You’ve all had scrambled eggs before. You all know that unless you add a heap of butter, salt and pepper, they can be a bit bland. On a trip to Istanbul, I had these Turkish scrambled eggs and have never looked back. The ideal post-Plush hangover brekkie or indeed a lovely lunch.

Ingredients:
3 eggs (per person, be greedy)
Dollop of cream cheese
2 finger chillies
3 cloves of garlic (sizeable ones, be indulgent)
1 spring onion
3-4 cherry tomatoes drained of any seeds/juice
Paprika, salt, pepper, dill, coriander and olive oil

Method

1. Whisk up the eggs and cream cheese – don’t worry, the cream cheese will never really mix in, but remain in globules. Chop up the chillies (removing the seeds) and the garlic cloves and put in a cold non-stick(!!!) frying pan with the olive oil. Turn the heat on so that the garlic and chilli infuses into the olive oil as it gets warmer.

2. Cut up the spring onions and cherry tomatoes and add them, stirring the vegetables to prevent them burning. Try not to get too much tomato juice in the mixture, since it will prevent the eggs properly cooking. Once that’s soft, add the egg mixture along with the spices, salt and pepper and keep stirring until the mixture is all cooked.

3. This is best served with brown pitta, I have found. Toast them and then rip in half to make pouches to put the eggs in. Alternatively, throw it all on top of a buttery bagel or toast for extra indulgence. 

Homemade ice cream… in a bag!

“The perfect summer treat… and you don’t even need an ice cream freezer! Fun for kids – they can all make their own, anytime!”
Divinemom5

No adults, let alone kids, should ever attempt this recipe. Ever. The instructions seemed simple enough – fill a small Ziploc bag with cream, milk, sugar and vanilla extract, and put ice and rock salt within a larger Ziploc. Then, place the smaller bag within the larger, and “squeeze bag” for ten minutes. After only being able to source small Ziploc bags for the mixture, I decided that the overall process was going to have to be carried out in a bin bag. This was the beginning of a variety of ruinous substitutions – table salt instead of rock salt, and measurements by handfuls rather than milligrams, for instance.

A friend suggested that strawberries might be a classy touch, but Haribo strawbs presented themselves as a cheaper option. What followed was a messy, hour-long session of awkwardly squeezing a milky bin bag, coaxing the pale solution towards solidity. This was never achieved. This process is alarming to the innocent bystander, and I would advise all budding ice cream makers to attempt this recipe in private.

★★★★★

Five Stars

For this week’s review, I considered trying to find the middle ground between a cheap run of the mill meal and an expensive one, so I went for a Tesco Finest Chicken, Chorizo and King Prawn Paella. Where this lands on the aforementioned spectrum is a subject of debate, and is not what I am going to argue in this review.

Preparation consists of nuking for a few minutes then stirring before eating. The first few mouthfuls of rice were a lot tastier than I originally expected, as it tasted very similar to a freshly cooked paella. On top of this, the chorizo has quite a spicy kick (a huge plus for me, considering how much I like chorizo). The mix of meats brings an interesting change of texture to each mouthful, which meant that the meal stayed enjoyable throughout. All of these factors lead to only one criticism that I have, and that is the stereotypical ‘I wish there were more of the meal to eat’. In terms of health and nutrients, there is a worrying amount of energy, fat and salt, but considering the flavour of the paella, it is certainly still good comfort food.

Between the 11th and 17th May this year was Mental Health Awareness Week, an annual event run by the UK’s Mental Health Foundation to raise a discussion on mental health and well-being. This year’s theme was on mindfulness, one of the buzzwords of 2015. But what exactly is it? Mindfulness is often seen in the media within the context of meditation or Buddhism or depression, and it seems to be going mainstream. But I mentioned mindfulness to a friend once, and they thought it meant finding a quiet, serene spot, sitting down in the Lotus position, hands in an a-ok gesture, and humming ‘omm’.

Yes, mindfulness has originated mainly from Buddhist or monastic traditions, but there are no religious associations with it (a debate or discussion in itself). It is completely secularised, and that perhaps is the reason why it has become so popular all of a sudden. Not only has a whole new type of psychotherapy been based on it – Mindfulness-based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT) – but organisations are slowly rolling it out to schools, universities, and even prisons. One definition of mindfulness is that it is the practice of paying attention to the here and now. It is a form of awareness, of focusing on your breathing, bodily sensations, thoughts, and feelings, and concentrating on what is happening moment by moment, rather than allowing your mind to wander to the regrets of the past (that moment in Park End) and the fears of the future (impending exams). There’s a lot more to it than sitting down and meditating. You can practise mindfulness wherever you are; you don’t need to be in the middle of Port Meadow surrounded by cow poop.

