Cooking is Therapy You Can Eat


Some of the saddest people I know have never chopped garlic.

This is a conclusion I reached after noticing the correlation between my friends who are always stressed out or in a bad mood and those who do not know how to cook a meal from scratch. I feel the desire to reach out to these people, like a priest to his parish, like Elton John to George Michael, like Madonna to Britney circa 2008. I know what they need and I know it can be put in at 180 degrees and left to simmer.

Cooking is the therapy that is far more pleasurable (and far less expensive) than sitting on a cream chaise-lounge for an hour whining to someone with a clipped tone of voice and pinstripe trousers (yes, the only experience I have of a therapist’s office is romantic comedies). It’s no secret that cooking is therapeutic – in the case of cookery shows, studies found that more than half of 2,000 people surveyed would rather watch a cooking show than cook a meal themselves. As much as I love cookery shows (Nigella and Bake Off are both not-so-secret addictions of mine), it simply cannot compare to the psychological massage of creating a dish myself to the soundtrack of Al Green and Corinne Bailey Rae.

If you think about it, the psychology of cooking’s therapeutic advantages is rather simple to dissect. First of all, we have to purchase the ingredients – we go into a shop with a list and a purpose. This cuts down time on wandering. Second is the preparation of ingredients – chopping, slicing, squeezing, grating – it’s all so sensory. Focusing on the motions and portions distracts us from worrying about other things we might ponder while waiting for a microwave to ping. Following instructions from a recipe is straightforward and logical, like being back at school but instead of following a maths equation, you’re sautéeing red onions on a low heat.

Sometimes it involves marinating, sometimes proofing. But just as you’re at the end of your patience, it’s ready and you can smell it from here. It’s soft, it’s warm and it was you, it was all you. You might have f****d up at work the other day and forgotten to pay the rent on time, but you’ve made this delicious dish all by yourself and it tastes so much better than anything Deliveroo could’ve brought you.

So you see, this is why I am a cookery evangelist. Not in the way of health nuts or wellness gurus, telling you to use butter substitute instead of butter (for God’s sake), but because I know the feeling of making something that feeds you. It’s a symbol of your ability to survive. You can only go up from here. Get more adventurous in the kitchen and you’ll get more adventurous in work and life. Once you learn how to poach an egg properly, you’ll find that there’s very little you can’t do.

The Best Recipes to start off with:

The Best Scrambled Eggs Ever

Espresso Cocoa Banana Bread

Seriously Gorgeous Stuffed Aubergines

Brownies – always a good idea








It’s the saddest month of the year and here’s how you’re gonna get through it


It’s the middle of January, which means that either you a) Have given up  Zenuary/Dranuary/Veganuary after a particularly crap day that required Galaxy and Merlot or b) are seriously considering throwing your spiraliser at someone you loved in December. No wonder this month has been touted as the most depressing of the year by various publications – it’s the month we set unrealistic, miserable goals for ourselves and when we fail to reach the standards we set, we crumple into a ball of self-defeat.

No more. Life is not something you just have to “get through”, it’s something to be lived as well as you possibly can, whatever your circumstances. I’ve seen homeless people in a better mood than my mate who’s given up sugar for a month. It’s time to give yourself a break.

January is hard enough without piling on hoards of expectations to make it even more difficult. So instead of goals like “lose 10 pounds” or “save £100”, think about what’s stopping you from getting fit and saving money. Personally, I haven’t been inside a gym since July 2016, so I’ve renewed my membership and planned out regular classes that work in line with my other commitments. My biggest weakness is chocolate, so I’ve made a promise to cut down – but not cut it out. I like a glass of wine in the middle of the week, but I’m not going to polish off the bottle. I waste a lot of money getting coffee on the go from the posh cafe near uni, so I’ve restricted myself to buying coffee once a week, making it at home the rest of the time. This is so that I can save money for more important things, like summer plans and a proper pair of jeans. You know the kind. The kind that don’t rip at the crotchal area nine months into the relationship, fat-shaming you into buying a new pair that will inevitably do the exact same.

