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Cake Weather

 September 24, 2018     No comments   

                                    Cake Weather

        I only got my Nana’s recipe right once, but that didn’t stop me from trying

The declaration that my grandmother’s coconut cake is “haunted” is the kind of statement that requires immediate expansion before any other words can be got in edgewise. Our corner of Appalachia is rich in superstition, but even among friends it’s not the kind of thing you can just lob into conversation and expect it to be left alone where it lands. Well, it’s the recipe that’s haunted, really, if you want to get specific. No, it’s just the maker of the cake that’s afflicted, not the cake itself, if you want to assuage those glancing nervously at the buffet table. Eat it. It’s fine. I didn’t bleed in it, not literally.

There’s a short version of the story you can tell and have it over with pretty quick, if cornered and compelled, which goes like this: My father’s mother, my Nana, made this cake at Christmas for as long as I can remember and for as long as he can remember before me, this towering confection of coconut and pineapple and fluffy spun meringue, and in the last year of her life she tried to teach the other women in the family how to carry on with it after her time, only none of us could do it, and by “none of us could do it,” I mean “this not-at-all-difficult recipe is absolutely guaranteed to go sideways under anyone else’s control,” sometimes literally sideways, in ways that defy all available skills and science.

This recipe has been haunted since it left her hands. On the afternoon of what would be her last Christmas Eve, Nana half-sat on the couch in my parents’ living room, dispensing explicit instructions to her daughter-in-law through the open kitchen door, and half an hour later one of the layers literally exploded all over the inside of the oven, which shouldn’t have even been chemically possible, but we were all there, we all saw, we all hooted with laughter, only mildly tinged with hysteria, as we scraped the blackened bits into a dustpan.

It was the last time that iteration of my family was all together at the same time. I wasn’t there in February, when Nana died. I had a scholarship to study in Europe that semester, and she wouldn’t be there when I got back, and I knew it and she knew I knew. So a couple weeks after the great Christmas cake explosion, I knelt by her bed and held her knotted hands and kissed her cheeks. When I pulled away, I saw where my own tears had fallen on them. A month after classes started, I got the call.

Our family tree is old but not rich, thick with coal miners and schoolteachers, but Nana gave my father a check for a couple thousand dollars after I boarded my plane and told him to keep me out in the world as long as I could make that money last. When school let out, I did the collegiate thing and bought a rail pass and a light-frame backpack and wrote my first ballet in a window seat on a train speeding through the Black Forest and didn’t come home until after midsummer. When I finally wound my way back to Tennessee, another inheritance was waiting for me: Nana had written the coconut cake recipe for me in her beautiful longhand on a torn-off sheet of spiral notebook paper. I pressed it in a plastic sleeve and put it in my mother’s recipe binder for safekeeping.



It’s not even a difficult recipe is the maddening thing. Any child capable of separating eggs can make a white cake; they’re fiddly but not unreasonable. It’s the frosting that you know going in might be the death of you: The tricky seven-minute method is called for, whipping sugar and corn syrup and egg whites and cream of tartar in a double boiler until it goes fluffy, then glossy, and takes on a consistency of sculptable marshmallow. Any number of things can go wrong here. You can undercook your egg whites and the mixture will collapse and slide off the sides of the cake. You can overbeat the mixture and it will go grainy before it’s even off the stove. You can, and will, lose control of either the hand holding the mixer or the hand holding the pan of boiling water and fling molten sugar at your own face and your mother’s wallpaper. Welder’s gear would not be out of place here.

W
hen my father was young, the Christmas coconut cake was a lavish thing—one can of crushed pineapple and three packets of frozen coconut lending a taste of extravagance to a kitchen table in rural Appalachia. For me at that age, the cake took on a different talismanic cast, representing the kind of winter I’d never seen. There’s almost never snow where I grew up, or none that will stick. But there was what my grandmother called “cake weather,” clear and cold and dry. In cake weather, she’d put the whole thing out on its glass stand on the porch, uncovered, to freeze semisolid overnight, and I’d run out to stand for as long as I could bear the cold and stare over it at the moon, watch the beams play off the tiny frozen coconut flakes, and pretend it was a hilltop covered in drifts big enough to sled on. My white Christmas.