Surprisingly, there is actually a growing body of evidence that suggest that mindfulness works. And given the fact that it’s as cheap an intervention as they come, the NHS of course recommends it (in the form of MBCT), but only for the prevention of episodes of recurrent major depression. There are simply not enough studies yet to determine if it works on eating disorders, anxiety disorders, personality disorders, and all the other mental health conditions that many websites claim mindfulness can cure.

I’ve practised mindfulness for several months now. I first learnt through an app called Headspace, which gave ten 10-minute sessions free, following which you can buy a yearly subscription. The app developers call it a “gym membership for the mind” – kind of like what Oxford is, if you think about it. I found it helped to keep me focused through the day, and stopped me from excessive worrying. While I’ve been using it in the context of clinical depression, lots of people have also used it to get to a better state of wellbeing from their relatively normal baseline. Let’s face it, Britain is hardly the happiest country in the world. Mindfulness isn’t just for depressed people, it’s also for anyone who wants to be happier, even if they’re unhappy per se.

One of the key tenets of mindfulness is shifting your attention to the bodily senses. This might mean feeling the weight of your body through your feet, bum, or back against your chair, bed, sticky Bridge floor, or wherever you happen to be reading this. Try this now. Just notice how your feet are resting on the floor, without needing or wanting to change it. Next, you’ll want to scan the rest of your body. Where are the areas of tightness? Where are the areas of lightness?

I’d then suggest you to close your eyes so you can focus on your other senses, and especially to the senses within your body, but that would stop you from reading this, so please don’t do that (just yet). Listen to the sounds around you. You might hear your own breath, people talking, the wind, the sounds of freshers nervously laughing about exams, finalists swearing under their breath. Pick up on these sounds without lingering on them. Noticing and being aware that they exist is good enough.

Focusing on the breathing is also important. It might help you to mentally count each breath as you inhale and exhale up from one to ten, and then going back to one. Feel the breath entering through your nostrils, making its way down to your lungs, and sense your abdomen and chest stretching as your lungs expand. And then the reverse as you exhale.

Another idea central to mindfulness is being aware of what is going on in your mind. You can think of other analogies for this, but the one that I like to use is imagining my thoughts as written on clouds that are speedily floating by on a sky, and my feelings as the colour of the background sky. The background sky could be dark or bright, and the clouds could either be few and far between (i.e. during an exam) or they could be cluttering the sky. The clouds can also be rushing by quickly, whereas others are always there, lingering, threatening to rain. The idea in mindfulness isn’t to clear your head from emotions and feelings; it is to be aware of them. It is absolutely okay for your mind to be working. It’s not about stopping thoughts; it’s about accepting, acknowledging, and recognising them. Then, you’re less likely to let the thoughts and emotions overwhelm you. It’s also about self-compassion, and saying to yourself that you’re enough, and worthy of existing. So – happy mindfulness!

Good art is a hard casket to find. Many spend their whole lives seeking it, few discovering the pure stuff. With every trip to the theatre you take, a survival guide is necessary. Imagine it like a pleasant airbag. Just in case you hit some rocky terrain. I’m not saying that all student drama is poor. I, How-To Guru, have been in plays myself, which is exactly why I know how necessary this How-To is.

The first type of bad student drama is that of the poor script. I saw one such play that somehow reached the Keble O’ Reilly unscathed. Best not to question how the fuck it got there. Now, the acting was not bad. The poor, sweet actors tried their hardest to recover the miserable mess that was the script. You might even start to feel sorry for these thesps with exhaustion in their eyes. Don’t. Sympathy is not the answer. The only way you, the audience, will be able to get through this play is… re-genre-ising. Sounds silly, but it works. This s t r a ig ht- l ace d piece of shit is not a straightlaced piece of shit at all! No! It is a grand, postmodern piece of genius! It is, ladies and gentlemen, a parody! Whenever the supernatural is poorly employed, you must roar with laughter. Someone just changed characters for the fifth time? FUCKING hilarious! A grand tableau of pretend poor drama! What a great idea to stage a parody involving transformation into animals! See? I’m already starting to giggle.