I hate to get all generation-snowflake on you, but you should put self-care before the pursuit of self-improvement. If your pursuit of a fitter body makes you feel weak and causes you to feel unwell, give yourself a break and eat some carbs. It will not kill you. It will not send your body back to where it was at the beginning. Food is fuel, you need it to survive. Equally, if you break your promises to not eat that or not buy this, don’t descend into a dearth of depression. It doesn’t make anything better. Just learn from it and move on to better things.

Self-improvement is an admirable endeavour and it can teach determination and resolve as well as making us more mature and more developed individuals. Giving up smoking or alcohol can be life-changing. But this unhealthy cycle of resolution and relapse is not sustainable and is ultimately damaging to any sort of self-improvement for the future. The media doesn’t help, either, with January features centring around how to achieve a certain body shape or skin clarity, with the tone of the articles shaming rather than helping us to change.

With all this plus you’re back at work/uni plus you’ve got a cold coming on and your hair looks shite these days, January feel like a very long fog to get through. But there are ways to find the sun. I’m no life coach or wellness guru, but I know a thing or two about getting through hell in high heels (or ballet pumps, or indeed, Adidas).

  1. Buy an old-fashioned diary. One of those blue leather ones with gold lettering that you used to watch your mum write in. It’s more expensive than your average notebook, but consider it an investment for the rest of the year. Believe me, writing things down makes them far easier to deal with.
  2. Drink more water. It doesn’t matter if you’re detoxing or not this month, drinking as much water as you can will make you feel lighter and give you more energy to do the things you’ve put off.
  3. Do something touristy at least every fortnight. I recently went to the National Museum after living in this city for over three years and never having been. It was a revelation and a great place to get away from the Saturday hustle and bustle in the street.
  4. Call someone you haven’t spoken to in a while. If you’ve ever got the feeling you’ve forgotten to do something but can”t remember what, it’s usually this. Friend or family, giving someone a ring is effective in making you feel like a weight has come off your shoulders.
  5. Give yourself a foot massage. Or give someone else a foot massage. Or get someone else to give you a foot massage.
  6. Get up an hour earlier one morning and go for a walk before you start your day. Listen to a podcast or playlist or nothing at all. It will clear your head and make you feel more prepared for your day.
  7. Buy an electric blanket. This is another great investment that I have never looked back on. Winter is not going away anytime soon and heating is expensive, so an electric blanket will get you through many a chilly night. Alternatively, acquire a tall person for your bed, as these people can act as a cosy cage for your cold little cockles to warm up in. Usually cheaper than electric blanket, but be warned : may become attached.

If all else fails, here’s a fantastic recipe for banana bread cookies. Happy 2017!


Why I Believe in the Magic of Christmas Shopping


If there’s one thing that makes people shrivel up like a raisin at the mere thought of it, it’s Des Lynam in the nude. If there’s another, it’s Christmas shopping.

Not only does it represent probably one of the nastiest features of the Pagan festival, but it can be a brain-melting, patience-sapping experience. Do you ever find yourself stuck behind a turgid, congested throng of human beings making their way though a doorway and think to yourself, “I bet there’s somebody at the front of this crowd languidly sauntering along the pathway, head in the clouds, browsing at their leisure because they have all the  time in the world to window-shop and waste other people’s precious time.” You imagine this person being a self-centred sociopath with a hook-nose, a criminal record and most disturbing of all, a pram.

But for some reason, I hold these infuriating elements of the Christmas shopping experience close to my hate-filled heart. I complain about them with a kind of affection, that I only reserve for my older brother and the Royal Mail.

I like going into shops to see gifts lined out for everyone to mull over, to wonder whether Jason would like that, to think about whether it’s really Helen’s style, to wonder how in the world you finally found the perfect gift for the hardest person to buy a present for.

The cashier working in Boots is polite, but you can tell she can’t wait for her last shift so she can finally get a proper break and be able to give the people she loves the things that she thinks they will love.


The kids are off school so families are out in packs -and for some reason Christmas makes unruly toddlers and crying babies a little easier to take. After all, Jesus was a crying baby once too, so maybe we soften more to the wailing at Christmas. Baby Jesus probably woke up everyone staying at the Inn. One is only human – even the son of God probably got on the guests’ nerves.* I am not a kid person, but I can’t help cracking a smile when a young, innocent little munchkin waves at the man dressed in a Santa suit riding in the Santa bus and him waving right back. Their eyes always sparkle with wonder and excitement, emotions we have tried to suppress in adulthood, because it’s not cool and shut up Santa, we have to check Facebook.