It’s that weather I miss the most in the intervening years of trying to recreate those nights. We don’t get cake weather anymore. Christmas dawns 55 degrees and rainy, sure as snow at the North Pole. There’s something wrong with the earth. The layers come out of the oven flat as pancakes. This recipe is a taproot, and I don’t have that many of them to begin with. The frosting melts overnight and oozes all the way off the cake stand. Our family is small and getting smaller every year, and our holiday traditions shrink as our ranks dwindle, and against that I’ve somehow set my responsibility for dessert as a blow against this creeping sensation that the habitable world is contracting and leaving nothing but scorched hillsides and empty creek beds where it pulls back from the edges, and the cake won’t come out right. It’s worked exactly once, in more than a decade of trying, just enough to keep me chasing it, just enough to know it’s both possible and probably out of my reach, again.

In desperation one year, I dove into the recipe drawer in my mother’s kitchen for the handwritten original, because maybe it had been so long that I’d just forgotten some crucial step. Scanning the page, I realized for the first time, doing some quick math, that it had been written under the influence of palliative medicine. To follow the recipe exactly as Nana had written it would require the equivalent of three boxed cake mixes and would make a cake twice as high as the tallest she ever made. I’m on my own. I can’t make anything be like it was and neither can anybody else is the problem. It’s not a hard line to trace.

A
ll this forms a backdrop to last December, 15 years after Nana’s death, when I find myself rattling around my silent childhood home, coming down with the flu that’s already put both my parents in bed, freshly out of a job and fleeing a disintegrating marriage and thinking about the planet baking itself to death every time I shut my eyes to sleep. I can’t remember the last time it felt like cake weather outside. We’re not even doing Christmas dinner; the extended family are staying clear for fear of our plague germs. But it’s Christmas Eve, and I pull out the cake pans on muscle memory alone, not weighing the significance of it but going through the motions anyway, measuring without conscious thought and sifting while staring out the window over the sink.



And the finished cakes won’t come out of the pans. This particular dessert-based dead end has somehow never happened to me before, but it’s perfectly in line with our tradition of boneheadedly elementary cake debacles; I’d have trusted my five-year-old niece to grease and flour the pans herself, if she were here. It’s pitch-dark outside, but I can hear rain spatter against the windows as I scrape two layers out onto a cutting board, abandon the third entirely, and run upstairs to shower and change for church.

Midnight mass is the only religious tradition I’ve held onto as an adult. The cathedral in downtown Knoxville is slate-floored and freezing and chokingly enthusiastic in its use of incense, and it has the intended effect. I burst out of the red doors to the sidewalk arm in arm with my best friend from college, heady from the smoke and the release from solemnity, both of us trying to cram our shoulders into my evening coat because she left hers in the car, running breathlessly across the street to the parking lot, heels dodging the puddles in the pavement.

It’s well after midnight and getting colder, and somewhere along the way home, I start to confront the notion that this cake wasn’t given to me for me. I think about everything I’m letting it stand for, and instead of brushing it away as ridiculousness, I wonder for the first time if this outsized significance isn’t the point. If I might have been handed the recipe because Nana knew I’d never let it go. If she saw something in me that told her pain would always drive me forward. But that leads me to think about what she would actually do, really truly, if she were here. I almost choke from laughing, because she’d start by asking what, exactly, I thought I was doing, even thinking of trying to whip boiled frosting in this humidity.

Back at the house, I throw an apron over my church dress and arrange the remnants of the first two cake layers on a plate to form some semblance of a circle, flip the third layer out of its pan and notice it has somehow baked at a tilt. Of course it has. I start pulling down boxes of cream cheese and butter and powdered sugar, and by the time everything cold has time to soften, the kitchen is clean and all the lights in the house are out except the electric candles in the windows that my mother burns all night, heedless of fire-safety warnings, all through Advent. I put a blanket over her, asleep in a chair in the next room, and kick off my shoes.

