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ESSAY

It was five o’clock in the morning, and an intruder was in my home. His vile gurgling sounds had crawled into my room and slinked under my covers, and his deafening beeps had yanked me from sleep. I now lay frozen, listening intently for any other noises—footsteps, perhaps? The screams of my family members?—but the house fell silent.

Slowly, I slid out of bed and tiptoed into the dark hallway. The intruder was definitely near—his distinct, woody odor had infiltrated the air. And with each timid step toward the kitchen, upon reaching the door, I could hardly breathe. Ever so slowly, I pushed it open and scanned the room. There, gloating next to the fridge, sat “Mr. Coffee.”

Twenty-four hours earlier, this machine was not here. Twenty-four hours earlier, I had risen from my sleep and ambled into the kitchen to brew a cup of joe not from a coffee maker, but from my family’s old French press. It was a routine that jump-started every morning: grinding the oh-so-slightly toasted beans into an aromatic dust, blanketing the bottom of the glass vessel, listening to the kettle whistle on the stove, and then submerging the roast to create a bold espresso. After I filled a steaming mug, I’d be energized for the day—infused with caffeine and enthused with the artistic process.

But the press was now missing; its home invaded by this new contraption. Just as my eyes narrowed with suspicion, my yawning father meandered into the room.

“Hey… what is this?” I gestured to Mr. Coffee.

“Ah, yes!” he chimed, “That’s our new coffee maker!”

“Oh.”

My feeling of betrayal must have been palpable, because he raised his eyebrows sharply. “Is something wrong? Margot, come on—this is much more convenient than the old press.”

The machine agreed with him; blinking its bright lights and humming haughtily. Then, as if to prove that it was indeed the most efficient appliance ever created, it once again began to pump out an endless flood of muddy liquid.

I deliberated. My father was right, of course—the French press was unarguably time consuming and cumbersome, especially at 5:00 AM—but it was tangible. It was real. Crafting coffee in the morning afforded me a sense of pride and artistry that always inspired the rest of my day. Every cup was a learning experience—fixing the flavors, tweaking the temperatures—but it was only now, after the press had been replaced, that I realized how much I truly appreciated it.

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Our French Press is now long gone, but its memory is a constant reminder to apply meaningful effort and a creative touch to all of my endeavors. Whether doing research, coaching a swim practice, or simply playing Scrabble with my family, I invest myself completely. Yes, I may work a little slower, I might go over the top sometimes. But I don’t want to live in a world where the familiar and cherished act of making coffee is replaced by the perfunctory push of a button.

___

REVIEW

The introduction of Margot’s essay sets the stage for what promises to be a frightening account of a home invasion. In the opening paragraph, Margot has effectively conveyed a sense of fear without directly using words such as scared or frightened. She immerses the audience in a story by using sensory descriptions allowing them to fully engage with the narrative and imagine details for themselves.

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Through the story of a coffee machine we learn of Margot’s appreciation for fine details and methodical thinking process. The replacement of her French press with an automatic coffee machine is as scary to her as a home invasion because it represents the loss of an artistic practice which is an intrinsic part of her morning routine. More broadly, it can be taken to mean the loss of culture or craftsmanship as she generalizes this example to the rest of the world. Margot’s appreciation of something so ordinary demonstrates a level of personal depth which cannot come across on a résumé.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

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