how I never want to stop eating. About ten minutes later I am stuffed and in hog heaven.

This is a food that no matter where I am at in the house when my daddy cooks it can smell it before he is close to being done. No matter how much time passes by or where I am I will never forget my daddy’s chicken and dumplings. Anytime I see chicken and dumplings or just dumplings it reminds me of him. When I eat them at someone else’s house or at a restaurant I always compare them to my daddy and they never compare, not even close. One day my dad and I hope to open a restaurant together and the featured item will be…Chicken and Dumplings. Well maybe only one day a week. The memory that comes to mind when I see chicken and dumplings is how much my daddy loves me. If I ever ask or even if he just wants to surprise me he always makes them because he knows they are my favorite.

Fried Green Memories

Food Narrative

Essay 1

What’s sweet, sour, and fried all over? I bet there are so many combinations of wonderful things the many cultures of the world could think of to answer that riddle but none quite this irresistible. Fried green tomatoes are the delectable little southern side dish that I speak of. Almost every restaurant in the south offers the fried green tomato in some form but there are places that specialize. One such place that I speak of is known as the Whistle Stop Café and that, is where I enjoyed my first fried green tomato.

My great-grandfather, Papa Dobbs as I used to call him, was one of my favorite people to visit as a child. He was a cantankerous old man but I loved him and so did my whole family. It was a normal thing for me to take a ride down to visit my Papa Dobbs with my grandparents and we normally went out to eat on these little excursions. One late afternoon we decided to go and pick up my Papa Dobbs to eat at a restaurant he had suggested, The Whistle Stop Café. I remember the day vividly, the trees’ leaves where slowly creeping into fall and the air smelled like freshly burned fire wood. Once we picked up Papa Dobbs we set out to the Café and he told us all how long it had been since he had bitten into a good fried green tomato. “Fried green tomato?” I asked him. “Yes son,” he said. “A fried green tomato.” I was very puzzled by this because I had never heard of anyone frying a tomato or a tomato being green. Little did I know how much I would love what seemed strange to me. After I had my first tomato at the restaurant the paradox of a fruit/vegetable had drawn me in hook, line, and sinker.

The tomatoes were about the size of a coaster and a light golden brown. As I carefully bit into my first tomato I remember how crunchy the outside was, but how juicy and sweet the inside was. The following bites of the little treats were equally as good and I noticed how much I enjoyed the subtle sour bite the tomatoes also had. I think that day rekindled a tradition in my grandparents. They spent the whole trip talking about how their mothers always made fried green tomatoes for them and how their guests always loved them. My Papa Dobbs just smirked over the fact that he had suggested we all go and eat there. He’s long past gone from this world, but I still remember that broad smile he had when he had to explain to me what a fried green tomato was. After that simple trip to the restaurant I noticed a change in our Sunday dinners or special meals, we always had the tomatoes. Everyone in my family loved them then and still loves them now.

The prospect of fresh fried green tomatoes even lured me and my grandfather into cultivating a garden. It wasn’t as if the tomatoes that we had already weren’t good enough, it was just the thought and satisfaction we got in knowing that we grew and cooked at least one of the many foods we ate. I remember plenty of weekends I spent with my grandparents where I toiled away the afternoon behind the rusty maw of a hand tiller. The dirt behind my grandparents house was filled with rocks and clay, but that was not going to keep us down. After a few days of churning us a nice plot my grandfather said we were going to visit Mr. Perrin. Mr. Perrin owned one of the oldest and most run down gas stations on Highway 280, but that station was a diamond in the rough for anyone who planned on farming or fishing. Mr. Perrin was an old man with a huge gray bushy beard that laughed a lot. He sold any variety of bait you could think of, but what we wanted was manure and topsoil. After borrowing my father’s truck we took several trips down to the gas station and picked up quite a few 50 pound bags of rich topsoil and manure that we would use just to enrich our poor soil. As a young boy some of my fondest memories will always be of slowly but surely getting that soil ready for planting. It may not have been that big of a spot we had procured but it was still hard work. Planting was the fun part I couldn’t wait to do after we had finished with all the hard tilling. It was always such a joy to buy the little seedlings and plant them in their little mounds while my big house cat wove a trail of footprints in between my legs.

For many years after that first summer of gardening I helped my grandfather with those tomato plants, eventually to add other veggies like rattlesnake beans, cucumbers, banana peppers, squash, and even corn one year. That little spherical fruit will always bring back many fond memories for me. Every time I bite into a good fried green tomato I think of my Papa Dobbs, my grandparents, family gatherings, and the sense of value for ones own labor I received growing up. They may not seem like very much, and many people may think they sound odd, but until the day I die they will hold a special corner of my heart.

That good southern breakfast, Food Narrative, Essay 1

Waking up is hard to do but having a big breakfast can help me wipe away the sandman’s gunk he left at the corners of my eyeballs. The breakfast that I could eat every morning and never get tried is that of my grandmother’s. She keeps her meal simple and true to the heart of dixie cooks everywhere. Grits, eggs, and toast is what she has cooked for years and years of which I have no idea of the length or amount to which she has cooked.

The grits looked as though clouds could be put into tiny nuggets and slapped on a plate for me to inhale in my mouth. A molar floats along the edge of the clouds drifting with no care. The tongue slips through the cloud to capture a few drops of butter that run through the inside of the cloud. My lips hold back the massive amount that is passing by the teeth and tongue to venture down my esophagus. With every bite more and more of those clouds disappear from my plate. Once I finish the clouds I then begin to take a bite out of the sun.

The eggs have a low glow to their appearance that can best be described as a sun setting at the horizon. With only a two scrambled eggs on my plate the sunset isn’t a sunset but rather a sunsecond. With no time to spare the eggs are gone and more of my plate is becoming clearer to my waking mind. Once the sun has traveled to my stomach to warm up its squishy walls I begin to eat my toast.

Toast is served with a buddy; the two have played with each other since the both of them have been around. The jelly skips across the toast with one glide from of a knife. The jelly lies on his back looking at my face that has finally broken free of the grip the sandman once had. Once in my stomach the two look at the sun behind the lazy clouds that have been waiting for them. The plate has now been striped of any credible amount of food.

These three fixings are simple and I have always enjoyed eating them since I remember. Each one of them are sort lived on my plate since I eat them with such a high speed. My eggs and grits are always the first two to go with toast coming right after them. Never do I eat all three in any other order since I stick to some habits with a passion. The routine has differed from time to time but I stick to the basic plan of attack.

I have a lot of beliefs to which I live by. One such belief is that you can be settled and with a stir from a fork all the grits and eggs have been swirled into living with each other since separating would be pointless. Just as steady as the sun setting people mixed together and some have gone together like the colonist banding together to fight for there freedom. While other people mixed like toast thrown at the grits. A loud thump sounds then tiny projectiles splat on your shirt. That kind of relationship is like the number of countless wars that have been waged. Since the cook of this most important meal of the day is a delicate lady I won’t go into great length of the tyranny of war, but all wars have never created peace but caused chaos.

This breakfast all comes from a lady who stands no taller than my shoulders. What an impact it has on me to get up from the comforts of sleep. Her size is small but the flavor and amount to which she cooks is immense. Much of what I know about my grandmother makes me have the utmost respect for her. To me having someone respect you means they care about enough to never see you in pain.