I have a lifelong loathing of cream cheese frosting, but at 2 a.m. on Christmas morning, it makes a respectably edible spackling paste, slathered thickly between the layers, gluing the sponge scraps in place and forming a moat to prevent the crushed pineapple from oozing through the cracks in the cake. I’m pressing frozen flaked coconut — it has to be flaked, not shredded, or it won’t look like snow — up the sides, rubbing it between the palms of both hands so it cascades in little drifts over the top. And it’s done, with those flicks of the wrist; the ritual’s complete, and I’m wiping down the counters and fastening a domed lid over the cake plate to guard against moisture and marauding possums, and I’m trying to get the door to the back porch open with one foot without dropping the whole thing, because wouldn’t that just be a fitting end to this year, and when the door opens I almost drop it anyway as a biting gust of wind blows my hair straight back. I must have frozen for a full minute, framed in the kitchen light, staring out into the dark in disbelief. I swear to you, my jaw fell down.

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Science does not ask “Why?”

 September 08, 2018     No comments   




Science does not ask “Why?”

Because it can only answer “What?” and “How?”

There comes a time for every graduate student pursuing a doctorate in philosophy (PhD) when they must narrow down their research interests and make a commitment to a dissertation topic. Usually, they’ve had a general sense of the field in which they’re working, they’ve read an extraordinary number of research papers and books on their topic (so they understand where the knowledge gaps, or areas of ignorance are to be found) and they’re on the cusp of advancing from student to a more mature status we call a candidate. Maarten van Doorn just published an article that included a few paragraphs about autonomy, and it reminded me that he may be at or near this stage.
There are typically two approaches for formalizing or structuring their research: 1) hypotheses, 2) research questions. They are not mutually exclusive, but most students will either choose one or the other. The hypotheses approach is more popular in engineering (my field) and physical sciences, which lend themselves to experimental falsification. The best hypotheses are conjectures, or guesses, about the relationship between independent and dependent variables. Thus, they are stated in a way that suggests the experiment that might falsify them. (If it can’t be falsified by experimental investigation, it’s not a hypothesis. It’s just a crackpot idea).
Most of the students I work with start with the research question approach, at least at first. Its seems easier or less formal, but the fact is that only the wrong questions come easily. Asking the right question takes practice.
Often, that practice comes in the form of a conversation that sounds something like this:
Student: Thank you for meeting with me today Dr. Seager! I want you to know that I’ve decided on my research question! I’m going to study, “Why is the sky blue?”
Me: That’s wrong.
Student: Wait, what? How can a question be wrong? I thought only answers can be wrong?
Me: Of course questions can be wrong. Your question is wrong.
Student: What’s wrong with it?
Me: As a doctoral student, your job is to use science to create new knowledge, and science is not equipped to answer “Why?” questions.
Student: But that’s exactly what science is supposed to do! Aren’t we trying to explain things as in, A causes B causes C and so that’s why we have C?
Me: No. It is true that science investigates causal chains, like A — >B — >C, but that’s not the answer to a “Why?” question. It’s the answer to a “How?” question. Science does not answer why.
Me (again): For example, suppose that your research question was restated as, “How is the sky blue?” then we could create model of light diffraction and we could show how the atmosphere splits sunlight into different spectral components, with these wavelengths going in this direction and those wavelengths going in that directions and we could say, “Well, the sky is not always blue, but these are the mechanisms that operate on sunlight and the conditions under which the sky is blue, or red, or orange, or green, or gray or black.”

