Unread Contracts

From James McGregor’s fascinating One Billion Customers (2005):

The Chinese were befuddled and worried by the five-hundred-page contract that McDonnell Douglas lawyers drafted to seal the $1 million deal. The Shanghai director looked forlornly at Chang [a McDonnell Douglas employee] as he signed it. “I am signing this because I trust you,” he said.

Yeah. I read this the day after I signed a five-page employment contract with Tsinghua University — the hard part was coming up with a Chinese name — that I couldn’t read a word of. I signed it because I trusted them.

Who Steals Bikes?

At Tsinghua University, students are said to spend more on bike locks than on bikes. A friend of mine, a senior, is on her fourth bike. I met a faculty member who went to get her bike just as it was being stolen. She saw how it was done: The thief had a large number of keys. She shouted at the thief to stop, a crowd gathered, and he gave the bike back. Later she encountered him while buying pork: He was the butcher.

Beijing Traffic (more)

Today I went to a special building, only a 10-minute drive from my office, to get a physical exam needed for a special visa. The administrative assistant of the Psychology Department accompanied me. We set off about 8 am. He mentioned a vision exam so I went back to my apartment to get another contact lens. (I wear just one, so that I have good vision both near and far.) Then we tried to get a taxi. We found one but, stuck in traffic, it went nowhere. After 10 minutes or so, we got out. We decided to go in the administrative assistant’s car (he prefered to take a taxi because he didn’t know where the building was.) It’s now 9:10 am. We set off. We reach the building around 9:20. Oops — I forgot my passport. We get a taxi to take us back to campus so I can get it. The driver tries to cheat us by taking a long route. On the way back — on a reasonable route — we get stuck in traffic again. We get out of the taxi. We’d like to go back to the exam building, pick up the administrative assistant’s car, and take a different route back, but that would require crossing six lanes of busy highway to get a taxi going in the right direction. That’s too scary so eventually we get a taxi that goes back to campus via another route. Now it’s too late to do the exam. We’ll try again early tomorrow. For some reason — exhaust fumes? too much sitting in a car? — my head hurts.

More What a difference a day makes. I went back the next morning and there were no problems at all. We found a taxi easily, the trip was fast and smooth, the exam didn’t take long, and the trip back was fast and smooth. We passed a man trying to start his car in the middle of a big street.

Tsinghua versus Reed

Let’s say I’m a record producer. A 20-year-old tells me he wants to be a record producer, and I say, okay, I’ll teach you. Do I write a syllabus? Set up class meetings? Give lectures, homework assignments, tests, grades? Of course not. None of that. Not necessary. I just say: Hang out with me. And he does, and both of us benefit. He learns what a record producer does, I have someone to whom I can pontificate (one of the pleasures of blogging) and who will do menial tasks. And having an assistant makes me look and perhaps even feel more important. The same thing could be done with almost any job. That’s real teaching. It’s as natural and easy as breathing or eating.

Contrast this with (a) undergraduate teaching in any American research university, such as Berkeley and (b) the situation described in an email to alumni I got today from Colin Diver, the President of Reed College. President Diver taught a seminar at Reed and described his experiences. Does he say the students were “fun to teach” as a Tsinghua University professor told me? Not at all. Quite the opposite. His main observations:

Courses at Reed must be very carefully planned. . . . Leading a successful Reed conference [= seminar] takes considerable finesse. . . . Tamara [his co-teacher] and I spent hours planning and debriefing [= discussing afterwards] classes. . . As an instructor, you can never be too well prepared. . . Both student enthusiasm and modern information technology conspire to extend the class hour virtually around the clock. . . . Teaching at Reed means giving (and getting!) lots of feedback. . Teaching at Reed is both exhausting and exhilarating! [Details of exhilaration not given.]

This is a fund-raising letter! A friend of mine got a teaching job at Reed and quit to take a lower-status job because the teaching was exhausting, as President Diver so clearly explains. But, as I said about Berkeley faculty, President Diver has been in darkness so long he can no longer see light — in this case, he cannot see how unpleasant he makes teaching sound, at least for the professor. He fails to grasp he is describing sickness not health.