Animal Crackers

Animal Crackers
Food Narrative
Essay 1

You are what you eat and in turn you are also what you do not eat. There is a certain reason why people fall in love with certain foods and there is also a reason people strongly dislike other foods. Here is my story on why I strongly dislike animal crackers. When I hear the world animal crackers I cringe. I do not think I could describe to you how much I despise these certain crackers. I bet your wondering why did I decided to pick a food that I hate, but I think my relationship with animal crackers really does tell a lot about who I am and my strong feelings against them. It all started back in 2nd grade. Apparently animal crackers where the thing to have back at snack time days. My mom never bought them for me so I never ate them until snack time came. It was like a fashion show; we all stood around and opened our snack bags together to see what everyone else had and to compare what we had with the newest coolest snacks. Of course I never had the coolest snack so I would try others. When I first had my first animal cracker I did not particularly like it, but I could learn to get to like it. That changed because after school one day I had a whole bag, and pretty much I got really sick, very sick and from then on I have hated them with a passion. This incident has affected me in a way that if someone near me is eating an animal cracker, I have to walk away for the fear I might vomit. If you have never had an animal cracker let me describe it to the way I see it. It is a cracker in the shape of different animals ie elephant, lion, horse and it comes in a circus bag. The thing I find very unappealing about this infamous snack is that it is a sweet cracker. I think that crackers should not be sweet, but plain and not filling. That is the complete opposite of animal crackers.
The reason I chose to do this assignment in a negative way is because it shows a lot about me and my creativity. It’s not that I am a pessimistic person I am just very true and I know what I want. I will tell you how it is and I really appreciate people that carry that same character trait. I knew the first time I ate that animal cracker I didn’t like it but I just sucked it up and ate it anyway, and that’s when I got sick. A first impression is key to me as well and I think that tells a lot about a person if they give off a great first impression. The animal cracker I ate did not give me a good first impression. I don’t have a metaphor to an animal cracker and myself but it is my experience with these unique crackers that tells a story and explains a little about me. It is funny how just a taste of something can bring back very vivid memories of the incidents you have had with it. That is my dilemma with these animal crackers, everyone who knows me knows not the come near me if they are eating animal crackers The question I ask myself is what about this cracker do I hate and how come I am one of the only ones who hate them. They actually have been around since 1902 and they have become a multimillion dollar industry. It was first marked as a seasonal item and now it is on every supermarket shelf. The thing that makes animal crackers different from other crackers is 12 oz soda and Grahams flower baked into fancy shaped animals. That is what makes them sweet.
I do not want you to think that I hate food but in fact I love food. Food is a very important thing for me. The process of selecting the meal when you are going out to eat is a very vita task and should not be taken lightly. I would be very disappointed if I went to a restaurant and I did not like the food I ordered. If you think about it food is a very big part of our culture, we even have a TV program decided to food and all the different ways you can prepare and the unique foods that are out there. It is pretty incredible how strong food is.

Brownies. Food Narrative. Essay #1

It is said that chocolate is the key to a woman’s heart. This may be true but, however, brownies are the key to my relationships. When I was in middle school almost every Friday or Saturday night, m friends and I would have slumber parties, and brownies were the main ingredient. At one point or another in the night my friends and I would gather around the island in my kitchen and bake brownies. It was the time we spent sitting around the island, waiting for the brownies to be ready, where we would have our most famous conversations. These were the conversations that I have remembered the most over any other conversation in my lifetime. These conversations brought more laughter and tears from laughter than I have ever and probably will ever experience. I have made my closet friends through these conversations waiting on the brownies. The most vivid night was the night before we received our letters from the high schools we applied to. We stayed up half the night talking about our future and recollecting on the amazing times we had spent together. We promised that no matter were we ended up we would still continue our brownie ritual every once in a while.

The brownies that we made every time were Duncan Hines’ Family Style Double Fudge Brownies. Not only are the directions on the box but there are basically only three easy to do steps taken to make the brownies. The Duncan Hines brand is our favorite and the one we had all the time because we knew we always could depend on the brownies tasting great and satisfying our late night hunger. They were always soft and warm inside and out. The brownies had enough chocolate for us chocolate lovers but not to much to the point where we would be sick after the large number of brownies we had stuffed down.

One Friday night we were out of brownie mix so my friends and I tried to test out a new and healthier food. We started eating grapes and started having something we call “grape wars”. “Grape wars” are when you stick the grape in between your jaw on either side of your mouth. The end of the grape with the opening is the side you place facing toward the entrance of your mouth. You then slam your jaw shut forcing grape juice to spray out. We began attacking each other with the grape juice. We would see who could get the biggest hit or whose juice would fly the farthest. We soon learned that the nights with grapes were not as fun as our nights making brownies. The grapes would leave the kitchen counter and ourselves sticky, our jaws would become locked after awhile, our conversations were shorter, and we were left hungry since we never really ate the grapes just sprayed the juice out of them.

The brownies define the most important relationships in my life and they also display many of the same qualities as those girls that I have spent most of my life celebrating with. Brownies are considered a party food which explains the outgoing personalities that my friends and I all contain. Each one of us are warm on the inside just like the brownies we make. We are friendly to each person we meet in life and attract people through our positive characteristics. This is similar to how brownies attract many through their gewy insides and other delicious traits. My friends and I are also extremely dependable. Brownies are dependable in the sense that are always are satisfying and taste delectable. However, the most important similarity between us and brownies is that when brownies are sliced into pieces they tend to break down and collapse. If my best friends and I were to be sliced apart, we would collapse. We are each others support system and keep each other put all together.

Having something that is chocolate and sweet to describe who I am states three main points about myself and my life. First, I am a child at heart. I am the little kid who sneaks the sweets around my mom. The child who's problems disappear from the delicious bite of chocolate. I am one who becomes happy at the littlest things and does not become discouraged from the small problems that life throws at us. Another characteristic of myself is that food is one of the main centerpieces of my relationships. Sitting down around food can allow the conversation to flow in any direction. In my experiences, food allows people to open up and become more comfortable with themselves and their surroundings. Food has allowed my relationships with my friends to flourish and go in many directions it would not travel otherwise. The third and final main point to my relationship with the brownie is that my life is very “sweet”. I am extremely blessed with my surroundings. I am a very positive person and I live for the sweet things that life provides for me. I have been given a great family and amazing friends that I cherish and I thank God everyday for his gifts to me and my loved ones.

Now that I have grown up and do not have slumber parties anymore, my younger sister and her friends have taken their place around the island in my kitchen. They have replaced my friends and I’s spot. They have started creating memories of their own with a food that describes their own relationship. What they have not found yet is that they will also remember those nights around the island for the rest of their lives.

As my friends and I have now all gone our separate ways, this winter break we will meet yet another time and spend time around the island table once again. We will share our stories from our time apart while we wait for the brownies to bake. Opening up enough to allow the brownies to bring us close together as if we have never been apart.

How About Them Apples?

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, or so I have heard. Whether it is true or not makes no difference, apples are still delicious. Apples can be red, green, and yellow, all being equally tasty, sweet and sour at the same time. Apples grow on trees and fall when they are ripe. I don’t think people actually do this anymore but apples are given to teachers. You can bob for apples, you can make candy apples, and you can easily juggle apples due to their spherical shape. When people hear the word fruit, the generic image is an apple. European settlers brought apple seeds to America and cultivated them. Apples are a symbol for westward expansion in that they were distributed in western states by a roaming folklore character named Johnny Appleseed. They are the universal fruit and are unmatched in the fruit category when it comes to popularity.
For as long as I can remember apples have been not just my favorite fruit but one of my favorite foods in general. I can even remember what I had for lunch every day in kindergarten: peanut butter and jelly sandwich, oreos, and apple slices—the green ones to be exact. I usually ate them with creamy peanut butter spread on top or dipped in gooey caramel. Mmmm just thinking about the delicious snack makes me hungry.
Apples can seem ordinary, simple, and generic. They’re not exotic or exciting but they have some underlying qualities. Apples are likeable hence their immense popularity. They are the standard of all other fruits, somewhat like a leader. Also the ordinary look of an apple disguises the juicy and tasty content. I believe myself to be likeable in the sense that well, I don’t have any known enemies. I also believe I possess some leadership qualities from my participation in playing baseball in high school. Some people describe me as a little shy until you get to know me. Similar to an apple there is much more to me. Apples being so demanded by many people show that those people all have a common interest. That common interest in something so simple represents another common interest in all people—to do well in life. It is my goal to do so and I think I am well on my way.