Photo by Lightscape on Unsplash

Student: That’s unsatisfying. I became a PhD student because I wanted to understand why things are the way they are..
Me: Then you will be sorely disappointed by your studies
Me (continuing): Science is very, very good at answering “What?” questions, such as “What are the colors of the sky?”
And science is pretty good at answering the “How?” questions, such as, “How did these colors get here?” but science is unable to answer “Why is there a sky? Why do we have color?” We can describe gravity and thermodynamics and how the atmosphere formed, but we cannot say why it all exists.
Student: But science does explains gravity! And it explains why the planets orbit the sun, and the atmosphere clings to the earth!
Me: No. Science answers like, “What is the universal gravitational constant that predicts the motion of the planets around the sun?” It does not answer, “Why is this the gravitational constant, rather than some other?” or “Why is the speed of light what it is?”
Science only answers “What is the speed of light?” and “How does the speed of light relate to our perception of color?”
It does not tell us why!.
Student: That contradicts everything that I’ve been told in my life up to now!
Me: Congratulations. You’re on your way to completing your studies.
Student: When I was a kid, my parents used to read me the Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling, like “How the Elephant Got its Trunk” and stuff like that. I used to love the stories. But then I discovered that they weren’t true. It was like Santa Claus! My parents had been entertaining me with all these lies! That’s when I knew I wanted to study science, so I could understand the truth of things.
Me: Well, you will have to give up certain childish misconceptions about science to become a scientist. First, Santa Claus is real. Second, Kipling’s stories are a terrific introduction to Darwin’s theory of natural selection. It’s more scientific than you think. Notice that Kipling never wrote a story called, “Why the Tiger has Stripes,” he always titles his stories “How…”?
Student: How can Santa Claus be real?
Me. The evidence is pretty convincing. The theory of Santa Claus predicts presents will appear under a certain type of tree, on a certain hour, at a certain day. And the experimental results are consistent with this theory. There the presents are, under the trees. Moreover, they are marked, “from Santa Claus.” I have millions of data points on this one, and the experiment is replicated with great success every year.
Student: But it’s the parents that put the presents under the tree! Not some obese, bearded old man with flying reindeer!
Me. Then we shall revise our model to accord with the evidence and call the parents, “Santa Claus.” Anybody with a desire to give anonymous gifts can be Santa. You can be Santa, because Santa is a conceptual symbol for generosity — for obtaining the feeling of giving a gift without any expectation of reciprocity. Discard the flying reindeer, but keep the concept and you’ll see that Santa is real, and important to helping us understand human behavior and emotions.
Student: Why do we have this concept called Santa Claus?
Me: I don’t know. I’m a scientist. I don’t answer “Why?” questions. That’s a different profession.
Student: I thought I was making progress, now I’m just confused.
Me: This type of confusion is progress. If you want to answer “Why?” questions, then you need a system of belief. I think it was Feynman who said, “Religion is a culture of faith; science is a culture of doubt.”
Science only moves forward by discovering things that are not true — by falsification.
Industry, business, and most other professions do not concern themselves with what is true or false. They concern themselves with what works.
Science is about discovering falsehoods. Religion is about having faith in the belief that some things are true.
You would do well to confine your dissertation to questions of “What?” and “How?” and leave the “Why?” questions to story-tellers and prophets.
Students: That’s it? Just change my question words?
Me: Getting the question right is the most important thing that a Doctor of Philosophy must be able to to do.
Too often, we underestimate the importance of understanding our question. When you get lost in your search for knowledge, ask yourself, “What question was I trying to answer?” and see if that helps you find your way again.
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In Defense of Feeling Bad

 September 08, 2018     No comments   



In Defense of Feeling Bad

Why the Pursuit of Feeling Good Keeps Us Miserable


People don’t like feeling bad.
Whether it’s a mild twinge of hunger, a throbbing tension headache, or having a limb amputated, feeling bad is something we all prefer to avoid — and quickly, if possible.
Thanks to modern medicine, we’re increasingly able to do just that:
  • Got a headache? Pop some Tylenol.
  • Sinuses flaring up? Try some Allegra.
  • Knee still bothering you? Arthroscopic surgery doesn’t even leave a scar!
Of course, it’s not just that we dislike feeling physically bad. We don’t like feeling bad emotionally either.

Let’s Get Happy!