It’s dark by four o’clock these days and the twinkling lights in the street against the backdrop of the pitch-black night cloaks the sky – it’s romantic, melancholy and nostalgic all at the same time. There’s always a Christmas busker singing carols nearby, voice nearly being drowned out by Fairytale of New York blaring from the pub  around the corner and everyone is bound together by a common goal – to get to Christmas Day. There’s a sense of anticipation in the atmosphere and as you cross the street or come outside a shop, you might catch a brief whiff of vanilla or cinnamon or nutmeg or something that makes you think about a time when you were young and naive and maybe misinformed, but when Christmas was genuinely the absolute best time of the year.


Happy Christmas, everyone!

Style hero of the month : julia roberts in mystic pizza

As anyone with Netflix or Amazon Prime knows all too well, choosing a movie from their plethora of cinematic possibilities is akin to choosing a seat on a plane – even when you eventually choose one, there’s always a possibility you’ll end up regretting your decision. You might end up sitting next to a family with three screaming children on the plane and coming to the end of a movie depressed and empty (thanks for the massive downer, Still Alice). Most of the time when I’m scrolling through the minefield of motion pictures, I end up closing it down and putting on an episode of Seinfeld.

So the other night, after finishing and handing in my last university assessment for this term after weeks of stress, I decided to have a chilled one with a glass of red and a good flick. Something I hadn’t seen before. After a few scrolls, a title caught my eye – Mystic Pizza. I’d always meant to watch it, hearing of its cult status as well as being known for launching the career of Notting Hill darling Julia Roberts, but it was only until now that I happened to be in the right frame of mind for something new.

This is not a movie review of Mystic Pizza. I am not going to dissect the storylines of the three women it centres around or evaluate the minutae of each scene. This is a post about the character of Daisy Arujo (Roberts) and why she is my new style icon.

This is the 1980’s glory days of big hair and big collars. It is also the decade of notoriously horrific bridesmaids dresses. This is the dress in which we first see Daisy.


The main feature here, of course, is the hair. Even scraped up in a fussy updo, it refuses to be tamed.

Then it comes down and looks in. Cred.


This girl looks good working the long hours at a pizza joint. The hair should always be down, really. That said, I worry for the customers. I can’t imagine they’d appreciate on of those auburn tendrils in their 10-inch Quattro Formaggi.

What does Daisy do once she’s finished her shift? Head to the pub to sink a pint or four, obviously.


Okay, so more specfically, she heads to the bar to shoot pool and a couple of Coors Lights. But look at what she’s wearing – a red cardigan that looks like she nicked it off her gran, teamed with a tight black mini? The 80’s, man. It was a wild time.

Of course, this is where she has some serious eye – sex with the dreamy posho she’s been lusting after for a while.


Subsequently kicking his privileged arse at pool.


Looking foxy as per.

Fast-forward to when she’s showing off her new swag to her more reserved sister, hair looking sheeny-shiny and wild. The dress is killer, obviously. I sorely long for the days when women could wear a dress with a massive white bow stretched over their cleavage and nobody would give them a weird look.


You can see vibes of Vivian Ward here. You almost wonder where Richard Gere has buggered off to, leaving his paramour to buy a gorgeous dress with her own card and having to return it afterwards, too.


Again, another aran knit she probably shares with her auntie Maude. But teamed with an unruly ponytail, theatrical gold earrings and a cold one, it looks chic AND cosy. The dream. Shoutout to her sister Jojo for setting the ’90s flannel trend before it happened. Thanks for the ugliest fashion trend that won’t go away, Jo.


Pink stonewashed oversized denim jacket. Because what else does one wear when introducing your country-club boy to yer ma?


It is an understood fact that nobody wore smart/casual in the ’80s without a Big Belt. It was like the rosary beads of ’80s fashion.


