I’ve come home to Sussex, to the warm bosom of my family this Christmas, and for the first time in years it’s a full house: all three sisters and their husband/boyfriends. J’s been on son-in-law duty (i.e. much flattering of my mother and drinking with my father.) He’s sat patiently during lengthy table conversations in which we women reminisce and rant, counsel and console (J said it’s like a home counties hybrid of Gossip Girl and The Brady Bunch.) Whenever it starts to verge on group therapy, all the men drift off in search of the nearest TV...

My parents, ever concerned about their children’s hectic city lives, have insisted that we all just ‘relax/take it easy/put our feet up’ - which means I’ve been pretty much supine since Christmas Day. Cooking and eating are high on the list of activities here, and as I’m no good at the former I’ve had to focus all my energy on the latter. My body is now yearning to walk or run, but the inclement weather has forced me to remain slothful.

On Boxing Day, we all watched family home movies that, miraculously, none of us girls could remember seeing before. My father had a giant boxy camera thing in the 80’s that he lugged about on his shoulder. Although I found it excruciating at the time, I now applaud his initiative to go and film us all at school - on the school bus, at assembly, at lunch, in dance classes – surrounded by all the adorable faces of our childhood chums.

Its so nostalgia inducing, I feel compelled to digitise the film and send it to the girls I’m still in contact with 25 years on: the once fresh-faced pixies who now, like me, trawl the beauty columns in women’s magazines in search of elixirs of youth. When I hit thirty I morphed from being ‘young’ to ‘looking good for my age’. I suddenly couldn’t kid myself that those were dehydration lines any longer and it’s been a quest ever since.

An aforementioned Pixie got me hooked on Oskia this year (www.oskia.com) Its a British natural skincare range that zones in on premature ageing and skin cell rebuilding, using highly effective, nutritionally designed ingredients. Every month they showcase one of those nutrients on their website and culinary wizard Thomasina Miers uses it to inspire a recipe (this month it’s Niacinimide which is found in abundance in sweet potatoes. Check out her Sweet Potato and Feta Frittata.)

Niacinimide is in their Bedtime Beauty Boost, which is now a firm favourite of mine. It feeds my skin overnight with 11 beauty boost ‘actives’, which gives me a gorgeous dewy glow in the morning (Pixie says it’s like one of our midnight feasts of old, minus the mini-Mars bars and Wotsits...)

And because it doesn’t have an overpowering scent, J likes to lather it on too (enough is enough, though - I got him his own pot for Christmas.) I also use their Perfect Cleanser – a balm that turns into a cleansing milk on contact with water.
Zinc is the key ingredient and Thomasina recommends eating oysters, famed for their aphrodisiac effect. I have some in the fridge in London, in mind for a light champagne supper when we return this evening. J’s been on best behaviour all Christmas. And there’s no need for the Noughties to end just yet...

Scarlett Willow

A bunch of us went to St Paul’s Church in Knightsbridge on Thursday night to sing Carols by Candlelight in aid of Macmillan Cancer Research.
We merrily belted out all the old favourites, often with more vigour than was perhaps socially appropriate…

As I mentioned last week, singing is not one of J’s strong points. I, however, like to think I can hold a tune, and as we shuffled out I got all puffed up when a friend remarked that I ‘sang like canary’. J ricocheted back and burst my bubble with: ‘More like a drain, darling… a blocked drain.’ So he’d read my blog post then.

I was about to retort, when we stepped outside the church to mince pies, ginger wine and giant falling snowflakes. It was all so Richard Curtis, our tiff instantly evaporated in the cold night air. It was pure enchantment. Then our mob piled into a tiny wood-panelled pub for mulled wine, and it began to feel positively Dickensian.

It’ll be such a shame when snowy winters in London are a thing of the past (though The Mayor and the city’s fragile transport system will probably be relieved.)

Next week I’m having a Christmas drinks party at home. I’ve left it right to the last minute, but thankfully there’s still a good gaggle of people around. I was thinking of going retro with the canapés: vol-au-vents, cheese and pineapple cubes and the ultimate classic - cocktail sausages on a stick. Grilled to crispy on the outside and smothered in gooey honey mustard, the humble cocktail sausage is always a sure-fire hit (…but murder on your baking tins.)

