Yep, I am vindicated. My parents insisted that I apply to Yale and, as always, I was right, they were wrong. Here's my 250:
My grandmother always bought two loaves of kosher rye; she hid one on top of her refrigerator and let me eat the other. I imagined that her loaf was magical or somehow special, but she insisted that I would not like it, I should stop complaining, and please, will you eat your chicken soup?
When I entered the world of double digits at the ripe age of ten, my grandmother began telling me her secrets. She had a brother who died in the pogroms in Russia. My father spent thirty days in a juvenile diagnostic center because he stole a glass of milk when he was nine. “Can I have a piece of your bread?” I asked. She told me I would not like it, I should stop pestering her, and why have I not eaten the fresh kosher rye that she brought all the way from the market that morning?
My grandmother started going senile when I was 13. She started telling me things about her struggles in Russia and in America as a Jew, a woman, a human being. She told me that her loaf of bread was stale and that she spent so many years eating moldy bread out of necessity that she could only eat the tough, chewy loaf. She was right; I would not have liked it, I wasted too much time pestering her and now that she is gone I would give anything for a bowl of her chicken soup.