Jeffrey Aycock
Fightin foods
Food Narrative
Essay 1
My mom and my grandma love to cook, which I love. Who does not like a home cooked meal. It does not matter what they cook it is always the best food you will ever put in your mouth. I don’t think there has ever been one single time that we have had guest over and them not to like what they cook.
Although everything at my house is very good there is still nothing in this world that is perfect. There are two meals that are controversial in our family. That is not just our immediate family either. These controversial meals deals with my immediate family along with my mom side of the family. There are only two meals that cause problems. The two meals are spaghetti and meatballs and shrimp. We usually only cook those two certain meals two times a year. The reason for this is because those two meals take a lot of work and a lot of preparation to fix them, but they are everyone’s favorite meals.
The two times that we or better yet my mom and grandma cook the two meals are at Christmas and for the fourth of July. The reason why we pick those two dates is because of two reasons. One is because those are the only two times out of the year that the whole family is together in one house. The second reason is because there is no other meal that everyone in the family likes as a whole. So when we do cook those meals everyone eats it.
The preparation for the spaghetti and meatballs begin about six months before it is served for the whole family. This does not have to be done in this fashion but my grandma has discovered it is the easiest way to do it. She does this by cooking it for my immediate family, instead of just cooking enough for six people she cooks enough for fifteen or twenty people. She does this so that after we are done with that particular meal she will freeze the extra meatballs for Christmas or the Fourth of July. So when one of those two dates come up she already has the meal half way prepared and does not have to work has hard.
You are asking yourself where the controversial part of this meal comes into play. Well here you go. The first year that my grandma and mom fixed this meal for the whole family we did not have enough meatballs. When that happened, not really out of anger just kind of joking around, everyone question everyone about how many meatballs everyone has actually had. Of course no one told anyone the actually number of meatballs he or she really had eaten. So from that point on every time we had meatballs everyone had to start out only getting two meatballs for the first serving. Then after the first serving you could only get one at a time until everyone had enough. Then when most everyone was finish then meatballs were fair game and you can take as many as you want.
The shrimp on the other had does not have to be prepared that far in advanced. The shrimp is the most unique meal that is cooked in my house. I say this because not just one or two people help fix the meal. Everyone in the house, at least everyone that is going to eat that meal, has to help prepare the meal. That is why I think it is so unique. The day before we make the meal we buy seven to eight pounds of shrimp. You think that is a lot of shrimp but you have to remember that we are feeding any were from twenty to thirty people. So after we buy all the shrimp everyone in the house how to take shifts and pill the shrimp. If you do not pill a single shrimp then you do not get to eat the shrimp the next day.
It has been a couple years ago that my family and I have started this tradition. Now it is just fun to pick on people if they do not follow our rules that we have set from the years past. Like for instants if someone had to work on the day everyone pilled the shrimp we would try to make them feel bad for eaten it and not helping make it. Or if someone would grab three meatballs for there first serving we would make them put it back. It is really just fun and games and a very unique way that me and my family bond together.

Puppy Chow-Katie

When I say Puppy Chow most people think dog food, but that is not what I am talking about. The puppy chow I am talking about is really for humans. First of all it is my favorite food in the world! It is made up of Chex cereal, peanut butter, chocolate, and powered sugar. It is the perfect combination of my favorite foods to eat.
It is made up of four ingredients. First you melt the peanut butter and chocolate, either on the stove or the microwave and pour in on top of the chex cereal. It is best to dump everything into a large Ziplock bag. Stir this gooey, delicious mixture together until everything is evenly coated. Then you sprinkle the powered sugar on top of the steaming peanut butter, chocolate, and chex cereal concoction.
Puppy Chow is best made with quality ingredients. I only use General Mills Chex cereal because it is the best. Secondly, I only use Jif peanut butter. “Mom’s like Jif”. The only chocolate chips allowed to penetrate my Puppy Chow are Nestle semi-sweet morsels. These tiny pieces of heaven make the Puppy Chow what it is because the world could not revolve without chocolate. The best brand of powdered sugar is Dixie. Number one is because the South will rise again and number two is because it is the cheapest brand. With these four key ingredients, a wonderful dessert will be formed.
I have been eating puppy chow ever since I was five years old. When I was in kindergarten, we put together a cookbook at my school, and got to choose our favorite recipe. The cookbook was full of fattening treats. Of course I chose puppy chow. It was a huge hit. After all my classmates scarfed my Puppy Chow down, twenty five year olds were covered in powered sugar. Every mom was mad because they had to do so much laundry that night! Puppy Chow is now banned from my elementary school. Everyone who has a sweet tooth will most likely love puppy chow! Since I have such a big sweet tooth, it is delicious to me.
One of my favorite parts about puppy chow is the process you go through to make it. I love melting the peanut butter and chocolate and eating it before I pour it on top of the chex cereal. It is so warm and just melts in my mouth. Then when you pour the powered sugar on top of the hot chex cereal it melts into the middle. If you are not a messy eater, then you will most likely not like puppy chow. It is almost impossible to eat it with out getting powered sugar all over your hands. I love that though, because when you are finished you get to lick your fingers. Writing this is making my mouth water just thinking about how good it is!
I am not sure if many people have ever eaten puppy chow, or even heard of it. I do not know if it is just a food from the south, where I am from, but I do know that if you have not eaten puppy chow you are missing out! Even if you do not like one of the ingredients it is made with, I can almost promise you that you will love the whole thing!
It is really ironic that I love puppy chow so much, because I have ten dogs. I can really relate with “puppy chow”. I know for a fact that the puppy chow I make is a lot better than the puppy chow my dogs eat, and I am sure they would love to have the puppy chow I make better than what they get to eat. One time I tricked my little brother into trying a bite of real Puppy Chow, and he said it was gross. But since dogs are not allowed to have chocolate, they will never be able to savor this delicious treat.
I would compare Puppy Chow to me in that we both combine awesome ingredients to create one cool thing. Like me puppy chow has a variety of ingredients that make up the wonderful food. When I think of puppy chow it makes me happy, and I hope when people think of me they get happy.
I know everyone will not like puppy chow as much as I do, but I still think everyone should try it. I know everyone will not like me, but I think everyone should have an open mind about things. Like trying new foods, and meeting new people.
Anyone can make puppy chow, but not everyone will love it as much as I do. It goes with pretty much any type of party or occasion you want it to. That is how I am. I can be flexible with anything. Also, puppy chow is a messy food, and so am I so we work well together. Puppy chow is a very friendly easy food to have around, and I think I am like that most of the time.
Everyone is different and has different taste, opinions, and comment about everything. No one is going to like everything everyone likes, so you have to find what you like best. Not in just what you eat, but in everything you do. Everyone is so different, and come from different backgrounds, but you know what you like and are drawn to it. I happen to love sweets and junk food. That is why I love puppy chow so much, because it has the best combination of things I like.
Food can be a social thing, but it is a way of life. Everyone has to find what he or she like. Puppy chow can be a good food around, because most people with a sweet tooth will gather around, and that is a good way to find people who have some of the same things in common as you. I hope everyone has tried puppy chow or gets a chance to, because since it is my favorite food, I would love for other people to like it as much as me.

Praise the Blackberry

Food Narrative, Essay 1

That luscious, savory blackberry dangles there on the thorny bush waiting to drop. It grows juicer, plumper, and darker by the minute. And then, it peaks as a grown mature blackberry. Oh that blackberry, how tasty it would be in my mouth. I can only imagine the juice sliding down my throat, and my stomach thanking me for the fabulous treat. I crave it. I would go great lengths just to have a taste of this blackberry. The obstacles and barriers I would encounter just to reach that one deliciously plump blackberry. Thorns stabbing my legs, sweating beading down my back, and bugs irritating my face are all the things I am willing to sacrifice just to pick that blackberry. The blackberry has this barrier of thorns and leaves around it protecting it from harm, but I, if anyone, will reach that blackberry. The guard around the berry makes the obstacle more appealing. It makes the berry more valuable and precious. The reward of tasting this blackberry is my motivation. Finally, I grasp the berry and contain it. The taste I know will be unforgettable. The juices when that blackberry touches my tongue will satisfy my taste buds, and impulses will be sent to my brain giving me the sense and feeling of enjoyment and happiness. All because of this blackberry I will be in heaven.