President Diver seems to have faintly discerned that there might be something wrong with the picture he had painted so he added:

Despite the long hours and hard work, the experience of teaching helped me understand why faculty find the experience of teaching at Reed so satisfying. . . .Nathalia King, professor of English and humanities, once said to me: “When you put teachers who genuinely love to teach together with students who genuinely want to learn, magic happens.”

Magic, huh? Black or white? The end of Diver’s letter is all about a new program that will allow Reed professors to teach less. “The new program will, to be sure, slightly reduce the amount of time faculty spend in the classroom over their careers.” Actions speak louder than words.

Advances in the Shangri-La Diet

A friend writes:

[My girlfriend, who is 5′ 5″ and started the diet at 174 pounds] has lost 12 pounds [over 2 months], no longer feels constantly hungry since starting the diet. We’ve been putting the flaxseed oil on toasted sourdough rolls (from Trader Joe’s) because the oil doesn’t seep through as easily. I like the way flaxseed oil tastes on toast but in this circumstance we’re nose-clipping so we don’t taste it. The toast makes us feel less queasy afterwards than taking the oil straight. We do two tablespoons/day instead of three because we’re including the calories in the toast which we also don’t taste.  The TJ’s honey whole wheat bread is denser and holds the oil a little better than the sourdough stuff she likes. Either way there’s usually oil left on the plate that  came through the holes in the bread. I said, since you can’t taste it why not use the whole wheat? The texture, she says, but I think it’s really because her mother made her eat whole wheat bread growing up which she never liked and still doesn’t even though under these circumstances she can’t taste it. Bad associations, maybe? Good old Pavlov, it’s like he’s still around. The effect on my back pain [it made his back pain go away] has become even more noticeable. If I skip the oil for a couple of days I start feeling it again. [emphasis added]. I haven’t been consistent enough with it to lose weight, and now that [my girlfriend] has gotten a little skinnier she’s starting to make comments to me about how I might want to lose a few pounds.

I have tried flaxseed oil on toast, eaten nose-clipped, and it is my favorite way to consume the flaxseed oil. It tastes like hot buttered toast. It’s not so easy here in China where I don’t have a toaster. You can’t do it with untoasted bread — the water repells the oil, so it doesn’t soak in.

Interview with William Rubel, Food Historian (part 1)

My friend William Rubel is writing a history of bread. I’m sure it will be fascinating, so I interviewed him about it.

ROBERTS Can you give the background of your book, the book you’re writing now? What led you to write it? Why did you want to write about the history of bread?

RUBEL I’ve been interested in bread since I was a child. I started making bread when I was eleven from the American Heritage cookbook. I made Anadama bread.

ROBERTS What kind of bread?

RUBEL It’s called Anadama. In the headnote it uses the word ‘damn,’ and that wasn’t a word used around my house so I was very excited to see it in print so I could show it to my mother, as I recall. It’s a molasses cornbread. And probably with an inaccurate culinary . . . the history in the headnote is probably not accurate. But that’s a different story.

I’ve always been interested in bread and I have for a long time been surprised at how difficult people seem to think making bread is. Long before I started this book, in conversations with people they’d say, ‘Oh but making bread is very hard.’ And I’ve always found it to be rather easy. I’ve always found bread to be a natural process that is pretty difficult to fail at.

One of my primary interests in researching the history of bread is to find stories about bread that will inspire bakers but also to find older ways or different ways of writing bread recipes so that bakers will feel empowered. I think that the modern recipe format, and this might be not quite on topic, but you can cut it to someplace else, the modern, particularly American recipe format with its specificity of measurement and technique, I think actually undermines the baker’s confidence, the cook’s confidence, rather than builds it. Right now particularly with bread recipes, the recipes are becoming increasingly specific so that a brioche recipe might run for ten pages and does in one of the cookbooks on my shelf. I think that you are in a vicious circle where more specificity breeds more tension and undermines confidence and actually reduces the number of people who are willing to just sit down and put together a bread.

ROBERTS I think that’s a great point.

