The Apartment in Korea

Stumbling over an entryway step, I fumed and stomped into my grandmother’s living room. I scanned over it, eyes widening. The room was cramped and hot as an oven. The single air unit in the corner sighed feebly. “Two weeks and we’re out of here,” I told myself, swiping my forehead. But despite my first misgivings, the two weeks in Korea flew by. Before rolling my suitcase out, I went through my grandmother’s apartment touching her cherry-patterned lampshade, bouquets of musty roses, and the napkins from the shaved ice shop, trying to burn the memory of the apartment in my fingertips. – Elizabeth Koo

Riding Crashing Waves

The salty breeze brushed my sunburnt skin as I sunk into the warm sand, my heart racing with anticipation. I could hear the waves crashing alongside beachgoers’ conversations. I tapped my fingers against the smooth wax on my board and felt the sun’s rays wrapping around me like a blanket. The cool Pacific water engulfed me as I paddled away, a refreshing contrast to the heat shining down. When I finally caught my first wave, an exhilarating rush came over me. I felt like I was floating, gliding across the ocean as it wrapped around me, both scary and amazing. – Courtney Brenner

Stuck Between the Sheets

I stirred awake, wrapped in the soft, silky sheets of my bed. The air was cool against my skin, just the way I like. My vision was blurred as I opened my eyes to see the sun casting shapes and patterns on the wall. The smell of bacon wafted through the room, causing my stomach to growl. The air vent, hidden in the wall, rustled to remind me of the day that lies ahead. I longed for water from the glass on the bedside table, but I lay there, completely still, in the comfort of the cotton covering my bed.                    – KatieReese McCartney

Not Wasting a Single Crumb

A mixture of pastry and love fills my nostrils as I step out of my bedroom and peer at the top of the stairs. I descend the stairs quickly, eager to stuff my face with my favorite food my grandmother makes. I skip to the kitchen and peer over the high wooden countertop in order to see its lower brown- and black-marbled level. There lies an elevated silver baking rack, lined with bran muffin after bran muffin. I grab a muffin quickly, and its bumpy muffin-top edges graze my fingertips as I shove half the muffin into my mouth with my left hand acting like a vacuum, catching the spare crumbs.    – Kinley McCartney

‘This is Texas’s heartbeat’

My hands clap in excitement, as I join the loud cheers at the University of Texas football game. The air is thick with the irresistible smell of popcorn from nearby stands. I look out at the 100-yard football field: the Longhorns are ready for action, their burnt orange uniforms move in a blur. The roar of the crowd surrounds me like a wave of energy sending deep shivers down my back. The juicy taste of a hamburger and the salt from popcorn fill my mouth when I take a bite, creating a perfect symphony of flavors. This is Texas’s heartbeat. – Harris Saunders

Cooking Sri Lankan Food

Standing in front of the red stove, a glass pot lid in my hand, I smelled the turmeric radiating off of the chicken curry. The curry was a murky brown and looked as if bones were floating in a stew like a witches brew. I began to use my black silicone spatula to mix the curry around, eliciting even more smoke to appear. I felt my knees ache, my feet shiver, and my face sweat from cooking for two hours. Sri Lankan cooking is not easy and is a long multi-hour process, which is not very convenient for a 15-year-old, coughing and swatting my right arm, feeling the heat of the smoke rise into the air. As a teenager, I realized that I will leave for college soon. I knew that I needed to learn how to cook for myself. I wanted to learn how to cook Sri Lankan food.                              – Alexia Hoffman

The Art of Performance 

My heart pounds in my chest as the music of the orchestra echoes throughout the theater. I count to 8 over and over again in my head waiting for my moment to appear. I feel the rough velvet of my gloves as bobby pins hold my mask tight to my head, and the smell of hairspray drifts throughout the backstage. My moment comes and I am blinded by stage lights. As my eyes clear, I see blank faces of the audience staring back at me though I am not able to make anything out. A rush of anxiety washes over me, but I let the music take control, and I start to dance. Suddenly, it’s as if I am alone on stage, just me and the music, dancing my heart out, and falling in love with the art of performance. – Georgia Holton

Pumpkin Means Fall

As I opened the can of pumpkin puree, a rich, earthy scent filled the kitchen, wrapping around me and my friend, Kate, like a warm hug. The sunlight danced on the countertop as we mixed flour and various different spices, while laughter bubbled like the boiling water where our bagels would soon float. Kneading the dough felt comforting, its softness and vibrant orange color drew my attention. The oven timer chimed, releasing a sweet cinnamon and earthy pumpkin flavor aroma that made my mouth water. As I savored that first bite, I couldn’t help but smile at the whimsical pumpkin-shaped bagels, their golden brown crusts with the sprinkle of cinnamon on top was perfection, embodying the spirit of fall. – Olivia Utterback

Pies Carry Memories

The moment I stepped into the cozy bakery, the cloying aroma of cinnamon and melted butter wrapped around me. Behind the counter, the baker, whose face was wrinkled with wisdom, floated through the kitchen. Upon spotting me, he paused his kneading of a thick dough and dusted flour from his hands. With a wide smile, he placed a neatly wrapped pumpkin pie on the table and stored my twenty dollar bill into the register.  As steam began to fog up the clear plastic wrap, the crisp smell of brown sugar and pumpkin flooded my senses, and I was reminded of the Thanksgivings I had as a child. My mom would puree pumpkin and create an elaborate and perfectly made pie for our extended family. When I tried my first bite of the pie later that night, I was reminded of how small traditions like pies are memories to carry forward. – Ellie Mehta