I’ve asked my heaven-sent cleaning lady from Brazil to help out on the night. She doesn’t speak a word of English, but last year she was the talk of the party: I wanted the luxury of talking to my guests without bobbing about, so I left it to her to arrange the canapés and hand them round.

Now, the canapés must have been good, because every time I looked over at her, she was eating. I didn’t mind, only my friends kept mentioning it to me, which meant that that it snowballed into a conversation topic. I was amazed she was still chewing when we walked to the door and I paid her. She must have been ravenous! Then I realized. She was chewing gum.

It’s also our office Christmas lunch next week. There are only four of us, so we’ve scooped up other stragglers who have tiny teams, and joined forces. I’m reticent to divulge where we’re going as it’s my favourite restaurant, tiny and always packed. But as it’s the season for sharing…we’re going to Uli in Notting Hill (www.uli-oriental.co.uk)

It’s pan-Asian and my top dish there is the Mongolian lamb, shredded in a delicious sauce and served in a crisp lettuce cup. The chilli beef and the crispy duck with pancakes are two other highlights of mine. 

It’s run by Michael from Singapore. We’re on first name terms because I’ve been going there for a decade.  He’s seen me on various dates of varying success. He’s put on CD’s (probably a long forgotten ‘Now…’ compilation) and seen me dancing with friends until either tiredness or nausea set in. I needn’t say more. Like cheese and fruit on a stick, some things are better left in the past…

Scarlett Willow

Pines and Needles

J was seething with jealousy over my mooch around Fortnums last week. He got even more wound up when I told him about their Christmas decorations that I mentioned in my last blog. You see, I managed to marry man with something of a short circuit: he likes shopping, loves entertaining, and at Christmas time he gets more excited than a five year old.
Come mid-November he's ready to buy a tree, but I usually manage to keep him calm until the first weekend of December. Then it's off to Battersea Park in London on Saturday morning for a long - and hopefully frosty - walk. We end up in the Chelsea car park alongside the Thames, where Pines and Needles (http://www.pinesandneedles.com/) have set up a fabulous selection of fresh cut trees to choose from.
The two strapping young brothers who run it, grow their lush trees on their farm in Scotland and donate 10% of their profits to charity. Not only can their kilted team deliver and decorate your tree, but they also dispose of them via recycling in January. This all has huge appeal for your average time-constrained adult not bothered about baubles. Not J however - who loves their trees, but once he's picked the perfect pine, is fully and solely committed to Project Decorate (I'm allowed on board, but only in an advisory capacity...)
He has a few rules, I've noticed. Number one: no tinsel (he says it's the Christmas tree equivalent of white socks in black loafers.) Number two: no coloured lights (same reason as Number one.) Number three: no popcorn (I got this idea from the film Kramer vs Kramer - threaded popcorn on a string! A snack and ornament in one! J disagreed...)
He'd like to use real candles in the tree but this sets off all my alarm bells, so it's been vetoed.

I would assert more creative authority on Project Decorate, if he didn't produce something so exquisite every year - all by himself. With white lights and a controlled amount of colour, it always looks simple and enchanting - and never tacky.
Five Decembers ago, we went to Vienna for a long weekend, which coincided with the city's Christmas market. Log cabins were stuffed with unique handcrafted ornaments made from straw, blown glass and carved wood (...how they whittle a miniature nativity scene on the inside of walnut shell, I'll never know.)
Fortfied with gluhwein (their lethal mulled wine) we bought in bulk. As a result, our tree looks less commercial, and somehow more meaningful.
It's depressing to think Coca Cola cemented the image of the plump and pudgy, red-suited Santa Claus that's now synonymous with our Christmas. But the rest of Europe still revere St Nicholas, in red robes with his long white beard. Legend has it that he secured marriages for two poor girls without dowries, by throwing bags of gold through their window one night. The gold landed in their stockings that were hanging by the fire to dry, spawning the Christmas Eve tradition. Across much of Europe, gift giving in the name of St Nicholas takes place on December 6th, so that Christmas itself can be devoted to birth of Jesus.
When our extended families get together on the 25th, we always sing carols around the piano, to get us into the true spirit of Christmas. Now, singing...that's something J is hopeless at.