Every day people walk into my therapy office hoping to feel better emotionally.
They want to be less anxious, less depressed, less angry. They want to be more confident and assertive, more cheerful, and of course, happier. They come looking for coping skills, transformative insights about past traumas, or simply a compassionate sounding board for their stresses and difficulties.
Other folks take medications to ease emotional pain or discomfort: Antidepressants to feel less down, anxiolytics and sedatives to feel less up, and mood stabilizers to feel more, well, stable. The most recent data suggest that 1 in 6 American adults is taking some form of psychiatric medication like the popular antidepressant Prozac or the anxiolytic Xanax.
And it’s not just adults. Increasingly we’re willing pay for and coordinate counseling and therapy services or use medication to try and help our kids feel less bad. Recent figures put the number of American kids on psychiatric medication at over 8 million — over a million of whom are under the age of 6!
Aside from professional mental health services like therapy and pharmacology, our culture is flooded with self-help programs and gurus offering the latest wisdom for “living your best life.” I frequently write self-help style articles myself, describing techniques or tips for feeling better by changing the way we think or trying our new behaviors and implementing new habits.
Clearly, we all want to feel better.
But what if all this trying to feel better is actually not such a great idea? What if — paradoxically — our increasingly strong desire (and ability) to feel good is actually leading us to feel worse?

But I Want it Now!



As humans, one of our biggest weaknesses is the temptation to take the easy way out. Specifically, our decision making often aims at quickly satisfying short-term impulses and desires at the expense of long-term goals and aspirations.
Case in point, my relationship with Apple products:
  • Did I really need a new iPhone this year? Definitely not.
  • Would the money I spent on it be better off in a savings account or investment fund? Absolutely.
  • Did I refrain from buying the new iPhone and save the money instead? Nope.
Short-term desire: 1.
Long-term goals: 0.
Maybe next time, Wignall…
Of course, failing to act according to our long-term best interest isn’t simply a matter of moral failing or poor self-control as our culture so often frames it. In fact, there are good reasons why we’re wired biologically to prioritize short-term pleasure and avoid short-term pain. In a world where simply staying alive was a 24/7 struggle — you know, the one we spent 99% of our history as a species in — this proclivity to only see the short-term timescale may have served us a lot better than it does today.
Civilization has outpaced biology.
Fortunately, many of us today live in an environment where there aren’t many short-term dangers to our survival. As a result, we are free to create and aspire to more lofty long-term goals and aspirations:
  • Living comfortably well into our 80s and 90s
  • Traveling the globe
  • Retiring at 65 and learning to play piano
  • Running marathons for fun
  • Volunteering to help those less fortunate
These are wonderful things. But most of them require being able to see and remain focused on long-term timescales without getting too distracted by the desires and temptations of the short-term:
  • It’s hard to get up before work and train for a marathon if we can’t see past the short-term comfort of our warm beds.
  • Having the resources to live comfortably at 90 probably means giving up some spending at 30.
  • Retiring and traveling at 65 may mean working instead of traveling at 25.
But I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir.
We all know that when it comes to finances, for example , the short-term pain of not spending now is often a small price to pay for the often exponentially greater rewards of saving early and often.
Being willing to endure the discomfort of present saving is a necessary component of achieving future financial success.
What most of us are less aware of is how this process applies to our interior life just as much as our exterior life.

I Can’t Keep Feeling This Way…


Photo by Ian Espinosa

Lauren, a former client of mine, always described herself as an introvert and uncomfortable in groups, especially if she was the center of attention. Lauren was also an executive for a multinational corporation.
Despite her best attempts at keeping her head down and out of the lime light, she was required to give large presentations from time to time. And as you might expect, the thought of giving these presentations made her extremely anxious, often to the point of panic.
She came to see me in therapy because her “Xanax wasn’t working anymore.” In order to “get through” these occasional presentations and keep up appearances as an effortlessly competent leader, she was in the habit of taking Xanax (an anti-anxiety drug) before she gave a presentation. This would give her almost immediate relief from her anxiety and allow her to give the presentation without being “too anxious.”
But over the past few months, the Xanax had become increasingly less effective, to the point where, minutes before her most recent presentation, she had taken a Xanax, it didn’t work, and she called off the whole presentation — much to the disappointment of her colleagues and boss.
She came to therapy desperate for a “technique” or “coping skill” that would — just like her old pal Xanax — immediately remove her anxiety and allow her to make her presentations again without getting too anxious.
I think my response to her request shocked her a little.
When I told her coping skills are the last thing you need, she looked at me with a unsettling mixture of fear and confusion, and politely asked, “Okay, so, what do I need?”
More anxiety, I replied.

More Anxiety, Please!



