I’m the girl who placed a jar of pasta sauce (including the metal lid) in the microwave. I’m also the girl who, fancying a good old warm glass of milk, put the glass on an Aga hot plate, which quickly shattered and splattered the milk everywhere. On my last day at home this vac, I thought I’d cook a meal for my family to go out with a bang (not the literal bang of a broken kitchen appliance but rather the figurative bang of my family being wowed by my butterfly-like transformation). My dish of choice? A paella to rival Nigella.

My first great challenge was checking that I had all of the relevant ingredients; I was forced to buy the sophisticated product that is turmeric, which I will never use again. The cooking process was surprisingly stress-free since I didn’t drop anything or burn myself. I was starving though, which made me a bit of an impatient and irritable chef. Sorry, family. As it turns out, lightly frying onion and chorizo is simple and therapeutic. I did manage to get some of the bright yellow turmeric powder on my cheek which didn’t suit me as well as my usual No7 blush.

All in all, the food looked edible upon serving and the feedback was positive so I think I might go so far as to say that this was a gastronomic success. There’s hope for us all. 

We’ve all been to the Co-op late on a Thursday evening and seen nothing but swedes in the discounted aisle. Well, what is the best (and perhaps only) way to use them? Soup! Takes all of about 25 minutes to create and tastes sublime (and is incredibly healthy).

Ingredients:
1 swede
2 carrots
1 onion
Spinach (your choice, baby)
Yoghurt (natural or Greek)
Vegetable stock
Water
Cumin, coriander, a bay leaf
seasoning

Method:

1. Peel and dice the swede into sizeable chunks. Chop up the carrot and onion. Pour about 200ml (although more or less is fine) into a pan with the stock and spices and leaf and then bring to the boil.
2. Add the vegetables and boil away until the swede is soft (about 18-20 mins). Then (and you’ll need a machine for this) liquidise the contents and put back on the hob at a lower heat.
3. Add the spinach until it wilts and serve with a spoonful of yoghurt. Done – wasn’t that simple?

This week’s ready meal answers the age old question: are there things that cannot be microwaved? As a student, the first thing that came to my mind was, “How long should I nuke this for?” In this case I think that my microwave would not be happy if I tried. Joking aside, I found this steak and ale pie in the tinned food aisle at my local supermarket. There are no easy ways to open the tin and it will not win prizes in a beauty parade, particularly if you want to impress and take it out of the tin.

The pastry is certainly crunchy, but does not flake as pastry sometimes can. The steak is very tender. The gravy did not live up to my expectation, as it was bland and did not bring flavour to the meat, but the texture and taste of the pie made up for this though it started to lose its magic towards the end.

All in all though, I happily recommend this meal to those of you who like steak and ale pie, and not a “healthy” meal…

My choice to try this new burrito place wasn’t inspired by the massive sign in a font worthy of a Wild West theme park that mars its otherwise not-that-tacky red brick exterior, nor the subtle hint said sign gives about the type of cuisine it boasts, but its ultra convenient location on Gloucester Green. This prize postcode provides competition both for the student-on-a-budget market and the label of “Most Inauthentic Exotic Cuisine” (I’m looking at you, Noodle Nation).

When I entered with an unwilling friend in tow the place was worryingly empty, but I generously attributed this to its infancy. Having only opened in 7th week of last term, it can’t be expected to have yet won the trust of Oxford’s student population, or to have developed regulars. Further, much of their menu makes for great street food, which can be ready in a jiffy and eaten with your hands out of cardboard packaging (props for the eco-consciousness). As we arrived, a woman in a suit with a pencil in her hair was rushing out with some nachos, inspiring my friend to order them.

Personally, I wanted something a little more filling, and so was disappointed by my surprisingly small vegetarian burrito – although listed as an option on the board behind the counter, this appeared to be just a standard meat burrito without the meat, but with no extra vegetables or alternative filling. Prior to ordering I’d been quite impressed with the competitive prices, but I quickly regretted not getting a large instead of small, which would hopefully have been the size of a small elsewhere. Though the quality of the tortilla was unimpressive and there was no whole-wheat option, and the onions were a tad overdone, the spicy rice was a delightful touch, which did actually manage to compel me to finish it. When I asked my friend how his food was, he shrugged. “It’s nachos.”

What interested me more than the mains was the drinks list, also shockingly cheap for Southeast England. When I went to get a round, I was informed that drinks could only be purchased with food, so chose churros for dessert.

The server was entirely perplexed when I asked for a mojito, telling me he’d never heard of it or had it ordered, and having to ask his boss (who, sat at a table by the window, I had mistaken for the only other customer in the room). Said boss eventually produced from the back room a perplexingly lukewarm icy slushy the colour of the Scooby Gang’s Mystery Machine, which tasted surprisingly good despite the probable quality of any spirit kept in the back room. The churros, while enjoyably saccharine, would probably make my Andalucian grandmother roll in her grave, especially because of the hot chocolate served with it, which would only be fit for the most depressing of small-town mid-England train stations.