Another dilemma of bad student drama, requiring the same tactic, is that of poor acting. Now, poor acting is uncomfortable, to say the least. Others might advise walking out of the theatre. But frankly, this is a stupid idea. As soon as you walk out, you are accepting that you have wasted your money. Instead, try applying a Brechtian viewpoint. Bertolt Brecht, a playwright and practitioner, has put forward various ludicrous theories about the nature of theatre. His aim was to eradicate everything one associates with theatre. But, just as Brecht likes actors to emotionlessly present characters, without trying to be the character, this is what any poor actor is doing in Oxford. Wisely nod your head as they say disembodied words. What excellent Brechtian emphasis! Spend the play admiring their supreme and curious practitioner choice. This way you can feel informed, avoiding the cringing, wringing pain that is bad acting.

The last duty of handling bad student drama spans beyond the 45 to near-infinite minutes. There is a high chance that the reason you were sitting watching this instance of shame was because of a friend. A high chance. And now they’re off the stage. And they’re in front of you. And they’re no longer dressed as an elephant. And the stage-buzz is still perspiring from their upper lip. And they want to know what you thought. A nugget of wisdom: it is possible to be truthful without being honest. Some ideas, “I love the opening song”. “The tree was painted so well!” “Very bold!” “Never seen something like that before”.

Personally, I always stick with this one, “I won’t be forgetting that.

So, the first thing to note is that it’s not all about the drinking. I mean, there is that, obviously. But we also do a lot of brunches. I fucking love brunch. Brunch is just the best parts of all the best meals you’ve ever had. In an unholy alchemical combination of lunch and breakfast, we have created something so much greater than the sum of its parts. No one’s ever got banned from anywhere for smashing up a brunch.

We’re pretty tame, I guess, compared to some of the more ‘established’ drinking societies. One of my more easily scandalised schoolfriends found out about my presidency and assumed that we run around Oxford behaving like the Bullingdon Club. She didn’t speak to me for a week, outraged at my apparent perpetuation of violent elitism until I gently explained that the reality is far less exciting. We have a lot of fancy dinners and alumnae events where we eat and drink and just generally love each other because we’re probably the best group of girls that you will ever meet.

Being the president of an all-women’s drinking society does endow you with certain benefits – there’s never a shortage of offers for crew dates, for instance. Legend has it that our society was founded around 15 years ago, set up by a group of pioneering girls as an antidote to the rampant sexism and privileged gluttony of the male drinking and dining societies at our college. Things seem to have greatly improved regarding the attitudes of our male counterparts since that schism (aside from the recent incident in which one boy was punched by a Fellow following a fairly heavy society dinner) and we now host a number of joint events with the boys throughout the year.

Our respective initiation events provide perhaps the most stark contrast in our attitudes to this whole ‘drinking society’ thing: while their prospective recruits have to drink a pint of vodka, ours simply drink one or two glasses of prosecco. It’s not that we couldn’t drink that much (from my experiences of going out with members of both societies, I’d say that many of our girls are actually far better equipped to handle their drink than a lot of the boys), but rather that we just think it’s a bit tragic. We’re comfortable enough in ourselves that we believe bonds can be formed between our members without the need for a trip to A&E or downing pitchers full of cat food and urine.

I’m occasionally questioned about the apparent exclusivity of our society, and of others like us. I understand the concerns – we only admit between five and eight members a year so I can see how we may give off a whiff of elitism. Our standards, however, aren’t exactly Bullingdon-level. The main criteria we have when selecting new members is that they’re someone we would all be happy to sit next to at dinner, rather than which school they went to or whether they can afford a velvet dinner jacket. Realistically, if you’re fun and nice, you’ve got a good chance of getting in.

Brace yourself, when the Turks go to their local hamam, there is no time for English-style prudence or coyness. Forget the language barrier and your lack of understanding at how this process works and allow yourself to be guided through this enchanting experience.

My first visit to a genuine Turkish hamam was in a city called Sivas. Unlike those found in the more tourist-ridden areas of Turkey, this hamam was not accustomed to foreigners wandering into its historical setting. Once inside, throw away your inhibitions. The first rule when setting foot in these ancient baths: get relatively naked and get relatively comfortable with it. I was greeted by bare breasts in every direction, totally transparent pants, women being scrubbed down by others and I immediately felt ridiculous wearing my bikini, so off came the top half (perhaps I’ll wait till next time to bare all).