As I’ve written about before, anxiety disorders develop when we train our brain to be afraid of anxiety itself. And the best way to train our brain to be afraid of something is to habitually run away from it or try to eliminate or “fix” it. Both of these strategies reinforce our fear center’s incorrect appraisal that anxiety is not only uncomfortable but a genuine danger and threat.
In Lauren’s case, she had spent decades teaching her brain that feeling anxietybefore a presentation was dangerous, both to her career (she might botch the presentation) and physically (she might feint and get a concussion). Every time she started to feel nervous before speaking in front of a crowd, she eliminated the problem (or ran away from it, depending on how you look at it) by taking a Xanax.
The trouble with this strategy is that while it lead to the short-term benefit of feeling less anxious, it came at the long-term cost of training her brain to view her own anxiety as dangerous. Consequently, the next time she found herself in an anxiety-inducing situation, her brain’s fear center lit up like a Christmas tree and made her feel even more anxious.
This created a viscious cycle of ever-increasing anxiety about anxiety.
Lauren was forced to come to therapy because she had trained her brain so well that even a drug as powerful as Xanax was becoming powerless to resist her brain’s fear of her own anxiety response. Since the Xanax wasn’t working anymore, she came to me looking for a “psychological tool” that would serve the same function of making her anxiety go away.
At this point, the problem for Lauren was that any sort of coping skill she might learn — deep breathing, positive visualization, affirmations, cognitive restructuring — would be interpreted by her brain as just another attempt to get rid of her anxiety, thus reinforcing the belief that anxiety was dangerous causing even more anxiety.
Any attempt at feeling less bad was going to end up creating more long-term anxiety and feeling more bad.
Over the course of several months, instead of giving her coping skills or relaxation techniques, I instead worked with Lauren to get our of her feeling good mindset and encouraged her to adopt a willingness to feel bad mindset.
If we wanted to reduce her anxiety in the long-run, she had to re-train her brain to believe that anxiety, while uncomfortable, wasn’t actually dangerous. And the only way to do this was for her to be okay with feeling anxiety and not run away from it or try and eliminate it.
To feel good, Lauren had to be willing to feel bad.
And sure enough, through a combination of exposure and response prevention and mindfulness, Lauren made substantial and relatively quick progress on her long-term goal of having less anxiety by being more willing in the short-term to experience the discomfort of anxiety without looking at it as a dangerous threat and trying to get rid of it.
Lauren never refilled her Xanax prescription and even started giving more presentations, often at large conferences and meetings.

The Willingness to Feel Bad



The lesson Lauren’s story hopefully illustrates is that if we’re unwilling to feel bad in the short-term, we often end up feeling even more bad in the long-term because we teach our brain to fear our own emotions.
This process, then, isn’t limited to just anxiety:
  • In the face of significant loss, such as the death of a loved one, some people have the tendency to isolate themselves in order to avoid the pain of having to recount and reflect on what happened. The avoidance of sadness in the short-term is often a key driver of depression in the long-term.
  • Couples often avoid difficult conversations about their relationship for fear of “rocking the boat” or causing each other to feel badly. This avoidance of conflict in the short-term often leads to major resentment and anger in relationships in the long-term.
  • Folks who have trouble falling asleep often take sedatives or hypnotics like Ambien to help then fall asleep quickly and easily. Aside from the lesson it teaches the brain (i.e. to fear sleep), Ambien often interferes with both the quality and overall duration of sleep, in addition to sometimes scary side effects it can have.
Of course, we don’t want to feel bad unthinkingly. Sometimes when something feels bad it’s a sign that it really is bad or dangerous. The burning sensation on our hand when we rest it on a stove top is an important signal for true danger or threat.
But feeling bad doesn’t always mean something is dangerous.
We want our brains to stay sensitive to genuine threats and danger but also to be able to distinguish between a true danger and something that appears to be or feels like a danger (e.g. all “negative” emotions). And the only way to calibrate our brains for this distinction is to be mindful of how we respond to things that make us feel bad and be willing to feel them anyway.
Because if we’re unwilling to experience emotional pain—constantly trying to manage and control how we feel—we’re teaching our brain to fear any and every uncomfortable emotion.
And that’s a dangerous lesson.
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