RUBEL With the exception of pastries, which are chemical recipes that require precise ratios for a very, very specific effect. You can’t make a puff pastry if the percentage of butter is wrong, and there is a right and wrong for making something like the puff pastry. But for most recipes, and certainly for bread, there isn’t really a right and wrong. One thing that I’m learning, but it was also something I was looking for in historic text, is that there really isn’t, there’s rarely a single definition or a single recipe for a bread. For example, if we take modern breads, like the baguette, modern cookbooks offer a recipe titled ‘Baguette’ and then there is a recipe–a very specific recipe–for that bread. But if you go to Paris, which is indisputably the home of the baguette, and if you buy a baguette at every bakery you pass for a period of hours . . .

ROBERTS How many baguettes are we talking about?

RUBEL Well, it depends how fast you walk and it does depend what district you’re in, but you could certainly collect 20 or 30 baguettes in a couple of hours. You’re going to find that they are all long, skinny breads, and they all have diagonal slash marks along the top–that opens them up. But past that, it’s also clear that there isn’t one recipe. Some will be very fluffy inside with an even crumb and very white. Some are going to be cream-colored inside with large, irregular crumbs. Some are chewy, some are not. Some are made with whole wheat or certainly flours that are not all white. Some are made with yeast, some are made with leaven–with sourdough. There’s just every combination–many different recipes. I think you’re going to find that all wheat bread–and that’s really the definition of a baguette–something simple like a wheat bread that weighs approximately 450 grams and is long and skinny and has diagonal slash marks on the top.

By going back into history, I tried to find inspiration and confidence; stories for cooks that will help them understand that they can be more relaxed when they approach a bread and that there isn’t necessarily one answer.

But maybe more generally, and to answer that question more directly, I discovered in my book, The Magic of Fire, which is a book on hearth cooking, that cooks went from cooking in the fireplace, more or less in the blink of an eye–all at once–to cooking on iron stoves and then these gas and electric ranges. And nobody had written down, no cook wrote down, what it was like to cook in the fireplace. There was no manual. But all of our recipes are derived from hearth cooking.

When I took the recipes back to the hearth then I found that there was often potential for flavor and texture, in particular, that were implicit in the recipe once you got it to the fireplace. They were implicit in the recipe but unrealized until it was brought back to the fireplace.

ROBERTS By implicit in the recipe, you mean those ingredients could produce a much better result than they usually got?

RUBEL Take a lasagna. You layer the boiled big pieces of pasta down with some ingredients and maybe you put cheese on top. And then you put it in a pan in the over and you bake it. Originally it was not baked in the oven like that, it would have been originally baked in a Dutch oven, what we call a Dutch oven: a pot that you can put a lid on and you can put embers on the lid as well as embers underneath the put. Or it was baked in the bread oven.

Now if we take the hearth cooking situation, which would have been the most common, because most people did not have ovens at home, you have straight, independently controlled heat sources. You can heat the Dutch oven just from the sides closest to the fire, from the side heat. You can heat it from embers underneath and you can heat it by embers on the top. So you might have your lasagna well cooked–heated all the way through–but you want to brown the top. At that point you can throw embers onto the top and brown it. You can take away all the other heat sources and just focus on that top. You might like to have crust on the bottom and the sides, so you would also have control of the heat source just to do that, whereas in an oven, everything’s a steady 350 degrees, top and bottom.

ROBERTS I see. Now I understand.

Beijing Traffic

This morning (Sunday), two friends and I wanted to go see the leaves change on some maple trees in a famous place. We went to the bus stop. The first three buses were utterly, totally packed — I have never seen buses so packed.

So we decided to take a taxi. The taxi couldn’t go there — congestion was so bad that only buses, using special lanes, could get through.

We went back to the buses. Three or four more buses were utterly totally packed. We decided to go another time.

In the time we spent waiting for the buses we could have almost walked there; it’s only about 5 miles away. Maybe next time we will bike there.

