Own Choice Research Paper
Question: Submit An Essay On A Topic Of Your Own Choice
“...4...5...6...” I could hear the shout as I sprinted through the house— searching for anywhere, anything to hide in before she reached 10. I took hide-and-seek very seriously, and nothing would stop me from finding the perfect hiding spot this time in a game I so rarely won against my older sister.
My grandparents’ house was familiar to me; my family had been living there for several months while our new house was being built. Some areas were deemed “off limits” because of the dangers they posed to children. The kitchen, my grandfather’s favorite room, was one of them with its sharp knives and hot pans.
“...7...8…” I stole a quick glance around, ensuring there were no adults around
to stop me on my mission. I grabbed the handle to a mystery door inside the kitchen I had seen my mother and grandpa exit from every evening with armfuls of ingredients. Running out of time, my hands felt around in the dark as I attempted to make my way deeper into the pantry until I pushed a mysterious package off the shelf and onto my head. White powder rained down on me and fell like confetti from my hair to the floor. I cried for my parents in the darkness, knowing I would be in trouble for making a mess.
The door slowly opened as my tears began to subside, and I found myself face to face with my grandfather. I braced for the worst. Instead of yelling as I expected, he carefully explained that the white powder I had gotten all over was flour, an integral part of the baking he so enjoyed, and offered to let me watch as he made a pie that night. Grateful that he hadn’t gotten mad and too afraid to admit that I hadn’t actually been interested in watching at the time, I grasped his outstretched hand and began my journey into the culinary world.
I received my first cookbook when I was 8. An original 1950 Betty Crocker Picture Cookbook that my grandfather left to me when he passed. At the time I was far too young to do any cooking by myself, so my mom helped me pick a recipe I could handle without burning the new house down. I’ll admit, she did most of the work herself, but I was proud of my first efforts without the man who taught me when I was younger. As I got older, I took control of more and more aspects, but my mom was always there if I needed help. In 2009, she was diagnosed with cancer and found herself unable to help me with my hobby. Her condition continued to worsen and I remained oblivious even as she began to require oxygen tanks. It was difficult to comprehend, so I threw myself into baking to avoid it. I learned to be independent and confident in myself and my skills without relying on someone who I knew could catch me if I fell.
When my grandfather died in 2004, my mother took up baking and cooking to keep herself connected to him. When my own mother died in 2012, I did the same. It has since become more than a hobby for me; baking has become my escape, my way to find a connection with my relatives that have passed and my way to express gratitude to those still around me. While most people find giving money to be an acceptable present, I now work with my own hands and create gifts. Cakes, cookies, and pastries have become my one-way ticket to friendships after my mother’s death when I needed them the most, but couldn’t find a way to speak to those I wanted to meet. I never intended to become so addicted to creating sugary confections, but through it I’ve gained the courage I lacked as a child who always needed someone else’s assistance.
“...4...5...6...” I could hear the shout as I sprinted through the house— searching for anywhere, anything to hide in before she reached 10. I took hide-and-seek very seriously, and nothing would stop me from finding the perfect hiding spot this time in a game I so rarely won against my older sister.
My grandparents’ house was familiar to me; my family had been living there for several months while our new house was being built. Some areas were deemed “off limits” because of the dangers they posed to children. The kitchen, my grandfather’s favorite room, was one of them with its sharp knives and hot pans.
“...7...8…” I stole a quick glance around, ensuring there were no adults around
to stop me on my mission. I grabbed the handle to a mystery door inside the kitchen I had seen my mother and grandpa exit from every evening with armfuls of ingredients. Running out of time, my hands felt around in the dark as I attempted to make my way deeper into the pantry until I pushed a mysterious package off the shelf and onto my head. White powder rained down on me and fell like confetti from my hair to the floor. I cried for my parents in the darkness, knowing I would be in trouble for making a mess.
The door slowly opened as my tears began to subside, and I found myself face to face with my grandfather. I braced for the worst. Instead of yelling as I expected, he carefully explained that the white powder I had gotten all over was flour, an integral part of the baking he so enjoyed, and offered to let me watch as he made a pie that night. Grateful that he hadn’t gotten mad and too afraid to admit that I hadn’t actually been interested in watching at the time, I grasped his outstretched hand and began my journey into the culinary world.
I received my first cookbook when I was 8. An original 1950 Betty Crocker Picture Cookbook that my grandfather left to me when he passed. At the time I was far too young to do any cooking by myself, so my mom helped me pick a recipe I could handle without burning the new house down. I’ll admit, she did most of the work herself, but I was proud of my first efforts without the man who taught me when I was younger. As I got older, I took control of more and more aspects, but my mom was always there if I needed help. In 2009, she was diagnosed with cancer and found herself unable to help me with my hobby. Her condition continued to worsen and I remained oblivious even as she began to require oxygen tanks. It was difficult to comprehend, so I threw myself into baking to avoid it. I learned to be independent and confident in myself and my skills without relying on someone who I knew could catch me if I fell.
When my grandfather died in 2004, my mother took up baking and cooking to keep herself connected to him. When my own mother died in 2012, I did the same. It has since become more than a hobby for me; baking has become my escape, my way to find a connection with my relatives that have passed and my way to express gratitude to those still around me. While most people find giving money to be an acceptable present, I now work with my own hands and create gifts. Cakes, cookies, and pastries have become my one-way ticket to friendships after my mother’s death when I needed them the most, but couldn’t find a way to speak to those I wanted to meet. I never intended to become so addicted to creating sugary confections, but through it I’ve gained the courage I lacked as a child who always needed someone else’s assistance.