‘Shift' Review: Riding the Ocean of Emotion
Mr. Kross is a psychologist who directs the Emotion and Self Control Laboratory at the University of Michigan. He returns to his grandmother's story throughout 'Shift: Managing Your Emotions—So They Don't Manage You,' his lucid guide to emotion regulation. His grandmother was a typical Jewish bubbe the rest of the time, so growing up he was mystified by that annual display of anguish. 'Where did all that emotion go?' he asks. 'How did she manage to keep it locked up inside, and did she suffer for it?'
Conventional wisdom would posit that she must have: We're told to process our emotions, not push them down. But Mr. Kross frequently breaks with conventional wisdom. His conclusion is that instead of repressing her feelings, his grandmother was able 'to flexibly deploy her attention to what she'd endured.' That flexibility is at the heart of 'Shift.' Mr. Kross suggests that while we can't control which emotions are triggered within us, we can, with practice, control their trajectories. The goal is to consider the messages that fear, anger and anxiety are sending us before shifting to a more constructive emotional state.
Mr. Kross takes readers through recent research in the neuroscience of emotion, as well as a number of engaging case studies. And, with an amiable, can-do air, he offers a range of strategies to help manage emotions: They can be as simple as putting on a favorite song to alter your mood. 'No judgment, please,' he quips after revealing that he likes to sing along to Journey's 'Don't Stop Believin'.'
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Los Angeles Times
42 minutes ago
- Los Angeles Times
Relishing a grandmother's love, one meal at a time
My most vivid food memories involve overcooked spaghetti in a wooden bowl, and my grandmother Phyllis. For decades, my grandmother's wooden bowls sat stacked in the cabinet next to the refrigerator in her old, two-story home in Gardena. They followed her to her retirement home in Palm Desert, which she lovingly referred to as 'toe-tag city.' She was part of the volunteer wellness-check committee that called other residents to make sure they were still breathing. The bowls were lopsided and smooth, burnished and misshapen by countless years of scraping Lipton onion dip and spaghetti off the sides. When she died on July 17 at the age of 91, the first memories that came to mind involved spaghetti in those wooden bowls, and all the meals and laughs we shared together. They were not the expensive cherry wood, olive wood or acacia you might find at Crate & Barrel. The wood was thin, pressed and woven — the chicken nugget equivalent of a piece of dinnerware. My grandmother bought them at a restaurant supply store in Los Angeles almost 40 years ago. An internet search for 'cheap wooden bowls' produces images of something similar. During my childhood summers, I spent most of my days lounging on a fraying towel on a patch of lumpy grass in my grandparents' backyard, eating out of one of those wooden bowls. My too-long hair was always damp from the aboveground pool where my late grandfather, Warner, taught me how to swim. 'You're my favorite,' he would say. He said that to all the grandkids. Phyllis and Warner were Jewish but never kept kosher. She used to boast that her grandfather opened the first kosher butcher shop on Pico Boulevard, though she could never remember the name or the year. There was always bacon in the house. She used a plastic tray to microwave the bacon until it was crisp and perfect. And her most famous dishes involved both meat and cheese in those wooden bowls. The sound and sensation of my bent fork against the wood is palpable even now. My grandmother's spaghetti was always cooked two minutes past al dente. I squeezed the noodles between my tongue and front teeth and counted how many I could eat without chewing. The sensation was simply exquisite. The meat sauce, slightly salty and grainy, was always seasoned with Lawry's spaghetti mix from a paper pouch. The ground beef was pulverized until it became one with the canned crushed tomatoes. My grandmother slid the emerald green cylinder of Parmesan across the table and never questioned the Everest-sized mountain I managed to shake into the bowl. I used to study the grooves and nicks in the bowls and wondered what would happen if I accidentally ate wood. Is there a tiny tree growing in my stomach right now? Armed with a head full of dreams, a slender grasp on reality and the high of a new Hello Kitty backpack for the fast-approaching fall, I happily slurped my noodles, unburdened by the anxiety of the 1/8th-life crisis that so often crept into my thoughts and threatened to ruin a good meal. But never this meal. The bowls were a promise, that at least for the time it took to eat whatever filled them, things would be just fine. I have my grandmother to thank for this, and for so many of my fondest memories, food quirks and preferences. It's thanks to Phyllis Harris that I prefer the Lipton onion soup mix dip to anything whipped up in a restaurant