Scarlett Willow

Fortnums to the Rescue

I've been at war with a computer virus this week. My poor (admittedly rather ancient) laptop was attacked and I couldn't save it. It's been a frightening, infuriating and pitiful saga that completely overwhelmed and defeated me. I went to look at shiny, new replacements on Oxford St but felt so resentful of the computer geek responsible, that I just couldn't focus properly on the task. Surrounded by cheerful Christmas shoppers and much festive good will, I was having violent fantasies of throttling the evil little virus villain.

I tried to calm my racing mind with a gentle perambulation to Piccadilly, via the glamour of Old Bond Street. Rain was threatening to dampen my spirits further, when I turned the corner and came face to face with Fortnum & Masons. Looking like a scrumptious cake with icing of pale green, purple and gold, its bells were chiming a whimsical tune as the figurines of Mr Fortnum and Mr Mason appeared from behind the clock face.

The store windows were strewn with rose petals, white feathers and silver baubles, and displayed their renowned hampers stuffed with Christmas goodies of champagne, port, pies and stollen. It was all so marvellously traditional, so gloriously old school. Reminiscent of days before we were slaves to technology and at the mercy of the microchip.

This quintessential English luxury goods emporium dates back to 1707 and really is steeped in old world charm. Looking for refuge, I stepped over the threshold onto the raspberry carpet and was confronted with the confectionary department: jars of rainbow bright boiled sweets, assortments of decadent chocolates and rows of candied fruits shined under the light of the crystal chandeliers. It was an optical feast! Elegantly decorated Christmas trees were dotted about and with ‘Swan Lake’ as a running theme, the graceful bird appeared frequently throughout the store.

I ventured upstairs in the wood panelled elevator. The first floor was heady with the scent of dried oranges, apples and cinnamon from festive wreaths and decorations  (my husband J is such a nut for Christmas, he would have bought the lot in an instant.) A grandfather clock stood majestically beside a fireplace lined with stuffed stockings and boxes of crackers adorned with stars and crowns were stacked high.

I gravitated towards the chequered floor of the Cookshop and was reassured to see SW Very Vintage and Susan Crawford placemats in full view. I had a little snoop around for presents and the tea cosies from Poppy Treffry quickly caught my eye. I then fell head over heels for Julia Roxburgh’s luridly colourful tea sets inspired by the circus. The teapot lids are jesters’ hats flourished with golden baubles and are deliciously gaudy (sense of humour definitely required.)

Through to the tea parlour, where they had on display a collection of sorbets so tempting (strawberry and balsamic vinegar, bellini, clementine…) that you’d be forgiven for overlooking the bitterness of winter outside. For me, Fortnums was beginning to feel like a warm oasis, with a generous splash of fairytale. When I finally descended the grand staircase gift laden (and with emotional equilibrium restored) I felt grateful for the therapy of some good old-fashioned retail.  

Scarlett Willow

Sniff out a bargain..

October is when the sniffing and snuffling officially starts, and I don’t mean flu. It’s the beginning of the white truffle season. Eager little pigs are led by leash across the thick forests of Italy to root out the revered fungus. As its rarity makes it upwards of £900 per pound, this is the lowly swine’s chance to shine (and shake off some of that bad press.)

It’s sensitive nose and passion for the truffle makes its species the most adept at unearthing from the muck a delicacy deemed exquisite. Presented on many a prestigious plate, they were coined the ‘diamonds of the kitchen’ in 18th century France.

So, from haute cuisine to haute couture - the sample sales have begun. After all, a fabulous bargain is much like a truffle – a veritable diamond in the rough (and yes, during a good sale we girls are known to behave like pigs.)

I was invited to one at Libelula recently (www.libelula-studio.com). Renowned for their gloriously feminine dresses with colourful prints, I knew it would be a scrum (I’ve long been a fan, and was thrilled to collaborate on some placemats with them this year.) I got off to a bad start by getting lost on the industrial estate, looking for their HQ. I searched helplessly, imagining Libelula stock depleting with every wasted moment I spent in the car park. Until I saw some smug looking shoppers exiting a non-descript door, and I bolted straight in.