Daisy is invited to Posho’s cabin in the country, which means she’s likely to get lucky. What does Daisy wear to bring that boy to the yard? A purple-and-black striped poloneck looking like a reject from the Beetlejuice costume closet and a sheepskin-lined aviator jacket. With supersleek hair. What kind of game is this woman playing? What is her deal? Can she pull?


Can she heck.

Because God is good and true, we get another scene to appreciate that aviator jacket. Over a denim jacket.


Then we get to appreciate Daisy being a crazy badass


Pouring sewage over Posho’s car because you mistaked his sister for his bit on the side is inadvisable, but at least she’s looking damn fashionable doing it.


Making a mental note to always wear my t-shirt sleeves rolled up. Also, where can I buy this t-shirt?!

Dinner with the Posho’s family. Wearing another massive bow.


Also, approximately how much hairspray would it take to get my hair into a poofy crown like that? It’s divine.

It just occurred to me that all this may all sound like I’m being sarcastic or ironic. But I don’t think you understand my fascination with the OTT-ness of the ’80s. The bigger and brighter, the better!


How does she get that one errant tendril to fall perfectly from the poof? What kind of mystic?(sorry)


Finally, the wedding is back on and we get a better look at just how atrocious and awesome the bridesmaid dress is. Off-the-shoulder taffeta will never not cause a stir. I also love the flower crown, reminding me of an era where flower crowns weren’t ridiculously overdone and cloying, associated with Pinterest boards and hipster bridezillas.

Now do you see? Do you see how Julia Roberts single-handedly won the crown of “smalltown girl living in a lonely world” ’80s fashion icon status? The film was a pleasure but the style, oh the style, was a revolution. People will always credit Pretty Woman for Roberts’ mark on fashion history, but I think Mystic Pizza has a strong case for making it cool to wear your sister’s skirt with your granny’s cardi.





The beauty of the darker days


My mum has a saying for this time of year – “The nights are fair drawin’ in.” It’s basically Ulster slang for “the days are getting dark early”. You always know it’s officially the end of summer when the mornings are not as bright and the walk home in the evening gets darker.

A lot of people I know moan constantly about this phenomenon. “It’s so depressing”, they say. “End of summer, back to reality.” But I feel like they just can’t see all the beautiful parts of autumn/winter. So let me enlighten:

  1. Darker evenings mean more excuses: “I’ve got to get a taxi because I don’t want to walk home in the dark”; “It’s too dark to go out running now-best just run myself a bath instead”; “Look how dark it’s getting! I’d love to stay and study more but I’ve got to put on the dinner” and so on. Darkness is offering up so many excuses for you to shed your stresses. Take advantage.
  2. Dark, cold evenings mean less smart summer salads and more hearty, warming comfort food. Soups, stews and squash casserole recipes pervade the weekend paper, just waiting for you to try them out. These dishes come without guilt due to the fact that it’s two degrees outside and you need a big bowl of chowder to warm you up after coming in from the cold.
  3. Candles can be lit earlier. Does this need elaboration? Treat yourself to one of those expensive candles that smell like vanilla dessert in a forest. I love this one from Anthropologie.
  4. It is officially too cold not to study in your bed with the electric blanket on. All the blankets. All the time.
  5. Long walks in the park, wrapped up in your cosiest winterwear, walking through the piles of autumn leaves, tickling your nostalgia bone and getting brought back to when you were eight years old, searching for conkers with your best friend, still in your school uniforms.
  6. Dressing in as many layers as you can, not worrying about being too warm, because you know it’ll be baltic outside every day. Velvet, chenille, cashmere, Aran-wear it all, because it’s all seasonally appropriate.
  7. There’s a romance about the colder months that I can fully appreciate as a single woman – walking past couples wrapped around each other for warmth, the atmosphere of tall lanterns lighting up the park, gloved hands ceremoniously clasped together.
  8. The holidays – Halloween, Guy Fawkes, Christmas – they all bring us different memories and we all bemoan the decorations coming out too early in the shops. But we all not-so-secretly adore them.