kitchen. And that I know how to host everything from a small gathering to a proper rager. She's the reason my friends ask me to make latkes for every Hanukkah party. Her holiday gatherings were legendary, with a full spread of golden latkes, brisket, bagels, lox and white fish. And there was always a bowl of pitted black olives. My cousins and I used to slide an olive onto each finger and pop them into our mouths while we ran around the house. My grandmother was the master of something called the schmutz platter. I can't recall which one of us came up with the name, but I suspect it was me. It was more of a table-wide spread than an actual platter, comprising various deli cold cuts, leaves of romaine lettuce, dill pickle chips, black olives, sliced cheese (always havarti and usually provolone), a wooden bowl of tuna salad, another of potato salad, sliced rye bread and challah, ramekins of mayonnaise and mustard. While grandma made her own tuna salad and potato salad, both studded with bits of hardboiled egg, the coleslaw was only ever from Kentucky Fried Chicken. 'KFC or bust,' she would say. And she meant it. I brought countless acquaintances out to the desert to visit, and each time, a schmutz platter would be waiting on the dining room table when we arrived. But even when it was just me, the platter was there. After living in Los Angeles for most of her life, grandma was used to the depth and breadth of cuisines in the city. Her move to Palm Desert 20 years ago was accompanied by a bit of culinary shock, when she realized there were no Asian markets nearby and the local dim sum restaurant wasn't exactly local or actual dim sum. Each trip to visit came with a request to bring her a loaf of double-baked rye bread from Langer's Deli and an order or two of siu mai. The desert being the desert, we used to brave the 30-second walk to her car in the 110-degree heat to drive to the Rite Aid down the street for ice cream. She used to call the pharmacy waiting area an 'ice cream cafe,' and we sat in the blood pressure chairs while we licked our cones. I was only ever able to convince her to order the Chocolate Malted Krunch (the best flavor) once. Grandma only had eyes for rainbow sherbet. While we sat in the ice cream cafe, she asked about work and my love life, but never in a prying way. She listened intently and never judged, though I gave her plenty to question. By the time I made it to the bottom of my cone, I felt like there was at least one person in the world who understood me. As much as grandma loved to host company, with her weekly card games and mahjong, she lived for a night out. She had her hair done regularly into a golden coiffed pouf. Her nails were always painted. I don't think I ever saw her leave the house, let alone her bedroom, without lipstick. There were dresses for the grocery store, dresses for the mall, lunch with the girls and dinner out. We often staged mini fashion shows to compare outfits. Sullivan's, a lively chain steakhouse on the second floor of the El Paseo shopping center in Palm Desert, was our favorite place. She went so often that she had a regular table. She always enjoyed a glass of red wine. I sipped a martini. And we both ordered the crispy Shanghai calamari. This was the height of luxury and culinary achievement for grandma. A plate of battered and fried squid from Point Judith, R.I., coated in a sweet chili glaze with cherry peppers, scallions and sesame seeds. The rounds of squid were always tender, dredged in a light, crisp, shaggy coating. The orange, chile-flecked sauce was sticky and sweet, similar to the condiment typically served with Thai barbecue chicken. I can see her licking the sauce from her fingers as I type this. One of the last great meals we shared was at Alice B., Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger's restaurant at the Living Out LGBTQ+ community in Palm Springs. Feniger was there that evening and graciously took us on a small tour of the property before steering us toward an order of executive chef Lance Velasquez's excellent biscuits. My grandmother, who was a fan of Feniger's for years, was elated at meeting the chef. If the TV was on at grandma's house, it was tuned to the Food Network. We marveled at the texture of the biscuits, equal parts crunch and fluff. We finished every drop of the honey and butter. Grandma and I shared a love of fried chicken and discussed the restaurant's chicken cutlet for much of the drive home. She grew teary-eyed as we finished dinner. Grandma was someone who treated each meal, whether it was out or a schmutz platter at home, like it was something to be savored and appreciated, grateful for every moment we got to spend together. I know that with time, this pang in my chest will dull, but I'm confident that these memories will stay vivid. I can summon the smell of her kitchen. The warmth of her embrace. The sound of her laughter and the way it filled a room. I can taste her spaghetti and feel the grooves of the wooden bowls. Thank you, Grandma, for showing me just how delicious this life can be.
