Common App Essay Essay - Vanderbilt University

Growing up in a Chinese restaurant, I developed an early revulsion for potato skins. When the restaurant stove finally cooled, I would sit by a bucket of water and skin each tater with an apple peeler, which soon got clotted with the bruised epidermal crust of the vegetable. But underneath the skin is that marvelous, milky-golden vegetable that my family and I find quite enduring. In most American families, dessert consists of sweet pastries and chilly confections, but in mine, our dessert tradition revolves around the loaded baked potato. Indeed, on sleepy Monday evenings, we hopped in the family Nissan Pathfinder, winding our way through the hilly middle Tennessee landscape to the nearest O’Charley’s, which had the most delightful baked potatoes. The beauty of the baked potato lies in its customizable nature. The toppings are endless: from butter to chives to even dried pork floss, each ingredient offers its own solo in this symphony of flavors. Plus, with the amount of chives that I add, I can say that I am eating my recommended daily serving of vegetables. But slowly, I craved more flavor. Maybe too much — too overpowering. The marginal economic utility of heaping six more spoonfuls of bacon bits is zero to none. Dousing the potato with butter compelled me to consider whether I’m here for the potato — or the butter. The age-old wisdom that simplicity is beauty was tossed out the window. I became deaf to the fact that you cannot have all the toppings without the potato itself. Perhaps it was just teenage angst that consumed me. Perhaps it was the social media that urged me to compare myself with others to an unhealthy extreme. But it was probably a sense of resentment, angered by the reality of moving around so much when I was younger, disappointed by the limitations of our family’s financial situation. An urge to do more to compensate for the less. That’s when grades started slipping, me oversleeping and me simply sludging through the motions of the day. But in the ugliness and resentment emerged growth. Each potato that I placed against my peeler was pockmarked with gnarly blemishes and mole-like protrusions on the skin, but on the occasion I would stumble across one that had sprouts. These sprouts — or “potato eyes” — fascinated me. From one potato comes another. Those eyes were a reminder that I can eat many baked potatoes in a lifetime, and that I don’t need to top my potato like it’s the last. I’m reminded of the fact that the potato was a New World commodity globalized by the Columbian Exchange. Although the tuber was slow to acclimate to European conditions, potatoes finally found their grip in the cool, continental lowlands. I have lost my way, but I have found it. Despite its potential decadence, potatoes come from humble beginnings — and I must remember how I sprouted. I was born feet-first, didn’t speak until three, and taught to put the toilet seat down. I still love to sift through worn pages of National Geographics, mesmerized by geometric cuneiform etched in clay and the scale of the Mesoamerican temples. I love where my journey has taken me, from Coney Island to the palmettos of the Carolinas to strawberries of the Middle Tennessee — even the potholes along the way. Chowing on a simple plate of orange chicken and white rice after rush hour at the family restaurant reminded me of what’s important, what’s immutable. People often joke about those who order the same thing off the menu, or those who choose level one on a five-point scale of spiciness at the local Thai restaurant. Yes, I am that person. But I’ve learned to appreciate the nuance of simplicity. Sweet potatoes are tempting, but that familiar love and warmth will remain in my baked Russet potato.