The very end of June right into July is the perfect season when blackberries are the ripest. This is the time when my father and I head out for our picking excursion. It is tradition for us every summer to go to the trails around dawn, coolest time of the day, and scrounge for blackberries. Today, we are going clothed in dilapidated jeans and faded t-shirts equipped with a belt holding our bucket. We hike to the paved and unpaved trails behind my house and start our adventure. My father begins on one side of the trail, and I begin on the other. Both of us look back and watch out for each other just in case we get engulfed by the prickly bush. Looking for the best blackberries is our mission. I contort my body to fit over and under the thorny branches. I maneuver my legs and arms perfectly to avoid the stabbing branches of the blackberry bushes. I also stretch my arm out like a rubber band man to reach for the perfectly arranged cluster of blackberries. My father and I are always in a competition when it comes to the size of the blackberries, and today is the day I will win. Every time we pick a large plump blackberry we say, “Look at this one, probably the biggest one yet!” I, of course, say that line more than my dad considering I pick the largest berries. Pretty much we are dorks when it comes to blackberry picking, but we like to think we are the master pickers, the professionals. In my eyes we are professionals, because dressed in the ridiculous attire we have on and perspiration forming on our faces definitely qualifies us for the job. Afraid of dropping the berries, we take extreme caution by always using two hands. The supply of blackberries is not all that abundant, so each berry is of great value. We do not want to risk any berries. We spend hours out here in the terrain filling our buckets full. My father and I keep on gathering berries until it is too dark to see where we were stepping. At the end of the day all the bushes, which were colored beautifully black, are now green with a hint of red (blackberries that are not quite ripe are red), because all the treasures that were once on them are in my father and I’s bucket. After a successful mission we finally walk back to the house gloating over the number of berries we have collected. Smiles on our faces and our clothes covered in stained blackberry juice accompany us on the way back home. My mother waits patiently in the kitchen prepared to wash the berries for further eating. I have the honors of always eating the first and largest berry. The taste I have been waiting for all night. At last, I get my reward.

These summer nights are the most memorable for me. All year long I wait for this week in the summer when the blackberries are ripe, so I can protectively dress myself and scrounge for these lavish blackberries. It may seem like labor to everyone else to go out in the blistering heat to collect food, but nothing beats this feeling of victory when all the thorny bushes are attacked and wiped clean of their treasure. I mean it is not easy at all to pick the blackberries, but the adventure and competition of berry gathering truly out weighs the physical aspect of it. Holding this full bucket is a perfect sight and makes me forget all about how awful I look or smell. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. These little blackberries hold my happiness and victory. Wow, I beat my father in the blackberry competition, and my stomach is pleased with a delicious treat. Today is a good day.

I must say if a blackberry were not an inanimate object, a piece of food, and contained a conscious I would thank it. Honestly I would. Food deserves our upmost appreciation. For one thing it keeps us alive, our survival relies on the consumption of food, but also it supplies us with a sense of satisfaction. For some people food is a comfort, a culture, or a tradition. For me food holds memories. Every piece has a story. The blackberry gives me a memory of an adventure like the one I had today. It holds my contentment and appreciation. It is my remembrance. My remembrance of these summer nights spent with my father gathering berries. I praise the blackberry. I will always admire the berry for its scrumptious taste and memories. Thank you so much blackberry.

The Perfect Bowl

Food Narrative
Essay 1


After catching a whiff of the irresistible scent of a steaming Chicken Bowl in front of your face and topping off this masterpiece with the tangy yet sweet seafood sauce, the art of restraint becomes nearly impossible. Mounds of fresh, crisp vegetables ranging from onions to broccoli to mushrooms are the first ingredients to meet the eye with juicy pieces of grilled, teriyaki style chicken ever so slightly protruding from the heap of vegetables that blankets the remainder of the bowl. Once the sauces have slowly seeped across the bowl’s contents, the entrée is ready for consumption. A true Chicken Bowl connoisseur, like myself, will stir up this array of chicken, rice, and vegetables before inhaling the tasty goodness. The mixture of sauces, soy, teriyaki, and seafood, is the key component to this meal because of the creamy texture that merges with the freshly grilled taste of chicken, vegetables, and fried rice. This Chicken Bowl, found at the local sensation Street Café in Montgomery, is as diverse, like myself, as you will find. This taste sensation is loaded with essentials to everyday life, mixed vegetables, the sustenance that you need to make it through the day, mouth-watering chicken, and a true staple in the lives of people around the world, rice. I feel that this combination of scrumptious ingredients jumbled into one is an allegory to myself in that there are many personalities and characteristics to myself conjoined and living inside of me. As in the chicken bowl, there are both sweet and salty sides to myself as a person, areas in which I am happy with but also those areas, which reside in everyone, which I wish to improve upon. While this Chicken Bowl that I am so fond of is found at a restaurant, the origin of my love for this fusion of tastes comes from my mother and the same meal that she once cooked as many as twice a week for my family. My love for this food began long before I discovered Street Café and the fondness that I feel for this oriental cuisine is shared by every member of my immediate family. The euphoria that I feel for this perfect blend of chicken and vegetables cannot be found for any other meal and I believe that this mixture is a true symbol of the multiple characteristics that can be found in myself.

My grandmother, one of the most amazing cooks that I know, started a certain tradition many years back; an eating tradition that runs throughout our family to this day. While you will probably assume, as I did when first learning of this get together, that my grandmother would be preparing her most extraordinary three course meal for the entire family, that is not the case. Bet Bet, as family members know her, suggested that whenever any of our many family members from all across the country get together in Montgomery that they would be treated to dinner at one of the most popular oriental restaurants in Montgomery, Peking Palace. While my mother was the cook that got me hooked on this delicious cuisine, the love for oriental food stretches wider than solely in myself. My entire family, without knowing, has taken part in delivering me to this incredible meal. The Chicken Bowl, which I am so fond of, is only a single dish of so many that has been shared with my family. This love of oriental food serves as a reminder of family to me, not only because of the many times in which my mother, father, brother, and I have enjoyed meals at Street Café, but also the countless meals that my cousins and uncles and aunts have joined in eating these delicious dishes. Whether the occasion calls for take-out or a sit down meal at a random Japanese or Chinese grill house, these dinners remind me of my family and the many get-togethers that have been had. Because my family is strewn over the country, from Atlanta to Vermont and back to Alabama, each time I partake in devouring a meal of this sort it reminds me of those special, yet few times a year I am able to enjoy these meals in the company of my family. This cuisine serves as a way of bringing my family together and I feel that there is no better way of enjoying the bonding that takes place when my family gets together than over a deliciously filling Chicken Bowl.

While the Chicken Bowl serves as a reminder of family and bonding, it more so serves as an allegory into my life and my personality. I am one of the most laid back and shy people that I know, but this Bowl and I share many similarities. While I am the quiet, reserved kid that most know, there are many personalities and characteristics to myself that only my friends and family know are present within me. Like the Chicken Bowl, covered to the brim with steaming vegetables, the best parts of myself are buried underneath the surface, and unless you choose to stir this bowl up you may never experience every personality that I contain. To reach the most crucial and delicious ingredient of the Chicken Bowl, the chicken, you must dive into the Bowl and search to find the chicken. I feel that I am the same way in that while it is fairly easy to reach those sides of me that I choose not to show to anyone and everyone, a layer of shyness covers me. This outer shell, like the scrumptious vegetables, is a sort of protective layer, but it is a layer that I feel is respectful and sincere. This outer personality of me, that one that anyone that does not know me sees, is only the tip of what I have to offer as a person. Like the Chicken Bowl, the most enjoyable part to the meal, in most people’s eyes, is the mix of chicken, rice, and sauces. I believe that my many changing personalities reflect the Bowl in that once you have penetrated the surface, you come to find the true goodness of myself and the outgoing and wild, yet still respectful person that I am. This cuisine offers true insight into the person that I am mainly because of the many delicious components in the Chicken Bowl translating into the many hidden characteristics that I contain. Without this delicious meal in my life and the love for oriental food that has grown in me because of it, I am not sure that I could survive alone cooking my own boring dinners. The relationship that I now share with this Chicken Bowl has given me not only insight into the person that I am, but has also provided me with countless memories of my family. The Chicken Bowl will forever have a loving place in my heart and will someday teach me to how to break free of the layer of vegetables and step outside of the comfort zone that has covered me for so long.

My BIG Fat Italian Meal

Food Narrative

Essay 1

When asked to write about one food that has had a strong impact on me, many ideas came to mind, but all of them had one thing in common. They were Italian foods. I wondered if I should write about gnocchi, wedding soup, spaghetti and meatballs, pasta fazool, ravioli, or another of the traditional Italian dishes my family loves to make. All four of my father’s grandparents immigrated to America from Italy, so Italian food has been a large part of my life. The dishes we enjoy are more than just food, they represent memories, traditions, and life lessons I hope to pass along to my children one day.