Emotional Expense


It’s a quiet Sunday and there’s nothing else for it. The purse hasn’t been out in a while and it’s getting a bit antsy. Sure, it’s been to the local Sainsbury’s and back, maybe it’s been taken out in front of the sexy coffee barista early in the morning in the past couple of days. But no, it hasn’t seen the silky-smooth cream till of Zara or the faux-artisan wooden cashier at Anthropologie in donkeys. Now, it can almost sense the feeling of restlessness in its owner. Emotions are running high, dissertation proposal deadlines are looming, dracula-like, over the head of its master and it knows, keenly, that shit is about to get real.

Is there a wake-up call quite as blantant as purchasing a £16 Vanilla & Fig candle from Anthropologie when you can barely afford to feed yourself? I doubt it. But the expensive indulgence is so seductive. For a sweet, clandestine moment, a broke student with serious anxiety about future employment can pretend that buying a candle in Anthrologie is something they can justify by whipping out their monthly income. The thing is, I don’t have a monthly income. I have money from my summer job and a student loan that makes me feel guilty any time I spend it on something frivolous (see: £16 candle).

On balance, the guilt I do feel at spending small-ish amounts of money frequently outweighs the pleasure I feel from the item itself. Is it just me? So many of my purchases lie at the bottom of my wardrobe after a few wears because they were emotional purchases, fueled not by true desire, but impulse. Feel as sorry for them as you feel for the other woman used by a cheat to fulfil an urge, then left alone in bed the next morning as they return to their long-term partner.

Of course, there are exceptions – many of my impulse buys have been sale items I had to have there and then, which subsequently turned into long-loved staples. But they are the exception and the money I’ve seen on my bank statements that has been wasted on purchases that mean I have a smaller budget for buying Christmas presents fills me with sorrow.

So I’ve decided: instead of buying items that take my attention on a sneaky trip to Zara, I will only buy items that are truly gorgeous, that I can see being in my wardrobe forever. No more trend pieces unless I think they can last pass the fad (cropped waist-tied trousers, you’re still on trial). So it looks like the purse will have to make do with being whipped out at Aldi every week, only to buy broccoli and feta cheese . My purse won’t feel good, but I will.


Grooming In Public



Lately I’ve been musing that one of the less rewarding parts of “growing up” (look at me all grown-up, with my inverted commas) is learning social grace. Learning to assimilate oneself with the common people.

Oftentimes this means learning to conceal or eradicate one’s personal quirks. How sad that we have to un-learn things that we did while we were at our most carefree. For example, when I was younger, in my more innocent days, I would wear the weirdest, most out-there outfits I could put together just so that I was standing out from the crowd. People stared and whispered, but I cared not a jot. My theory was that people’s opinions shouldn’t affect how we behave.The idea that it should, made no sense to me. On some level, it still makes no sense to me. Why should we let petty judgement affect how we act?

In terms of social behaviour, what makes sense is never usually the point. We seem to adhere to a set of rules that go unquestioned. They are rarely mused upon because they seem insignificant, but consider the fact that these rules impact our everyday lives and yet they are followed without criticism?

One aspect of this is public grooming.

(I hope I didn’t make any typos there.)

Today I found myself with an empty can of deodorant. So while running various other errands, I picked up a can of deodorant at Boots. But a question: where to spray? I wanted to do it right then and there in the middle of Prince’s Street; I could smell myself after I rode my bike into the city centre and the scent wasnot an attractive one. So I would have preferred to fix the problem as soon as possible. What was stopping me? Social grace. I eventually cycled across the town and did it in the uni bathrooms. But what would have been so wrong about doing it then and there? Does it make others uncomfortable to see others in a state of…indignity? Is it undignified to deodorise oneself? Does it spoil my mysterious allure? Applying lipstick, brushing your hair, plucking your eyebrows – these all reside on a scale of what is and isn’t considered acceptable to do in a public space.

Is it a sort-of sexist thing too? Calm down, guys, just exploring a thought. Women generally have more gender-specific grooming options than men. Would we think twice about a man stopping in the street to use some anti-persiprant? Perhaps society would like to think women wake up in the morning with neat hair, neat eyebrows and all the while smelling good, despite running for the 8:30 bus, only for the driver to drive on despite you rapping you sweaty palms on the door?

