People like to say that college is the best time of your life. Four years ago, as I lay in bed after the first day of NSO, listening to the quiet snores of my super awesome roommate while reliving the craziness of that first day in my head, I knew there was no way that Stanford wouldn’t end up being the best time of my life.
Last summer, I was browsing the incredible cheese section of Milk Pail Market, that wonderful little market, when I was interrupted by a man with a faint European accent. “Do you eat cheese?”
Two years ago, a friend and I made a documentary for a film class about multiracial students and their experiences at Stanford. One, who was half Chinese, mentioned in her interview how she had never felt attracted to the Asian-American community at Stanford, saying, “I feel like at times they do become very stereotyped, just to be very honest. They become about getting boba, or about eating Asian food, or about other things like that, which to me are cultural elements, but that’s not what it’s really about.”
I’ve run into these sort of exchanges many a time, when people who’ve vaguely heard of Stanford’s reputation assume that it’s an Ivy League school, and every time, I just sort of smile and nod along. Unless it was said by a friend who’s just left themselves open for a good ball-busting, I tend not to go out of my way to correct the mistake, since a) I’ve always thought correcting a minor mistake like that to be sort of douchey and b) given the Ivies’ reps, it’s not like it’s an insult to be lumped in with them.
Until this year, Admit Weekends always unsettled me. Don’t get me wrong, I always wanted the ProFros (Prospective Frosh) to like their Admit Weekend as much as I had so that they would choose the best school in the country, but there was something that always got to me, just a little.
Before this year, I wasn’t a huge fan of chips. I mean, they were good, but they weren’t something I went out of my way for, and I never had them around. When I moved into my house this year, I was able to ignore the bags of chips stocked in our open kitchen for a while. But as the year went on, the constant supply of chips kept tempting me, and I’d sneak a Barbecue Pop Chip here, a Hawaiian Maui Sweet Onion Chip there. Now, every time I go down to get a drink of water, I can’t help myself from taking one or two of those addictive Tapatío Fritos, maybe following up with a Nancy’s Pita Chip.
A couple of nights ago, I bounced into the kitchen to make a Bagel Bite when I walked in on a couple of friends crisping up Dino Nuggets in the panini press. As we waited for our Bagel Bite and Dino Nuggets to get hot and crispy, we started shooting the shit, and somehow the subject of nursery rhymes and other songs from childhood came up.
Mix all that good stuff together, add a mess of chopped basil and thyme and baby, you got a ratatouille goin’!
Some of you have probably seen that photo of a thick, python-like, Pepto Bismol-tinted coil of mechanically separated meat being scraped off into a cardboard box. It’s some freaky stuff, and when I first saw it, attached to the title “Pre-Chicken Nugget Meat Paste, a.k.a. Mechanically Separated Poultry,” any cravings I had for Chicken McNuggets disappeared. Understandably.
Like many other students, I spent this past week travelling with friends. But instead of going on a cruise or relaxing in some other warm, sunny region of the world, we ended up in Greece. A cold, windy, closed-for-off-season Greece. Not quite what we had envisioned when we made the impulse decision to buy tickets after watching a certain movie with Meryl Streep singing and dancing on Greek islands.
Before last Sunday's Oscars, I was super excited to see how Palo Alto native James Franco would do as co-host. Sure, Ricky Gervais at the Golden Globes was probably the funniest/most painful hosting experience there’ll ever be, depending on how you saw it, but I had a feeling that James Franco’s turn might end up being even weirder.
Two days ago, I was leaving a grocery store with a bag of candy, and much to my delight, there were two little Girl Scouts sitting behind a small plastic table set up in front of the store covered with boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Despite the fact that I was already holding a bag full of sugar, I just had to get a box of cookies. It’s all for a good cause.
When I saw a piece in The Guardian on the similarities between foodie-ism and indie rock, I did a double-take -- somehow they’d stolen my idea! Well…I guess it’s not actually that hard to see the parallels.
As a SymSys student focusing in Natural Language, from the minute I first heard about Watson, I was wildly excited by what it meant that IBM had built a question-answering machine sophisticated enough to play Jeopardy and be competitive with the best contestants. We’ve been talking a lot about Watson in my natural language processing class this quarter, and even though I still know very little about the field, I know enough to be amazed at what IBM’s been able to do so far.
Freshman year, I had my first cavity. For 20 years, my robust teeth had beaten off all attackers, bolstered by those yearly fluoride treatments that were always the worst experiences of my year (with all those flavors, it’s incomprehensible how none of them managed to be tolerable). I have no idea why it took me so long to get my first cavity, or why I got one here despite my dental hygiene habits being even better than when I was a kid, but it could be because of all the candy.
If you ever go out for a meal with me, a bit of fair warning: you might want to bring something to do for the first 10 minutes of the meal. Like a crossword puzzle. Or homework. From the minute that I get a menu to when the waiter comes by to take the order, I can be a pretty terrible dining companion, poring over the menu like I’m studying for a midterm.
Given my extreme distaste for strawberries, you can probably imagine how bewildered I was when I first heard about Strawberry Girl