Because I could not choose one food, I decided to discuss a whole Perno Sunday night dinner. Ever since I can remember, my huge crazy Italian family would pile into my grandmother’s house for dinner every Sunday night. The kids would be sent outside to play house, freeze tag, baseball or to swim. We might be lucky enough to watch Home Alone or some other movie with our older cousins. Whatever we did, it was a happy time for getting to know our cousins, younger and older. All the women would convene in the kitchen around appetizers of salami, prosciutto, cheeses, olives, and bread, chatting and finishing up any of the last minute details for the meal. The dads gathered in the living room to watch the weekly ballgame.

When the time for dinner finally came, a mom would round up the men and kids, and we would make a big circle around the kitchen to say the prayer, which was usually led by one of the kids. Then everyone would go to their weekly seat; men and older women in the dining room, young kids and mothers with babies in the kitchen, and the rest of the children on the porch, at the bar, or wherever they could find an empty seat. If we moved too slowly, my grandmother would worry that the food would get cold and make a huge scene. The meal often included salad, bread, spaghetti, meatballs, pork, chicken, and potatoes. On special occasions, we might have homemade ravioli, manicotti, or gnocchi, my personal favorite. We would impatiently wait our turns as the different components of the meal were passed around the large table. I usually sat in the kitchen, and we got pretty silent as we devoured the best meal of our lives (or week). The kids listened to the conversation in the dining room, which might be an argument, but we just laughed. We knew that no matter how loud the disagreement became, when the meal was over, so was the argument. One thing we learned was that disagreeing with someone does not have to change the way you feel about your relationship with them. If we were at the table with Grandma, she told us about growing up in a large, poor Italian immigrant family. We heard about how her mother made all the spaghetti by hand-no pasta machines and definitely no store bought pasta! She described the way her mother made gnocchi by hand, first making the dough, then cutting and curling each individual piece of potato dough with her fingers or a fork. Grandma, who still made gnocchi at the time, would tell us about wedding soup and the work it took to clean the escarole, roll the veal meatballs, and cut the small sponge cubes. She remembered that it was a treat they could only afford a few times a year. Knowing that Grandma made those things for us made us feel special, even though she seemed to forget we had heard all of her stories before. Now I realize that hearing them over and over made me remember them. The stories were about sharing what you had, loving one another, and being there for each other.

After dinner, all the women and teenage girls had to help clean the kitchen and dining room and wash the mountain of dishes. It was a treat when I was younger because we all dreaded the day we would be old enough to help. Once everything was finally cleaned and put away, out came the dessert. Dessert might be anything, but it always included homemade biscotti or pizzelles. When it was time to leave, at least one kid seemed to be crying because they did not want the night to end.

Even though we do not have Perno family Sunday night dinners regularly anymore, we still eat Italian food often. Whenever we do, I think of those weekly dinners with the whole family. They are the strongest memories from my childhood. These meals are not only important to me because I love the food. They are a large part of the traditions and values I learned from my family. Now my grandmother, who is 89 years old, eats dinner with my family of 4 on Sunday nights. She still talks about her mother and meal preparation, yet what I really hear now is how little she and her siblings had materially but how much they had emotionally. One of her favorite things to tell us is how she and her oldest sister, Aunt Jenny, never had a fight. While that might not be absolutely true, they never had a fight that was more important than they were to each other. Grandma rarely cooks the big meals these days, so my mom and aunts have started to make some of these dishes. To keep these family recipes in the family, one day my sister, my cousins, and I will learn how to cook these foods. More than the food, though, the traditions and values I was taught while sharing food I loved with people I loved is what I want to bring to my own family one day. Friends always talk about my family and how close we are. I think the way we have used Italian food during family meals as a way to share memories could have such an impact on families if they made the time for each other they way my family always has.

Mom's Perfect Mixture

FOOD NARRATIVE,
ESSAY 1


Rodman passes in the ball to Pippen. Five….. Four…. Pippen passes the ball to Jordan. Three…. Two…. Jordan fakes the shot and dribbles past the defender. One…. Jordan shoots the fade away from the three point line. EEEEEERRRGGGHH. The buzzer sounds just as the ball rolls of the tips of my fingers. The ball rolls around the old, bent, and rusty rim for an eternity before it eventually descends through the net. Whoooo!!! Bulls Win!! About the time that I start celebrating the game winning shot of Game 7 of the NBA championship game that I had just made, my mom slings the side door open and calls me in for supper. “JEFFREY, the food is about ready,” my mother screams. I picked up my old worn out basketball off of the naked spot in my yard. There was not a lot of grass around my basketball goal because the ground was worn out and the grass was dead from the many imaginary championship games played there. It was another typical hot, humid north Alabama summer day. Sweat was pouring from my smaller eleven year old frame like water rushing over a rain-xed windshield during a rain storm. The temperature was probably around 92 degrees but it felt like 110 degrees. I walk in through the side door of my house and my father greets me with, “So did Jordan make the game winning shot for the Bulls today?” I chuckle a little bit, nod my head, and reply, “of course I made the shot.” My mother forces me to get a quick shower before supper because I am covered with a gross mixture of grass, dirt, and sweat. After my five minute shower, I meet my family at the dinner table just in time to hear my father ask the blessing. After the highly anticipated “Amen”, my mother did one the most amazing things that she has ever done for me. She filled my glass half-full of ice from the ice trays in our freezer that I had filled with water earlier that day. Then she did it; the most amazing thing she could have done for me after a hot summer day. She grabbed the gallon pitcher of her home made sweet tea and started pouring it into my glass of ice. The golden brown sugar filled tea rolled over the ice like water in a stream rolls over and through the rocks on the bottom. As soon as the tea hit the ice filled glass, steam rushed out of my glass. It was the most pleasing fog my eyes have ever seen. She hands me the angelic thirst quencher and I quickly devour two gulps. The chilling ice cold tea goes down into my esophagus and into every vein in my body refreshing my hot worn out figure from the hot summer day.

Six years later, forty or so starving and thirsty teenage boys get together for a weekly pregame meal that our parents have prepared. I am near the front of the line because seniors have seniority over the underclassmen. I pick up my paper plate, a napkin, fork, and steak knife. The first thing on the buffet are grilled t-bone steaks. At this point I am glad that I am in front of the offensive linemen so I was sure of getting a steak. Next in line to go on my plate is a smoldering hot baked potato wrapped in a heat blanket of aluminum foil. To make sure I get the full effect of a baked potato, I grab some butter and sour cream. Last in the buffet style line are the sweets. There was anything from brownies to cupcakes. I am not a real big fan of sweet stuff but just for good measure I grab a cupcake that has “Go Bears” written in purple icing. Some of my teammates have me a seat saved so I go put my plate of food down at our table. It is now time for me to get something to drink. Each parent brought a different drink. We had a large variety to choose from. We had the dark caffeinated drinks such as Coke, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper. Then we had the light caffeinated drinks such as Mt. Dew, Sprite, and Sierra Mist. Then there were a couple parents who had brought diet drinks or tea. We had two coolers of sweet tea: one my mother had made, and one from some lady who had apparently never made sweet tea before. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup and filled my cup with tea from the first cooler. Well, it was supposed to be tea. It tasted nothing like the tea that my mother makes and to be honest it was disgusting. It tasted like it had been made with seven tea bags and a half a cup of sugar. Needless to say, I poured the nasty tea out because obviously I did not get it from my mother’s cooler. My mother makes a gallon of Louisiana tea with one tea bag and one and a half cups of sugar; the perfect mixture. I refilled my cup with my mother’s tea and finally sat down to eat.

Moving to a large city was a big change for me coming from one of the smallest communities in Alabama to one of the largest. I have been in Tuscaloosa for about a month and have already eaten more varieties of food than I ever have back home. There are so many great places to eat down here. None of these places have sweet tea that is even worthy of being at the same table as my mom’s tea. The tea down here is either too sweet or not sweet enough. The one thing I miss the most is my mother’s tea. I plan on going home for the weekend back to my hometown of LA (Lexington, AL). My mother called a couple days ago and asked what I wanted for supper Saturday night. I told her that it did not matter what she cooked as long as she had some sweet tea made.