New York Times
7 hours ago
- New York Times
Last Soldiers of an Imperial Army Have a Warning for Young Generations
Kunshiro Kiyozumi is a small man with gray hair and a stooped back who lives alone and still pedals his bicycle to the supermarket. At 97, he cuts an unprepossessing figure to the younger shoppers busy texting while filling their carts, unaware his life contains a dramatic story shaped by history's deadliest war. At age 15, Mr. Kiyozumi became the youngest sailor aboard the I-58, an attack submarine of the Imperial Japanese Navy. In the closing days of World War II, it prowled the Pacific Ocean, torpedoing six Allied ships, including the heavy cruiser U.S.S. Indianapolis, which it sank. He served in a military that committed atrocities in a march across Asia, as Japan fought in a brutal global conflict that was brought to an end with the atomic bombings of two of its cities. All told, World War II killed at least 60 million people worldwide. But the living veterans like Mr. Kiyozumi were not the admirals or generals who directed Japan's imperial plans. They were young sailors and foot soldiers in a war that was not of their making. Most were still in their midteens when they were sent to far-flung battlefields from India to the South Pacific, where some were abandoned in jungles to starve or left bearing dark secrets when the empire fell. After Japan surrendered on Aug. 15, 1945, they returned to a defeated nation that showed little interest in their sacrifices, eager to put aside both painful memories and uncomfortable questions about its wartime aggression. Mr. Kiyozumi lived a quiet life, working at a utility company installing the electrical wires that helped power Japan's reconstruction. Over time, his former crewmates died, but he rarely spoke about his wartime experiences. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
Miami Herald
12 hours ago
- Miami Herald
‘Ahead of his time': Loved ones remember G. Holmes Braddock and his legacy
Garrett Holmes Braddock remembers being both exhilarated and bored when he, as a 7-year-old child, attended University of Miami football games with his grandfather, G. Holmes Braddock. Garrett said he found the games partly boring because he couldn't see well from the stands as a young boy. But he found them exhilarating because he witnessed his grandfather's passion for the Hurricanes. Addressing dozens of mourners from the church's pulpit, Garrett wriggled his body as he shouted UM's 'C-A-N-E-S' chant, which echoed inside the church. 'Growing up in Miami, it was like being related to a superstar,' Braddock's grandson quipped, referencing Braddock's public service. '...His name and his love will always live on in all of our hearts and our memories.' On Sunday afternoon, loved ones and community members honored the life and legacy of Braddock at the church he attended for decades, Kendall United Methodist Church, 7600 SW 104th St. Braddock served on the Miami-Dade County School Board for 38 years and was well-known for his involvement at his alma mater — UM — and for his support of the university's sports programs. READ MORE: 'He shaped the futures of millions of students.' G. Holmes Braddock dies at 100 Braddock died Thursday, just one day after turning 100 years old. During his decades-long tenure on the school board, Braddock championed desegregation efforts, bilingual education in schools and collective bargaining for public school employees. In 1989, the School Board named a high school after him, G. Holmes Braddock Senior High, 3601 SW 147th Ave. He called the designation a career highlight. 'It would have to be having a senior high school named for me. I never expected it,' Braddock told the Herald in 2000. Braddock enrolled at UM in 1946, after serving aboard a medic ship during World War II. He was heavily involved at the university, serving as an assistant to the director of admissions, and held season tickets to Canes football and baseball games since 1946. In 2024, Braddock became one of 11 recipients of UM's President's Distinguished Service Award from UMiami's Sports Hall of Fame and Museum. While beginning the service, the Rev. Ruben Velasco quipped that they were starting 'right on time because that's exactly what [Braddock] would have wanted.' Braddock, Velasco said, planned the service with him, from the quoted scripture to the hymns. 'Like many of you, I am a product of the Miami-Dade County public school system, since kindergarten all the way to high school,' he said. 'And without knowing it, Holmes Braddock has been a major influence in my educational life...' But Velasco said Braddock, too, impacted his life on a personal level. He shared anecdotes of his lunches with Braddock at Chuck Wagon, where the pair talked about sports, public service and faith. Braddock, the reverend said, 'lived out what it means to be a Christian.' 'I am so certain that on the day he... passed away and he went up to be with the Lord, he heard 'Well done, good and faithful servant. Welcome home. I understand you have some questions. Let's talk,'' Velasco said. Turning to the crowd, Braddock's son George Braddock recounted the story of Braddock's life from the beginning. Braddock was raised by a single mother, a school teacher, during the Great Depression. Braddock dedicated his life's work to education. His leadership, most notably in desegregation and bilingual instruction, brought Braddock admirers but also enemies, George said. 'Wow, was he ahead of his time,' he said. Braddock's daughter Rebecca Nimmer, 72, told the Miami Herald she recalled how she and her brothers Bob, George and Jim, would travel across the continuous U.S. in their father's station wagon as he worked as an insurance salesman. One of her most notable memories, she said, was witnessing the horrors of segregation while traveling in the South. 'I didn't realize how much that affected me as a human,' Nimmer said, adding that her father is the reason she values travel and learning about different cultures. Braddock, she said, used his life experiences to serve others. 'Everyone he touched, he left an imprint,' Nimmer said. Daniel Armstrong, 69, grew close with Braddock over the last 35 years during their Sunday morning hangouts at church. Armstrong said their decades-long friendship blossomed over the pair's shared love for ties. Armstrong said he and Braddock would wear different ties and share the stories of how they obtained them. At Christmas time, they held a friendly competition over who had the best holiday-themed tie. Braddock, Armstrong said, was not only a pillar in the community — but at the church. 'He was a gentle, very strong, but a very gentle person,' Armstrong said. 'Compassionate, and very humble.' Braddock's funeral ended with military honors. Uniformed service members folded the American flag that was draped over his casket. They handed the flag to his widow, Virginia 'Ginny' Braddock, as tears streamed down her face. Some of Braddock's eight grandchildren escorted his casket out of the church, as an ode to UM — the university's fight song — played. Braddock was a lifelong supporter of Hurricane athletics, said John Routh and Mark Drobiarz, of the UM Hall of Fame. 'Even in the heat on Sunday, he would go,' Drobiarz told the Herald. 'I'd ask, 'How can you take this?' He would say, 'It's baseball.'' 'He was an icon,' Routh said.