I found the office. And it was empty of shoppers! Delicate garments were hanging daintily from rails, each item heaven sent: A sweet black jacket with a stunning brooch, floaty chiffon blouses and one after another of killer dresses that manage to say sexy and elegant in the same breath. I was mid gasp over something, when I was gently told that this was all new season. The sample sale was in the room next door. Of course it had been too good to be true.

I stepped into pandemonium. In a small, airless room, yummy mummys were wading frantically through piles of garments, shoving each other and snorting with crazed glee. Their toddlers screamed in their bulky push chairs, horrified at the lack of attention and entertainment, as these women stripped down to their underwear. Surveying the scene I thought twice about entering the fray. Was it worth it? This ground had been pored over. But I’d come this far…

I joined the truffle pigs. Giving myself a time limit of 10 minutes (the screaming was unbearable…) I didn’t hold much hope. But on a final glance, I saw The One: a stunning long patterned dress in silk, with adorable cap sleeves. I swear I heard angels. With a quickening heartbeat, I found some privacy and tried it on. It was a perfect fit – on me, and for the festive season.

I paid the designer and discovered it was 85% off. She told me I’d undoubtedly dug out the best piece there, and she’d only put it out that morning on a whim. Well, I happily trotted home feeling like the prize piglet.


Scarlett Willow

Home to Roost...

When it comes to hen parties I’m a total chicken. I couldn’t bear to be in a gaggle of girls teetering about London late at night, festooned with cowboy hats, L-plates and determined enthusiasm. And hens abroad can be woefully/prohibitively expensive. So why fly the coop? When the round robin emails begin about where to go and what to do, I always chirp up with something a little more domestic - which need not mean dull.

I know I’m not the only one - my friend Samantha had hers at home this year.  It started with champagne and canapés served by a Butler in the Buff. Yes, folks - totally naked but for a tiny black pinny. What made it amusing (and adorable) was that while his physique was slightly flabby, his intellect wasn’t. He was a trainee doctor making some extra cash. With just the right combination of cheek (ahem) and skill, he set the tone for the evening of festivities.

So when I tentatively suggested to my sister that I throw her a hen party chez moi, I was relieved when she readily agreed. I called in some experts of my own – who happen to be both pert and professional. William ‘Archie’ Deal of ‘Archie’s at Home’ (www.archiesathome.com) remains fully clothed but cooks up a storm. His private dining service caters to every demand - we discussed my sister’s favourite foods, and he designed a seasonal tailor-made menu and ordered the appropriate wines.

William arrived at my home and swept into my kitchen, emerging perfectly on cue with drinks and canapés when the girls arrived. Luciana, my Brazilian beauty therapist, pampered us with manicures and the hen-pecking games began. After entertaining and embarrassing my sister in equal measure, we soon settled down to dinner at an impeccably laid table (courtesy of Will, not me.) We started with an espresso cup of cauliflower soup with truffle oil; then garlic prawns with herb risotto; seabass baked in salt bread and finally crème brulee followed by cheese…followed by a chorus of satisfied murmurings.

For a little light exercise I walked from the table to the kitchen, where I expected to see all the debris from William’s culinary extravaganza. Nothing. Not a spot. No evidence whatsoever. The dishwasher was already on, and William was polishing the champagne glasses.

I know his tactics, so I wasn’t too surprised, but I admit I was a little disappointed. For the clean up and grand finale, I’d been hoping he might wear the SW personalised apron I’d had made for my sister – The Gorgeous Mrs Gerlinger – which would be the first time she’d see her new name officially in print (albeit across a man’s chest). But with great humour and aplomb, he whisked off his ‘Archie’s’ apron, tied on my sister’s and presented her with a plate of after dinner truffles.

She gasped with delight! And with cooking/Milk Tray man duties completed, Archie’s at Home melted off into the night, leaving us chicks alone. Well fed and over refreshed, we told saucy tales and danced and laughed until the cock crowed

Scarlett Willow

The Hills Are Alive...