A Homegrown Meal

I wake up one Saturday morning and walk down my steps into my living room and begin watching television. Seconds later, I receive a phone call from my grandparents wanting me to come help them plant vegetables in the garden. Of course my initial thoughts are “NOOO, but I suppose I should help them because after all I will be one of the people devouring these fresh country grown vegetables come harvest time.” Ten minutes later I find myself putting on some old clothes and walking outside to get on my four-wheeler so that I can drive up the road to my grandparents house. As I am making the short trip up the road on my four-wheeler I am thinking to myself why can we not just buy our groceries at the local supermarket like everyone else. At that moment, I hear the alarming noise of an ambulance rushing down the road towards my grandparent’s home. Despite the scorching temperatures of that day, my blood had run cold and my heart had stopped as I was pulling up off the road into the yard.

At about four thirty one Sunday afternoon, my family and I are loading up in the car to go eat at my grandparents house. We pull up to a driveway full of cars belonging to most of my immediate family. Upon entering the house I catch a whiff of various different vegetables that my grandmother had undoubtedly slaved over for the past couple of hours. The meal she had prepared consisted of everything from green beans and mashed potatoes to fried chicken and corn on the cob. It is pretty much the textbook idea of a southern meal. This is the meal that I have looked forward to for every Sunday since I can remember. When I walk around the kitchen piling on as much of these foods as I can possibly fit on my plate, I think about all the time and hard work spent growing these foods. My grandparents have maintained their garden ever since my mother was a child and worked in the garden herself. Now thirty-five to forty years later they are still making their own delicious home grown meals and now I am the one that gets out in the garden to help them produce their vegetables.

After fixing my plate and sitting down in the living room with all of my aunts and uncles, I began contemplating which food would best meet the desires of my appetite from the start. The thing that caught my eye right from the start would have to have been the fried chicken. I did not know what it was but there was just something about the chicken that always pulled me towards it first. It could possibly be the carnivorous side of me that craves meat like a starving wolf on the prowl coming out by starting right away at the meat. My fried chicken strips were usually doused in either sweet-n-sour sauce or honey mustard for a little added flavor. Secondly, I made the habit of chasing all my foods down with some good old sweet tea. Next, the sweet aroma of frozen strawberries topped with a few small dabs of sugar usually catches my attention. Strawberries are usually considered more of the desert, but to me it does not matter the order it enters my mouth. Half way through the meal there is a friendly argument brewing up between one of my uncles and my great Uncle Scott over which race team has the better car in the NASCAR Nextel cup series. My great Uncle Scott argues on behalf of Chevy since he has always driven a Chevy truck and my other uncle argues on behalf of the Dodge cars. Soon after the argument is over, my Uncle Scott begins to tell me what all that we will be doing in the garden the upcoming Saturday. As he is speaking to me, I move on to the next item on my plate which happens to be the slightly creamy mashed potatoes, buttered to perfection and served with cascading waterfalls of gravy, my uncle is talking about plowing rows for in a few days. After cleaning my plate and end my main course, I head into the kitchen to pick between an assortment of desserts including apple pies, chocolate cake, frozen strawberries, or homemade ice cream. Shortly after finishing off a little bit of each of the desserts, I put my dishes in the washing machine and begin to tell everyone bye. I then thank my grandparents for my dinner and head out the door back towards my house thinking about how bloated I felt from my massive overconsumption of food.

As I am pulling into my grandparent’s yard that Saturday morning overcome with a deep feeling that something horrible has happened, I notice my Uncle Scott’s old Chevrolet truck parked in the driveway. I then look out towards the garden and notice someone lying on the ground near the tractor surrounded by medics. As I am approaching the scene I spot my grandparents holding each other with tears streaming down their horror-stricken faces. I then saw the most grotesque, horrifying sight that still haunts me today. It was my Uncle Scott lying there face down on the ground, his body mangled beyond recognition. My dear uncle had apparently bumped into one of the fence posts entering the garden and been thrown off and caught under the tractor. As he fell from the tractor he was confined to a virtual death-trap as his life flashed before his eyes. He was immediately rushed to the hospital where he struggled day to day to hold on to what all of us treasure most, life. Ever since that day I have tried to keep the image of my uncle out of my head. Now, whenever I think of my home cooked southern meal I remember how fortunate my family is to have my uncle still in our lives today.

Thinking back on a food that I feel is special to me and representative of my life, I can think of many things, steak, mashed potatoes, etc. but only one food really pops in my mind when thinking of love and tradition. The Lebanese cookie (spelled ghrybe) is special to me in many ways; it was just about the only cookie I ate for eleven years before eating any other types of cookies or sweets.

The Lebanese cookie is beige and circular and tastes slightly plain with a sprinkling of nuts. The cookie is crunchy and has a faint buttery smell and walnut and honey flavor. Many people who do not have a Lebanese background are not fond of the cookie's seeming lack of taste.

My family and I love the cookie and will always love it. It has been a favorite in my family for many years not only because of the flavor but also because of the traditions associated with ghrybe for us. It has been a tradition to bake the cookies with the youngest child in the family. I remember when I was young standing on the colorful, plaid seat of the red bar stool baking the round, Lebanese cookies with my greatgrandmother. I baked the cookies at least twice a month for many years,if not with my great grandmother, who is from Lebanon, I would bake them with my grandmother, Honey. Although Honey was born here in Alabama, she is also 100% Lebanese and cooks authentic Lebanese meals regularly.

We had many great times baking the cookies but I will always remember baking cookies on Christmas Eve the year I was seven. That Christmas Eve, as we were rolling out the tough dough, I thought it would be funny to start a food fight because I had seen them in movies but I had never actually experienced one. I suddenly, without much thought, threw a piece on the top of Honey's forehead. She looked at me, then laughed and began throwing back at me.

My mom started yelling "you are disrespectful and Santa is not coming,"but I continued to throw and so did Honey. We ended up having the food fight of my dreams. It was an unforgettable night and for the first time in my life we ended up not having Lebanese cookies because the dough was everywhere but the oven.

Looking back on my childhood I realized I was the only one out of my friends that ate the Lebanese cookie. All my other friends brought chocolate chip, peanut butter, and sugar cookies to our school lunches; I brought the Lebanese cookie. They would all question me at lunch about the cookie and why I liked it because they thought it was so tasteless, nothing like their chocolate chip cookie or sugar cookie with sprinkles on top, but I loved them. I had grown up eating these cookies and to me they were just what a cookie was supposed to taste and feel like.

When I went to my friends houses their moms would try to cook us hot, gooey, chocolate chip cookies. The smell was so warm and potent that you could taste the crunch and the hot melted chocolate on your tongue, but as good as it sounds, it was not my homemade Lebanese cookie. I pretty much refused to eat another kind of cookie until I was eleven years old and I overcame my fear of chocolate chip cookies.

I was starving one day at my friend's house and she was baking the cookies that had always smelt delicious and looked delicious but never satisfied my needs, I looked at her and asked her to get me something else. She refused and told me I had to taste the cookie before I could have something else. I agreed and my mouth began to approach the hot melted cookie, I was scared, but finally bit into it. It was soft and melted into my mouth, I could immediately taste the chocolate chips as they melted on my tongue. The chocolate chip cookie was surprisingly good, yet did not compare to the Lebanese cookie that I shared so many wonderful memories with.

My friends used to think it was a little strange coming to my house because I did not have the regular kind of cookies they wanted and they did not like the cookie I spent years loving and knowing. My mom had to start making a stop on the way home from school in the afternoon when I had friends over so they could buy what they wanted for a snack. Once my mom went out of her way to make them happy they always wanted to come to my house after school because none of their moms would stop and let them buy anything they wanted.

I feel the reason my parents did not usually bring other cookies into our household is because they wanted to keep our Lebanese tradition going. Still today we eat the Lebanese cookie on every holiday for dessert and I think of the many years I had getting to know the cookie and the many memories I had with my grandmother cooking the Lebanese cookie. I hope my two brothers feel the same way about this as well -perhaps my mom and I can find some time this fall to bake a batch and send them off to my brother in North Carolina to see if he has the same nostalgic attachment as I do for these cookies.

