I was freaking out about my last history assignment. It was due in three days, and I hadn't even started. I went to the campus food court, slumped in my chair, and ordered the saddest French fries ever.
While I was staring at my blank notebook, a very old, very wise-looking professor, the kind who smelled faintly of dry paper and tweed, sat down at the next table. He was struggling to open a tiny ketchup packet. Seriously, it was a battle.
Finally, he looked up, caught my anxious eye, and sighed. "Student," he said, his voice a low rumble, "Do you know the secret to an A+?"
I leaned in, thinking I was about to hear some profound wisdom about primary sources or thesis statements. "No, sir! Please tell me!"
He held up the stubbornly sealed ketchup packet. "The secret is simple: Give them what they want, even if they don't know they want it. I want this ketchup on my fries. I need it, but I can't open it. The person who designed this packet failed to anticipate my simple need."
Then he tapped my blank notebook. "Your professor assigned the topic. You know the rules. But what's the 'ketchup'? What little detail, what weird footnote, what crazy extra thing makes them go, 'Ah, yes! This student anticipated my craving for academic excellence!
I ended up adding a bizarre, barely related historical anecdote to my conclusion that made the whole paper stand out. Got my A+. It turns out, professors just need their academic ketchup.