Though I wouldn’t recommend this American chain restaurant to anyone looking for anything resembling authentic Mexican grub, its tacky décor and fantastically unhealthy food is an excellent guilty pleasure that’s easy on your student loan.

★★★★☆

Well, that’s it, I’m in love. It is time for me to throw out my Pamela Anderson posters, move out of my parents’ basement, and buy a ring – just as soon as I figure out how to propose to a cellar room. I try so earnestly to be as pissy and bitchy about the bars I review as I am about my mother’s cooking, but Univ has penetrated my heart like Joseph Gordon-Levitt holding a boom box, climbing up my fire escape. Not that he’d even need to be in the fire escape – Univ’s bar even has outdoor seating for smokers! Univ’s is everything a college bar should be and much, much more.

Found easily in the centre of the college and hidden underground, it has an almost speakeasy feel, though lacks sharply dressed gangsters and an oppressive cloud of cigarette smoke. A small, scruffy staircase opens out into a wide and attractively decorated bar. The dominant arches and blue and grey wall colours might appear dingy to some, but just seemed edgy as fuck to me. Irresistably comfy fitted sofas, flat-screen TVs and big blackboards chalked with (bestill my heart!) drinks deals line the walls. Many small tables tactically scattered ensure ample seating on one side, and having had many experiences of awkwardly hovering near-ish a bar counter with aching legs, I appreciate this. For those less grumpy, table football, darts and pool are neatly placed on the other side. The bar itself is a beautifully curved and finished wood. This is certainly the best designed college bar I’ve had the pleasure of visiting, though I must admit it was a little draughty. It was also disappointingly empty, but being Tuesday of 0th Week we’ll have to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Two lagers and one cider are offered on tap, but with many more bottled choices behind the bar. It stocks a spirit collection of about average size, yet is greatly improved by its slightly alternative choices: Sailor Jerry’s rather than just Captain Morgan’s, for example. Their signature drink, the University College Cocktail, is a sweet, refreshing and, most importantly, strong mix impressively designed to sport the Univ colours of blue and yellow. Liquid dispersion is always a nice touch. The prices were slightly more than average across the board, and the signature drink was actually over £4, which might prove quite a strain on Univ regulars, but for me was entirely tolerable in the context of the service and atmosphere offered up.

To point out the most pedantic and unimportant of flaws – as that’s all there are – the music was somewhat louder than the situation warranted, and my spirit mixer tasted ever so slightly metallic. Despite these small imperfections, Univ earned my upmost respect. I will be sneaking in again, and I recommend you all do the same. When you consider the central location, it makes it perfect for a rowdy predrinks. Other bars take note: this is how it’s done.

It is a truth moderately well acknowledged that drugs and sex make good
bedfellows. This is coming from my personal experience of dabbling in several
categories of mind-altering substances and I am here to tell you in my personal experience at least, the most remarkable drug and sex combo mega-deal is not ket or coke but plain old weed.

Yes, my friends, when it comes to sex, bud is your buddy. In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that weed is far from my drug of choice. In fact I sometimes experience crippling paranoia if I inhale more than one drag of
the stuff; what I like to call ‘sensory-hyperawareness’. I am certain that humans just aren’t meant to think so much. It leads to an influx of irrational, paranoid thoughts, ranging from wondering whether the way I’m holding my head looks weird to imagining crowds of people watching me whilst I pee (in the securely locked bathroom of a house). Another scary thing is the slowing down of time. I was convinced that I had been sitting on the toilet peeing for at least half an hour, only to discover that the cigarette my friend was holding for me was still lit upon my return.

The only, and I mean only, redeeming feature of this whole thing is having sex whilst stoned. These negative effects don’t always have to stay so negative. Stoned sex is a whole different ball game. My most recent experience of stoned sex happened a couple of months ago. I was in the living room of my then new-ish boyfriend’s house, a ‘phat doob’ was beginning to make its way around those assembled. This was back when the paranoia for me was more hit and miss. Before long, however, I began to feel the symptoms of paranoia and the intense self-consciousness and hyper-awareness set in. I became irrationally convinced that all my lovely boyfriend’s lovely friends hated
me and thought I was ridiculous.

After stewing there for about an hour (that was really probably only about ten minutes), I quietly suggested that we go to bed. After having negotiated the stairs (Am I walking too slowly? Will it look weird if I hold the bannister? Will they think I’ve forgotten how to walk properly, like I’m a giant toddler?!
Oh God what are they laughing about? They’re laughing at me aren’t they? I know they are!), we finally reached the sanctuary of his room.

Physical intimacy came as a welcome distraction from all the horrible thoughts. But it was more than merely that. I existed no longer just inside my own head, but in my fingertips, my thighs, my nipples. It turned out the hyper-awareness was not just a negative. It applied to my sense of touch as well and all of a sudden the paranoia dissipated and I was having really, really great sex. It was like the nerve-endings all over my skin had multiplied tenfold and were all tingling at once. And the elongation of time thing is really much more welcome when you happen to be having an orgasm.