Unsurprisingly, my Turkish was non-existent so explaining the process to me proved difficult. As far as I was concerned, I was there to enjoy a massage, an exfoliation and some relaxation. As I was clearly failing to understand anything in Turkish, one woman who was there with her toddler son offered to explain in German what I was supposed to be doing. Although I don’t speak German, I eventually realised that they wanted me to go into the sauna for a while so I’d sweat which would allow the women to successfully exfoliate my skin. Another important tip: be patient and pretend to understand what they’re saying (lots of nodding helps).

After sitting in the sauna for about 15 minutes, I grew impatient, I wasn’t sweating enough. Jumping jacks and running on the spot soon sorted that out. Always remember that exercise in a sauna definitely induces sweat. Finally, I emerged and clearly glistened enough because a woman working at the hamam got me to lie down on the stone slab in the centre of the baths. At last, I was going to earn my relaxing treatment. Chomping on some gum and giving me curt orders as to when to lift limbs, the woman vigorously scrubbed me down with a rough flannel. Not quite the tentative care I was expecting.

The echoes of the woman’s chatter and the little boy’s excited squeals added to the experience, although detracted from the relaxation somewhat. Next came the full body massage. The woman rubbed a bar of soap between her hands and got started. I would describe this massage as charming agony. No muscle escaped the pressure of her firm hand and it certainly released some tension in my body, although it didn’t feel so therapeutic at the time.

Some Turks go to the hamam as a weekly ritual or for special occasions. Two girls, clearly curious as to why a pale, blonde foreign girl was in the baths this week, approached me and asked where I was from. They had come to the hamam with most of the women in their family to bathe before a cousin’s upcoming nuptials. They encouraged me to plunge with them into the little swimming pool, neglecting to tell me that it was freezing cold. Admiring how I did a little breaststroke around the pool, they asked me how I’d learned to swim and if I could teach them. And so an impromptu swimming lesson began, where the girls at least pretended to appreciate my demonstration of how to do ‘froggy legs’.

Then came the end to my baptism of fire into the Turkish hamam experience. I entered the baths expecting a well-priced massage and a little scrub down but I left as a semi-nudist swimming teacher. My best tip on how to experience a Turkish hamam? Walk in as an ignorant tourist and you’ll certainly be pleasantly surprised.

I only started calling myself bisexual a few weeks ago. This wasn’t the result of much agonising soul-searching and internal debate. I didn’t have to overcome years of heterosexual conditioning from conservative and ignorant parents, nor take courage and inspiration from Tom Daley or Ellen Degeneres. No, my parents are quite lovely, open-minded folk, quite apathetic as to who I date, and I figured out quite early on, with no strong feelings about it, that while I agreed that Aaron Samuels looked sexy with his hair pushed back, Gretchen Wieners did too.

Despite having fully accepted that I was attracted to both boys and girls by the time I arrived at university, I still didn’t feel quite justified in using the label ‘bisexual’ without having earned my stripes. I was no virgin, but for a large chunk of my high school career I had been burdened with the inconvenience of a perfectly nice boyfriend who I liked far too much at the time to break up with so I could ‘experiment with my sexuality’ – a phrase that I often pondered and aspired towards in my head with high seriousness, anticipating a very mature and urban period in my life with intellectual girls who wore glasses and we would have arthouse sex, but I guess I just never thought to plan exactly how I would meet these women. Which brings us to the pre-identification dilemma.

Somewhere around Hilary Term my nice boyfriend and I banana split. The metaphoric undoing of a phallic object is a nice little segue into my girl phase, no? I quickly set my sights on my college mother. Aside from wearing glasses, she was openly gay and within my social circle. These latter two preferences, based on a lack of gaydar or knowledge of the secret ways of Plush, narrowed my choice down to just her. The glasses were a bonus. She came along to our date not realising it was a date, and afterwards, in her room, I tried to push my face onto hers. She kissed me back for perhaps three minutes before gently pushing me off and explaining that this was a terrible idea (a sentiment I actually deep down agreed with), but as a consolation agreed to wingwoman me at Plush.

We went the next Friday and, with the help of her advice, I managed to pull a girl for the first time. Whether or not I enjoyed it seemed irrelevant to the higher goal of diversifying my sexual CV, so with determination and some Dutch courage I gave her head, naively reverting to the TV trope of spelling out the alphabet, which seemed to actually work. When she offered to return the favour I was too scared of the potential embarrassment of not orgasming with at least equal vigour, so I instead gave some excuse about being tired and took the stride of pride back to my own college, knowing I’d officially punched my ticket for the Pride parade. Job done.