The cookie has made a place in my heart and I will never lose my attachment to it. My friends think of me every time they hear the word"Lebanese" and they think of the cookie that I cherished for many years of my life and still cherish today. I hope to keep the family tradition going with my children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.

ANNA BANNATHE REAL DEAL Food Narrative Essay 1

My mother is justly famous for her Banana Pudding. With roots deep in rural Alabama, and a home economist by trade, this should come as no surprise. Her banana pudding is so spectacular that we cannot have a family gathering without it!

There is nothing “instant” about the banana pudding at our house. My mother’s recipe is old and authentic. She got it from the Blue Moon Cookbook. The Blue Moon Inn was an old restaurant located in downtown Montgomery, and like all the old restaurants in Montgomery, it has long since “gone with the wind.” But, as for this recipe, I am sure it is the best one to be found anywhere. My mother has a massive cookbook collection and she makes a habit of trying out recipes from many cookbooks before she finds the “right one.” Such is the history of her banana pudding.

The recipe is not complicated but the ingredients must be very precise. The ingredient list looks like this:
six “just- right” bananas (not green but not too mushy either)
one box of Murray’s or Bud’s vanilla wafers (Nilla Wafers
can only be used if our local Piggly Wiggly is out of the
other brands)
eggs (extra large )
flour (White Lily)
sugar (Dixie Crystals)
half & half (any brand will do)
lots of real vanilla
real whip cream for topping (Piggly Wiggly brand is good)

The ingredients are basic, but they are real food—nothing imitation or packaged, and everything is carefully selected. The same procedure is followed each time the pudding is made. The preparation process takes some time because the custard must be cooked in a saucepan over low heat. After layering the vanilla wafers, bananas, and custard, the finished product is then topped with fresh whipped cream. (No meringue on this baby.)
Another very important part of this banana pudding is its presentation. It is always put together in a large, footed, crystal, trifle bowl. The bowl, along with its twelve inch pedestal stands about eighteen inches in height. The banana pudding always stands out among the other selections on the dessert table. It appears to be the “king” dessert and the other desserts are it’s subjects. Yet, it just a simple banana pudding.

Regardless of the occasion, the banana pudding must be served in the footed, crystal trifle bowl. My sisters and I insist on it—even if it is a picnic at the lake. We don’t even complain when one of us has to gingerly coddle in her lap in the car until it reaches it’s destination. So you can see, it is not just the soothing, rich taste of the pudding that makes it so spectacular—it is the presentation as well. Who else would take a plain, country, southern dessert and make it look so elegant?

This well-rounded dessert brings comfort and joy to all who savor it. It is the perfect compliment to life’s celebrations: Christmas, Easter, funerals, homecomings, graduations, and other milestones.

Wait a minute—something has just clicked in my brain. I should be like my mother’s banana pudding; an unpretentious leader among my peers. I should be true to myself and never an imitation of something. I should always be proud of my simple, rural heritage and the lessons I learned from it. I should always present myself as a lady and standout as a classic in any situation. I should not compromise on quality.

Most of all, I want to spread comfort and happiness to all I meet. I, like banana pudding, will become friends with those around me. If the governor puts me on his spoon and gracefully swallows me, I will remember to be kind and courteous to his position of power, without envy. I will be just as kind and respectful to the poor man who is delighted by my taste. During times of stress for others, I can be a small oasis for the weary. I can relate to the Rhet Butlers and the Billy Grahams and receive a satisfied response from both.

Whether we dip our banana pudding out of a Waterford bowl from Tiffanies or a plastic bowl from Wal-Mart, the look on our faces when we see and taste a banana pudding is the same. There is a lesson to be learned here: take the time to research and plan before making a decision, keep the ingredients pure and consistent and mixed in the right proportions, serve with class and dignity, and the proof will be in the pudding. If all the people of the world would love each other the way they love banana pudding, world peace would become a reality. Please pass the banana pudding!

All About Me

Hey, my name is Katelyn Howard. I was born on January 10, 1989 in Birmingham, AL but my hometown is Pell City, AL. I have lived there all my life because my mom was a Navy brat and went to several schools so she said wherever her kids start kindergarten that is the school system they will graduate from. My mom is my best friend; I know a lot of people say that but its true. I tell her everything no matter if it is good or bad and I don’t keep secrets from her. I have known my whole life that I was going to college at the University of Alabama. Two of my biggest passions are Alabama Football and Basketball…ROLL TIDE! Every year when football starts you can find me either at the games or on the couch watching them. When I applied to University of Alabama originally I was supposed to room with my best friend, Emily, but she decided to go to Jacksonville State instead. I am still mad but I miss her very much. We did everything together at least when I wasn’t with my boyfriend, Ryan. Ryan is the main reason for me knowing so much about football and basketball. We have been together for five years. There have been tough times but we always get through it together. A few of my favorite things to do is eat, watch movies, and sleep. I worked at Blockbuster Video over the summer and it was the best job ever just because of all the free movies I got. I mostly enjoy an Alabama win over Auburn.

About me

Hi, my name is Jennifer Schultz and I am from Miami, Florida. Something about me is that I am independent thinker. I am never afraid to speak my mind and never incapable of holding my own in conversations. The differences in people inspire me and I am motivated by my own challenges. I pride myself on my integrity and couldn’t be the person I am without the support of my family.
My favorite place to be is any beach in Florida (especially Miami Beach) I love the feel of the sun, the taste of a cheeseburger in paradise, and the sound of Jimmy Buffet playing in the background. The beach is more than just a place for me to swim and layout with friends, its home. At the beach I can at all time be completely myself and always relax. I hope one day in the far future to retire and become a beach bum in some Caribbean island.
Something that I am most proud of is my education. Being a student at the University of Alabama shows that I am living the American dream. I am a hospitality major and one-day hope to be managing my own hotel in some tropical area. I know that I am the person I am today because of my friends and family. My outspoken personality and my determination will get me far one day. I am happy to be the person I am and know I have a lot to contribute.

An Introduction to Lauren Vowels

Meredith Brooks, now there is an interesting woman. For some unknown reason, her song is drowning every minute thought that could possibly take shape in my head. I don’t know any other woman that could possibly put a claim to as many things as she professes to be. In a way her song “bitch” is a self-narrative of herself, along with a identity crisis. That sounds charming doesn’t it? Meredith Brooks is the kind of music that I grew up listening to. The amazing alternative rock that I loved growing up, now classified as nineties rock, has a new name now and it is called Nickleback and emo bands. Where has good music gone? I feel as if I were Don Mclean mourning the death of music, minus the three musician plane crash. How poetic is “soldier boy” or Nsync? Where is the depth in singing about guns and hoes? Now you want to talk about some good music, let us rewind a couple of decades to the seventies. Jim Croce is the greatest singer songwriter that has ever graced the world with his voice. My dad listened to Jim while I was growing up. Those were some difficult years for me. I was an awkward, mostly fat child. I had braces for four years. I thought I was going to be a zoologist, so I was an encyclopedia of random useless facts. I also had a pet turtle named Rontu. I managed to convince my mom that I saved Rontu from Lake Gunnersville. My mother must have really loved me because after that day I brought the swamp creature home, there was a non-stop stench for two years. She is a pretty awesome woman, my mom, and not quite as confusing as Meredith Brooks either.

The Carolina sun beat down on the sidewalk as practice waned to a close. It was May 2005, and I had a new driver’s license and a fanatic obsession with the Carolina Panthers. There was only one place to be on this spring afternoon – well, make that two spring afternoons, because I had been there the day before – mini camp.
Mini camp is the first glimpse at what every NFL fan knows will be a promising season. The new draft picks arrive, enthusiasm is in the air, and “Super Bowl” dances in our minds. It’s an unspoken hope, silently pondered by all but voiced by none. Could this be the year?
The black metal gates swung open, and the players poured out. I fought for my place along the sidewalk as middle-aged men shoved and pushed, greedily waving small footballs and Sharpies.
I scanned the players, searching for that one signature that had eluded me. He was the hero, the Comeback Kid, our Ragin’ Cajun. He would be wearing a red jersey, the cautionary sign to all who came near. “This is our player. He’s the one with umpteen come-from-behind wins, who nearly won us a championship, who rescued us from 1-7. Hurt him, you hurt us.”
There was one red jersey in sight, but the balding head belonged to backup Chris Weinke, he of the 1-15 season. The field was empty and the quarterbacks had filed out. I had missed my golden opportunity, the empty space on my shirt glared.
“Is that…”
The thin, shocked voice snapped me back. Dark hair, about 6’2’’, red jersey, leaning down for an autograph. It was!
I scrambled back and swung left, across the grassy hill, to an opening in the crowd, and readied my marker.
“Um, can you please sign my shirt?” I asked meekly. All this preparation, not to mention a semester’s worth of the Speech and Debate, and I started with an um?
“Sure,” he responded in that deep Louisiana drawl. He scribbled across my shoulders, and handed the Sharpie back with a grin.
It was my turn to grin. Jake Delhomme, the back of gray shirt proudly read.