My darling sister is getting married. At just a year older than me, we’ve metamorphosed at similar times. From gap toothed grinning children to somewhat feisty, creative adults we gained and shed our plump chrysalises, found fulfilling careers and fell in love. And 18 months after J and I tied the knot, she’s now the blissful bride-to-be.

My other two sisters and I have been asked to be bridesmaids. Cue celebration! Tears! Hugging etc! But now that talk has turned sartorial, the jubilant mood has deflated, pin-pricked by fiendish pride and vanity…

Naturally, we (the united front of bridesmaids) want to wear something silky and slinky.
Whereas she (the indomitable Bride) would like us in something less…diverting.

Of course The Bride - much like the proverbial Customer - is always right. She’s impervious to pleas and resistant to challenge. Traditionally, it’s her vision, her show. Complaining would be feeble and futile.

But The Bride has recently upped the ante, and our imperceptible squeaks of protest are turning into squawks. She’s marrying an Austrian, with the wedding taking place in the Tyrolean mountains. The latest demand is that she wants us in full traditional Austrian dress - the dirndl.

Comprised of frilly blouse with puff ball sleeves, calf skimming dress and frumpy apron, the look is part beer maid, part fish wife - and completely humiliating. Trawling through Heidi outfits on the internet I’m furious with tradition and etiquette. The cruelty of it! We bridesmaids have held numerous summit meetings about how to skilfully change her mind without upsetting her, but the situation seems hopeless.

I do a little investigating into wedding traditions and discover that brides have long been considered vulnerable to evil spirits. So, in Roman times, bridesmaids were roped in to surround her and confuse the spirits. (It’s for the same reason that a bride hides behind a veil.)

It’s amazing that so many of these superstitions have survived: carrying the bride over the threshold (its bad luck if she trips into the house), the giving of almonds (for luck) the throwing of confetti/rice (for fertility)… 

And then in among the diktats I find my trump card.

To ensure maximum spirit confusion, Roman law stipulated that bridesmaids wore identical dresses to the bride. Bye-bye dumpy dirndl, hello glorious white, silken extravaganza!  I mean, do I dare throw this into the ring? Of course not. That might mean she’d have to honour another shelved custom I found: Her new husband tapping his shoe on her forehead to show who’s in control…

I’ll have to swallow my pride, and obey The Bride. As a gift, she’s asked me for one of my personalised trays using a photo collage from the ceremony. Normally this is one of my favourite items to prepare for clients – a handcrafted tulip wood tray holding memories of their party, wedding or honeymoon ( hugely popular – these are always a conversation starter as drinks are served!) This time, with my Heidi look officially captured on camera, it won’t be quite so gratifying to make it. Unless I can dodge the photographer in my dirndl all day…


Scarlett Willow

In the Spirit of Christmas

There’s an episode of Friends that I think we can all learn from. It’s the one when Rachel and Phoebe go jogging in the park. For Rachel, it’s a body motivated work out: run hard, get thin. Phoebe, however, is running like a loon. Arms flailing, legs splayed, careening around like a drunken fly on hyper-drive.

What’s she doing (other than embarrassing Rachel…)? She’s running like a kid: like she did when she was five years old and weightless without worry. And for Phoebe, it’s a total release - a hit of euphoria. In the end, of course, they’re both doing it.
Lolliping through Central Park with wild abandon…

I was thinking about that as I stared down at a big squishy Beasty Bag at the Spirit of Christmas fair in Olympia last week. I’d left my company’s stand for a quick wander, to take some time out from talking shop. My feet were aching, my head a little fuzzy. Then I saw the suede-soft, hippo shaped beanbag lying outstretched on the floor. Above it was a photo of a twinkly eyed little girl, gleefully wriggling on one of her own. My inner child began to bounce and squeal: ‘Dive in! Roll around! Get snug!’ But all my outer business woman would concede was wistful smile. I had to wrench myself away.

Good gifts for godchildren, I reflected. Not for grown ups, I repeated. The fair is a real feast for the eyes, and it wasn’t long before I’d fallen for something else: ‘Love Letters’ from Jonny’s Sister. They’re handmade cushions of the alphabet in a colourful array of fabrics that can hang from kiddies’ doors or sit in their cot. They also make letters out of wood and soap, but my inner child wanted to squeeze the padded ones. Very calmly, and with as much restraint as I could muster, I let her do it. They were satisfyingly squidgy to the touch.