Cold Jokes

A cold joke is a sort of nonsensical joke that is funny because it’s not funny, sort of like the New Yorker Anti-Cartoon Caption Contest. Two examples:

1. A piece of bread was walking down the street. It got hungry, so it ate itself.

2. Hanging in the hallway at Whites High School in Wabash, Indiana, are basketball team photos. In the center of the front row in each picture someone holds a basketball identifying the year: “62-63″, “63-64″, “64-65″, etc. One day I saw a freshman looking at the photos. Turning to me, he said,”Isn’t it strange how the teams always lost by one point?”

Tsinghua versus Berkeley

UC Berkeley is far better known than Tsinghua University, the best university in China. Of course, Berkeley’s prestige rests on research and graduate teaching. At the undergraduate level things are quite different. Tsinghua probably has the smartest undergraduates in the world (1 in 10,000 students who take a national test get in); Berkeley isn’t close.

At Tsinghua, every department is assigned a quota of undergraduate majors (e.g., 100) that is the maximum number of undergraduates in that major. The departments fight over this number: Every department wants to increase it. I use italics because the situation at Berkeley (and probably every other American research university) is the opposite: Everyone fights to do as little undergraduate teaching as possible.

I learned these facts from a visiting professor at Tsinghua. Why is the situation so different at Tsinghua than in America? “They’re fun to teach,” he said, meaning the undergraduates. “No one ever says that at Berkeley,” I said. Later I learned he was a visiting professor from Berkeley. Implicit in his comment was that both of us knew that the Berkeley undergraduates are not fun to teach.

That little comment — “They’re fun to teach,” which was said a bit ruefully, acknowledging that Berkeley, where he spends most of his time, was much different — expresses in a nutshell what’s wrong with all American higher education. Berkeley undergraduates would be fun for someone to teach. I liked many of them. They have many good qualities. But very few of them want to be professors; nor do their talents usually lie in that direction. Forcing them to be taught by people (professors) who really only know something (how to be professors) that their students don’t want to learn, and forcing Berkeley professors to teach students who don’t want to learn the only thing they really know, is just a recipe for unpleasantness and low-level misery on both sides (professor and student). That’s exactly what professors and students feel most of the time.

Just as drug companies hide the side effects of their drugs, both professors and students hide the side effects of this life-wasting situation. At Berkeley, few non-professors know the vast array of deals that are struck to reduce one’s undergraduate teaching. In Psychology, there has been long-lasting resentment that you can’t use grant money to buy your way out of teaching. Students hide how much cheating goes on. A Penn student told me: No student project at Penn is completely honest. At Berkeley, surveys have revealed high amounts of cheating. Few outsiders know the low level of lecture attendance at Berkeley.

A better system would be one that helped Berkeley undergraduates — not to mention the students at every other American college — be in contact with people who would enjoy teaching them. (And in that situation, I’m sure their many non-academic talents, which professors usually didn’t notice, would shine.) Simple as that. The current system hinders that contact. Columbia University has taken a step in the right direction by having no classes on Friday, making it easier for students to do internships. When I taught a class that helped Berkeley undergraduates learn what they wanted to learn, my colleagues complained. According to them, my students weren’t learning proper psychology. It’s true, they weren’t. My students were learning what they themselves wanted to learn instead of what some professors thought they should learn. My approach was about a thousand times more effective in producing learning but my colleagues had lived in darkness so long they could no longer see light.

My Chinese Cell Phone

my chinese cell phone

…looks a lot like this one. The China/America comparisons are all in one direction:

1. The Chinese plan is prepaid; the American plan is not. The slight inconvenience of having to recharge one’s phone every now and then is far outweighed by a much lower price. The plans can’t be directly compared but I pay about $50/month in America and about $10/month in China. I pay $15/month to keep my American number while I’m in China!
2. No voice mailbox in China. I don’t miss it. You send a text message instead. I got about one text message/month in America (at 15 cents each); I get about 6/day in China (at 1.5 cents each).

3. My Chinese phone cost about $40. My American phone came as a Free New Phone Every 2 Years thing but retailed for about $200.

4. My American phone had so many features I never used, including a camera, I had great trouble finding a feature I now use all the time on my Chinese phone: a day planner.

5. Verizon, my American service provider, had/has excellent customer service but the girl who sold me my China Mobile phone plan gives me free weekly Chinese lessons. During working hours.