The feminine mystique is a myth. Whether you groom every detail of your form or just stick to spraying on a bit of Sure when you wake up, few of us get up without considering ourselves. So why can’t we let anyone else in on the secret? The guy beside you on the 8:45 bus (I was 15 minutes late, thanks for asking) probably did something like you did this morning, whether it was plucking a stray chin hair or running a hand through his highlights, it was something. So stop being so bashful, blow away the smoke and whip out the mirrors to check your blush – and let it be from Benefit’s Dallas powder, not embarrassment.

Calling All Health Food Gurus: Please leave my party – and take your avocado brownies with you

Why the “wellness” craze is just as bad as the next fad diet – and probably that thing you smell.


Recently, when Googling “brownie recipe”, one of the first recipes I was met with was one for “gluten-free avocado brownies.” A frown, step back and sigh. What fresh hell?

It’s not that I hate avocado. I actually quite like spreading some on a slice of Brennan’s brown with a squeeze of lemon and a perfectly poached egg. It appeals to my inner koala bear. The point it becomes an issue is when it tries to worm its way into my brownies.

Look: if I wanted green brownies, I’d ask my friend’s pothead boyfriend to make some for me. But avocado brownies don’t send me to heaven with a smile, they make me feel like I’ve made one of those terrible snack combinations you make when you’re just in from a massive bender and raiding the fridge for literally anything edible that you can smush in between two slices of wheaten.

When it comes to “bad food”, I’m a serious purist. I won’t tolerate alternatives to my food-related mischief. But today’s wellness brigade is telling me different. It’s an inescapable movement hellbent on making you spiralise courgettes like a madman, detract gluten from muffins and use almond milk (which is actually almond water), instead of regular milk in your bowl of Golden Nuggets, as if that’s going to make any difference. I’m eating Golden Nuggets, for God’s sake. I’m a lost cause.

These impossibly lively-looking, peppy, flicky-haired health gurus remind me of the Hare Krishnas that parade around the city centre once in a while, wearing dresses and deranged smiles, dancing around you and insisting that you will lead a better life just by reading their leaflet, listening to their CD and allowing God to come into your life. But whereas most of secular society know that having God in your life is more cumbersome than not having him in it, like a distant cousin crashing on your sofa for a month as they try to “catch a break”, modern society has grasped onto the Wellness Brigade’s parables like the second coming, with Deliciously Ella standing on the pedestal in her Free People off-white peasant dress and wicker sandals, telling of greener pastures and greener smoothies, healing the sick with gluten-free banana bread and putting the sinners on the better path with blueberry-quinoa puddings. It’s as if the entire Western world have turned into rabid wellness zombies, bingeing on kale chips like it’s going to turn them into Gwyneth bloody Paltrow, when in fact the kale probably lost all nutritional value through the cooking process and has been glazed with enough oil to make the chips taste semi-normal, so that they are probably just as fattening as a packet of good old fashioned cheese ‘n’ onion Kettle Chips. God, I’d love a Kettle Chip right about now.

You can’t enter the cookery section of a bookshop these days without a thousand titles screaming at you to just slice up some beetroot, glaze with Albanian linseed oil, season with rosemary plucked from the garden of a rich Mongolian widow, cook in an antique clay oven resurrected from the Roman Empire for forty days and forty nights, sprinkle with green Slovakian sea salt and it will be a hit for brunch with friends. Every single smiling maniac is telling you that you can eat pasta every day and still fit into those size eights, as long as you eat the pasta uncooked with no sauce, just a sprinkle of salt and pepper. Purple pepper, only available from Thai monks. Price upon request, so good luck contacting the monastery.

I tried spiralising once with a “Kitchenmate” and was left, predictably, hungry and dissatisfied. Food should not make you feel like that. We deserve better. Kitchenmates are not your real mates. Or they’re the kind of mates that take picture of you while you throw up a veggie kebab on the street, or tell you that you can’t pull off high-waisted shorts because your bum’s too big. Kitchenmates are jealous of your jelly, they ain’t ready for it. They wish to make you weak as a courgette, so they may spiralise you into an anaemic wreck of curly vegetable slices.