“Hi! Good Morning! Sorry to bother you, my name’s Charlie and I’m just calling round on behalf of your local Labour Party. I was just wondering if you planned to vote in the General Election on 7th May or not?”
That’s how I normally start my canvassing spiel. Everyone I’ve ever gone campaigning with has had their own style though, with some people preferring a more formal approach or a more direct one. Or usually a less suffocatingly enthusiastic one.

Whenever my friends ask me about my canvassing experiences (which isn’t very often, I promise – they’re generally either armchair politicians or don’t care), I tell them people are friendlier than you’d think, which is sort of true.
You do get people who react with hostility to you probably waking them up at 11am on a Sunday and you do get people who support other parties thinking they can mess with you. But for every negative experience, there’s usually a voter who seems to be genuinely moved by the fact that someone would come and knock on their door on a rainy, cold Wednesday evening and talk about the state of the country with them. Or at least is good at pretending that they are so moved. And if there isn’t, then I find the electorate normally find some other way of being entertaining anyway.

Every seasoned campaigner, for example, will have had a dead serious conversation about pot-holes, or income tax, or hedgerows with a naked person. Regardless of weather, or time of day, topless men are so common they don’t even register with me any more.

A friend of mine spoke at great length to an elderly and stark naked man about tuition fees, while on another occasion a different friend was greeted at the door by a semi-dressed woman, who subsequently invited him in.
In amongst all this, I have my own way of entertaining myself. Over the last few months I’ve been slowly but surely adding to my list of people with animal surnames that I’ve canvassed. At home, I knocked on the doors of the Fox, Squirrel and Bear households. A few weeks ago I asked how a Mr Llama might be voting, and only the other day I phone-canvassed an entire household of Lambs. You do come across some fantastic names when you’re out and about finding voter ID, and a particularly silly one is always a welcome morale booster.

My experience with campaigning is also that, no matter how well you plan, the unexpected is always lurking around the corner. There are an infinite number of letters and signs that help you record various responses onto the campaign sheets, and yet every now and then you’ll get data you don’t know how to record.

I led a group last weekend, and a fellow canvasser knocked on the door of an elderly woman, who we thought was registered as having a postal vote. She said she suffered from memory loss though, and couldn’t remember if she had already sent off her ballot or not. It was a humbling experience.
The evidence shows campaigning does make a difference in who will win – just ask Oxford East MP Andrew Smith, who won in 2005 thanks in large to his team of volunteers. Talking to people face to face helps the voters and the party understand the issues at hand and gives candidates the chance to be as receptive as possible to their electorate.

But campaigners too stand to gain a lot from speaking to people like that elderly woman. Especially those who spend the rest of their time in the bubble that is Oxford.

Oxford is a place full of opinion. And as that fatal Election Day draws closer, opinions are ubiquitous. The problem? With opinions, comes conflict. And if you’re not careful, you will find yourself on the wrong side of the metaphorical battle-shield. But that’s okay. Because once more, I’m here. And once more, I’ve got a fool-proof resolution.

The first thing to know is that the support of political parties is a lot like supporting a football team. When you’re watching a political debate on TV, the umms and aahs, and the interspersion of indignation and celebration, are much like a Man City vs Man United match. Just like football, support is a badge of honour. You must not offend someone’s badge of honour.

And, just like football, often the support is a pleasant imbalance between arbitrary selection and forceful following. But that makes it even more dangerous.There are several league teams, but really the fans are all the same. So the advice is a happy generalisation.

Firstly, be careful not to say too much. If two opposing supporters chat to each other, they might work you out. Instead, you’re going to need to do a lot of nodding. This will assure them that you think they are clever and correct. Try raising your eyebrows expressively during lengthy rants. I would recommend achieving an expressively sincere and understanding vibe with your eyebrows. If you don’t parallel them in their voting choices, you will need to be prepared to respond to questions about who you are voting for.

Generally diversion tactics are incredibly fruitful. I find a handy line to use is often “Is that a dodo!? The extinct, flightless bird, whose scientific name is raphus cucullatus?” Whilst they are looking for said dodo, slip away. Be stealthy.

If the friend becomes suspicious at any time, the easiest remedy is to make a joke about UKIP. UKIP stands for the ‘United Kingdom’s Idiotic Party’, and consists of a team of extremely bitter white men who probably don’t like puppies, but definitely do like elevating anything made of that superior gilded British ingredient.

“Might just vote UKIP lol,” or, “Ha I met someone who is voting UKIP the other day! What an imbecile.” This will eradicate all tension into nervous revulsion and giggles. If the person responds by explaining that they are in fact going to vote UKIP, then please don’t bother sending me letters of complaint. For if they respond by saying they are a UKIP supporter, then there ceases to be a problem.

Because at that point they cease to be your friend. And although this might create a miserably awkward environment, that’s not for this week’s advice column.