I am not defined by my name but better described by a nickname. Maggie Supple better depicts my character, compared to Margaret, it is much less formal and a word I identify myself better with. Until I was in sixth grade and we had to fill out our own standardized test papers I did not even know my real name. I grew up in Lafayette, La. It is a small town I will forever see as home. I lived there for eighteen years not only did I know basically every one in the town; everyone knew either my family or me. I have a very traditional Louisiana family, we even own a sugar plantation ; though I am very proud of my Louisiana background and still love the state, moving to Alabama is a step to be on my own. I am most likely the clumsiest person on earth, if there is an uneven patch of sidewalk I will trip over it. It may be due to the fact that I am quite scatter brained and every aspect of my life reflects that. I have had braces for entirely too long, eight years, and have had my jaw broken. That is probably the worst thing someone could ever break, try not eating for six weeks. My current plan, which is subject to change, is to major in international business and minor in French then go to law school. I would like to live somewhere other than the United States for some period of time. I will end up back in the south because I could never leave southern football, or the warm weather.

A Random Aaron Hupp Story

A searing, burning sensation overcame my leg. My determination had become my undoing once again. I’d finally gone too far and more than likely scarred my leg for life. To elaborate, my parents had given me a metal molder for Christmas and my eight year-old patience was wearing thin. So, I took matters into my own hands and set up the machine that distinctly said, “Use under adult supervision”. Adult supervision is overrated. This weapon of mass destruction melted little pellets into miniature figurines. The only problem was you were supposed to wait fifteen minutes after the silver lava had been poured; however, I lived by a different time standard. After stealing away into the laundry room, I waited with baited breath as the pellets melted into a creamy silver liquid. Pouring, ever so slowly, my conquest was almost complete. Only fifteen minutes to cool. Ten minutes should be adequate; instructions are meant to be changed. The possibility that my newly made figure could still be hot was mind boggling, preposterous even. Plugging ahead, I opened the mold and tried to retrieve my prize, yet it fought back. It Burned my hand and my leg, cause i dropped it, in one swoop. Adult supervision is underrated. My shame overwhelmed me and I attempted to hide it from my parents. Eventually at the pool with my shorter swim trunks and leg unveiled, I was discovered. A sneaky kid I am not.

Another Side

As the buzzer sounded to end the final athletic event that I would play

as a high school athlete, I knew that a major part of my life up to that
point had come to an end. Sports have forever been one of the most
important parts of my life, and the day that that final basketball game
ended on the court of Alabama State University something inside of me
died. Yes I am still an adamant sports fan and yes I enjoy taking part
in any discussion pertaining to sports, but the fact that I will never
partake in another athletic event with the same meaning or intensity of
those games played in high school puts a damper on my outlook of

sporting events.
I feel like sports, basketball for me, bring out the

competitive and intense nature of even quiet, laid back people like
myself. I have always been a shy, laid back kid, but I feel like those
characteristics of myself are thrown completely out of the window when I
enter into the competitive sports arena. Sports have brought out many
characteristics of myself that I did not know I possessed, and
probably never would have had I not been put in different situations on the
athletic field. I feel that my participation in athletics over the years
has helped to show me who I am in the sense that I have discovered many
sides to myself I never knew were there.

My name is Catherine Cook and I am from Athens, Georgia. I lived in Atlanta for the first seven years of my life.

When I was five years old I went into the woods with my brother and his four friends to "run away". It became dark, very fast and we realized we did not want to run away anymore but when we looked around we did not know where we had ended up. We were lost for hours until my brother’s friend Ty realized that in order to get home we had to cross a shallow river. All the boys had crossed and I refused because I did not want to get my dress dirty. They left me after giving me five chances to cross and I sat alone, crying for what felt like hours, until three police officers came and rescued me. They carried me across the river and took me home where I saw three police cars in my driveway and furious parents waiting to punish me.

Years later when I was fifteen, I had jaw surgery, which made me look completely different in just six hours. They cut five millimeters of bone across the top of my mouth off and rotated my entire jaw forward causing my chin to move forward, my cheeks more prominent, my nose wider, and my gums not show when I smile. Along with rotating my jaw forward they implanted my top lip to match my new face. I looked completely different after the surgery; many people did not recognize my “new” face after the three month recovery.

Who is Jim McKenzie?

Jim McKenzie

The American lifestyle is one that is dreamed of by many. Many people, from all different nations of the world, travel to the United States of America to start a new life. I have been fortunate enough to grow up in a society where I have the decision to choose what religion I want to practice and have had the privilege to grow up without fear of persecution. Even though I have many different characteristics to describe who I am, if I had to choose just one it would be that I have American pride. Many people grow up believing that our country was given most of our rights to us on a silver platter. I know and cherish the fact that my countrymen and women have died to give us the luxuries of being able to go to an amazing school, live without fear of persecution, and most importantly to live in freedom. Even though having American pride is definitely a big aspect of my life there are still other characteristics that define me as a person. I am also a practicing Christian, a catholic to be exact. God has definitely made the biggest impact in my life. If I had not found God I would, without a doubt, be an extremely different and incomplete person. But don’t worry I am not one of the crazy radicals that thinks if you are not Christian then you are a terrible person. I believe in freewill and the right to choose if you want to practice different religions, if one at all. My family also plays a huge role in my life. I am very lucky that when my brother and I were little and got into a fight my parents would lock us in a room together until we forgave each other. The fact that my parents did this made my brother and me best friends. I can count on him to help me with any problems in my life. Now it is time to get down to the fun side of me. I do love to party a lot. I just love to be around my friends and meet new people. I was once told by a man, that I extremely respect, that “life is all about making relationships”. I have taken that phrase to heart and I truly believe that it is not my right to tell someone who they should be or what to do. In doing this, this helps me build relationships with people because they know that I will not judge them and I will truly understand them for who they want to be. I am a very diverse person and this is just a small portion of who I am.

Hi, I am Anna Thompson

Right now, I seem to be very much the small town girl from rural, East Alabama, wary of the big campus and the big changes that come with being a University of Alabama Freshman. I admit I feel timid and afraid, like a deer caught in the headlights. What a striking contradiction. Just a few weeks ago I was a very self confident, out-going, (even popular) senior at Clay County High School where everyone knew me by name.

Before Tuscaloosa, I have always lived in Ashland, Alabama and have enjoyed life there. Ashland is famous for two things—our football team and our Governor. Clay County High School has been State Champions (1A, 2A, 3A) more years than I can remember and I am proud to know Governor Bob and Mrs. Patsy on a first name basis. In fact, football and politics have influenced my life a great deal. I have been a cheerleader forever, serving as Varsity Captain my senior year. I served as Peewee and Midget cheerleader coach as well. As for politics, I have had plenty of exposure to that in Clay County. I have worked on numerous political campaigns including local, district, state, and national, democrat and republican. In my lifetime, rural Clay County has had a State Senator, U.S Congressman and Governor in office. Justice Hugo Black the only U.S Supreme Court Justice from Alabama was from Clay County. This past year, I was the recipient of the Hugo Black Memorial Scholarship and it is paying a portion of my tuition at UA.

My friends and I spent a lot of time attending and conducting church activities, eating out, and going to Anniston (it is 40 miles to the nearest mall). A two year Health Science Program I took in high school my junior and senior year is responsible for me choosing Nursing as my major in college. It is odd, but just by putting my thoughts together for this assignment I am getting more confidence in myself as a freshman student. I think I have the leadership skill, and the problem solving capabilities it takes to be a successful student. So look out UA-- here I come!