Alright look, I might be exaggerating slightly. I’m sure there are some “health gurus” who actually believe the jargon they peddle relentlessly and want others to benefit from their life of enlightenment and permanent meditative state. But it seems that the wellness wagon is creaking under the weight of so many tagalongs, so many tourists looking to hop on while the going’s good (and the profits are high). It’s become a carnival of herbivorian insanity. It’s infiltrated our cookbook section, our supermarkets, our lunch spots. Where once there was the option of sausage in a bap or veggie sausage in a bap, there is now halloumi and courgette on rye and chickpea and cousous salad, served with artisanal brown bread (okay, admittedly, artisanal bread is actually rather tasty, if overpriced). Your ice creams are now frozen yoghurt, because the movement dictates that it tastes the same with half the fat, which is as ludicrous as suggesting you get one bowl of side chips instead of two. It’s shaving the layer of fat off the top of your life, leaving you with a watery liquid resembling what Oliver Twist wanted another bowl of in the orphanage.

I like sugar. I like gluten. I like carbohydrates and refined flour and all the beautiful preservatives that preside in my chocolate. Additionally, I’m not one of those mad addicts you see late at night on ITV2. I don’t casually eat massive blocks of cheese on the bus at every hour of the day.  I’m under no apprehensions that eating these foods in excess is good for me. But I know that eating it in moderation won’t do much harm either. There’s nothing wrong with eating gluten unless you really are intolerant of it and as long as you keep it within reason, which everyone was probably doing anyway, before they even knew what it was. Common sense dictates that you shouldn’t eat bad stuff all the time. Not the whole bottle of wine every day. Not the whole box of chocolates. Choke down a couple of salads now and again. Fruits and vegetables are good for you and your body. Cigarettes and cocaine, unfortunately, are not. But one or two full-fat, high-sugar brownies on the weekend won’t kill you.

Furthermore, adding avocado instead of eggs doesn’t mean you can eat more of them. It’s just that eating the avocado brownie won’t be as much fat, but will also taste worse. So my view is – if you’re going to be bad, be bad. Follow it through. Do it right. Life’s too short to mess around with one lovely sweet artificial-sugar-filled brownie, which is much more satisfying than three of Deliciously Ella’s no-gluten no-sugar high-fibre low-calorie avocado brownies. Doing an extra lap in the swimming pool is a small price to pay for having the thing that you like, the thing that puts a spring in your step during a hard day.

So I await in my chocolate palace for the inevitable backlash that usually follows trends like these. Once the wellness cookbooks disappear from the Bestsellers table, I anticipate the replacement to be titles such as Just Be Bad, Eat Sugar Be Happier, Fat’s okay in Moderation, Who Wants Abs Anyway?, et cetera. Look out for my own cookbook, out soon, called “Just Eat The Damn Brownie.”

Keyboard Fear – and Other Excuses

Hello my friends. I come to you from the rock I have apparently been hiding under for the past several months. My absence is inexcusable – unless you count binge-watching Gilmore Girls and overdosing on Margaritas (both cocktail and pizza form) in Crete valid excuses. Which I personally do. But nonetheless, it is far from the professional I attempt to present.

So what’s the deeper reason for my neglect? This blog hasn’t dropped out of my head. I actually started another blog for my university course called Space Oddity Mag (http://jmercer180.wix.com/spaceodditymag), so I was doing something useful with my time. But for some reason, over the summer, whenever this blog came into my mind and I thought “Flip, I should really get back on that”, I managed to find something to procrastinate with.

i think part of the reason for my reluctance to approach the keyboard again is something I’d call The Keyboard Fear. Because the only thing worse than procrastinating is attempting to write something of value and substance, only to churn out 3000 characters of crap. I felt uninspired and disillusioned with it all; what’s the point in writing an entire article on something people probably don’t care about? Isn’t it a slightly more sophisticated form of the Youtube comments section?

Then suddenly and unexpectedly, I was jolted back to life by a bolt of lightning in the form of a brilliant newsletter. Sunday Times Style columnist Dolly Alderton has written a regular blog that witters about the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of today’s popular culture and society. What’s more-it’s brilliant. Usually reading opinion pieces can be a veritable snoozefest, but Alderton’s style is such that it’s a proper delight to read in the morning or after work (okay, even during work). Her writing voice is infectious and hilarious, her tone self-effacing and down-to-earth.

I read her articles because I genuinely enjoy her style and want to hear her thoughts on the recent motions in culture. This is what compelled me to start writing again. Because having a talent for writing can mean that you actually connect with people through how you share your opinions and commentary on the world.

So begins an attempt to keep up a momentum of posts and flooding your brains with my inane, but hopefully, in some small part, enjoyable rants.

(Let’s see how that one goes.)



Why Lana Del Rey is the female narrative we’ve all been waiting for


When I was young, and even to this day, my favourite book was Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. After nicking it off my older brother, I found myself devouring it over the course of a month. I would have finished it sooner, had I not been enjoying it so much and wanting to stretch it out for as long as possible. There was something about the bitter, self-contradictory narrative that resonated with me to a level no other novel had before. The desire for closeness to another human being without sexual activity, yet desire for sexual closeness without wanting to be sexual at all was my entire teenage existence. I had never come across anyone in real life who felt this way; but even though Holden Caulfield was fictional, I saw him as a real person who I could relate to when my peers didn’t measure up. To this day, every other novel has paled in comparison.

But as a girl growing up with these emotions, it often irked me that there were rarely any stories were girls were this complicated. There were few coming-of-age stories for girls that I could relate to. Most of them were concerned with teenage pregnancies and mean girls, and were written in a soapy, flimsy fashion. These girls usually had a crowd of friends they talked to endlessly about the boys they liked. I was unmoved; the boys I was surrounded by didn’t compel me-they were immature and sex-obsessed. There were no stories of disillusionment with adults and society, at least to my knowledge.

Of course, it was only in my twenties that I discovered The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, which was almost the female equivalent of Catcher. But even then, it seems to me that the stories we are told about men are complex and ask existentialist questions that are difficult for most of us to answer-whereas stories we are told about women are usually answered in 30-minute intervals in some tawdry sitcom or unrealistic drama.

So it is that we start to look for a complex female narrative; someone who speaks to us in a way we can relate to. Where not everything is always sunshine and roses and cupcakes with vanilla frosting.

Enter Lana Del Rey. With an aesthetic that drums up images of 90s rap legends and 60s pinup girls simutaneously, she evokes a brazen sexuality with a glow of deep sadness. Her image may suggest sexuality and conformity, but look longer and you’ll see that she doesn’t intend her image for the male gaze; and if it does capture them, she’s not interested. Famous for her refusal to pander to the media, she eschews the peppy demeanour of your Perrys and Swifts in favour of a darkness that we rarely see in our female pop musicians. She sings that you’re her daddy, but she also hates your guts. She sings about feeling deeply depressed and not knowing why; rebelling without a cause and kissing men who’ll never truly know her. Hers is a story we rarely hear-she’s destructive and wild and drives down the highway with abandon. But while critics applauded Kerouac for his run-on sentences and nonsensical acid-fuelled narrative, they revile Del Rey’s own Beatnik beats, insisting her lyrics are foamy, substance-less fluff. Because while men have complex souls of which we may never know the true depth, apparently women exist as shallow pools to be carelessly walked through for the convenience of men.

Many may criticize Del Rey’s lyrics as being mostly concerned with men as the basis for her existence. One can see why-it’s true that most of her lyrics plead for men to love her, to notice her, to be both kind and cruel-but it’s this tragic narrative that makes her all the more compelling. I’m all for female independence and girl-power anthems, but I’m also for exposure of the darker depths of women’s psyche. If that happens to be a longing for her man to love her, so be it. It’s delivered with a thoughtfulness and moroseness that is lacking in most female musicians’ discography. She writes rhythmic poetry in place of catchy hooks. Her self-aware sonnet “Fucked My Way Up To The Top” is a nod to press speculation about her. She refuses to censor.

There are more female singers out there are doing something different in music-Lorde, Ladyhawke and Robyn to name a few-but there is something cathartic about Del Rey’s mournful musings on love and life. She creates her own story of tragedy, all without being a big old phony.

The boys, the girls, they all like Carmen
She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes
She laughs like God, her mind’s like a diamond
Audio tune lies, she’s still shining
Like lightning, ohh, white lightning

-Lana Del Rey, Carmen