Talking of things squidgy, on the SW stand I had a giant image of baby Jack with one of our ‘fatty puff’ bibs around his neck. He attracted lots of smiles and quite a few adoring comments throughout the day. But when I walked back after my wander, I encountered a woman staring at the photo, aghast. She explained that it offended her (every PC saturated cell of her...!) that I had labelled Jack as ‘fatty’. It was an insult, she seethed! Babies are MEANT to be fat, I retorted (as politely as I could.) After all, we have our whole adult lives to deny ourselves food. To deny ourselves FUN and FRIVOLITY, for that matter!

As soon as she’d hurrumphed off down the aisle, I was seized with an indescribable urge. I stalked past the stands of jewellery, handbags and cashmere. Gained pace near the cookies, champagne and hats. I saw my target, kicked off my shoes and plunged onto the suede-soft hippo shaped Beasty Bag. Clasping my arms around its neck and nuzzling in with delight, I thought: doing a ‘Phoebe’ once in a while is really good for you.

Scarlett Willow

Have your cupcake, and eat it too

I’ve got to own up to this. After all, if we’re going to have an ongoing relationship there’s a fundamental truth about me that I have to admit to you. It will inevitably wheedle its way into my blogs, as it’s a personal flaw that I have to contend with on a daily basis.

So here it is: I can’t cook. At all. Not in a ‘oh, this soufflé really hasn’t risen as high as it should have my dahlings - I was a leetle distracted by the pavlova I’ve whisked up for dessert!’ I mean: it’s a good start if the dinner doesn’t completely bypass the dog and go straight to the bin. It really is that bad.

Of course, I fully understand that my problem is psychological. Friends deliver a general chorus of: ‘How hard can it be to read a recipe, Scarlett?’ But when the panic sets in as early as the food aisles of Waitrose, it’s pretty much a disaster waiting to happen. The kitchen equivalent of stage fright sets in.

For example. I whisked up dinner for myself recently and boldly invented the recipe: salmon baked in the oven, with a drizzle of maple syrup to give it a caramelised sticky glaze. Dear reader, it was a sweet and succulent marvel. Total success! I savoured every mouthful and convinced myself I was cured of bad cooking forevermore. I celebrated by repeating the dish for J the following night (having boasted all about it). Cue mild panic, overcooked fish, burnt syrup and valiant attempt not to cry.

J is a better cook than me. I can’t deny it. It’s one of the reasons I married him. So when we entertain I get creative in other departments: punchy cocktails, table presentation flourishes and quirky desserts (big bowls of ice cream + small bowls of crushed chocolate bars = easy peasy and so delicious!) But for a special occasion, there’s a confection concoction that always gets a rapturous applause at the end of the meal. Let’s hear it for the cupcake!

For the ultimate teatime treat, the cupcake has shot past the La Duree macaroon into pole position. The rainbow bright colours and sprinkles create optical allure and their mini size makes them calorifically manageable. Cupcakes are the food of fairy princesses, and what girl’s not charmed by that? In New York last spring, the queue of ladies I saw snaking the street led not to a half price Marc Jacobs sale, but to the door of Magnolia Bakery, home of the reinvented cupcake (aka where SATC’s Carrie Bradshaw went for a quick fix.)

In London, we have Crumbs & Doilies (crumbsanddoilies.co.uk) and they deliver! I’ve now got them on speed dial for dinner party desserts and girly teatime get-togethers (they always go down well as presents too…) They make a special appearance in my Christmas catalogue, but you can catch them in all their glory on Thursdays at Covent Garden market and Saturdays outside Partridges on the Kings Road.

When there are people out there blessed with culinary skill, why not use their services?  From henceforth, I refuse to whisk myself, or anything else, into a frenzy.


Scarlett Willow

Follow your nose...

It’s mind-boggling how strongly a smell can trigger memory and emotion. My husband J finds the smell of Yves Saint Laurent’s ‘Rive Gauche’ irresistible (probably the fragrance of his first love, though he gallantly won’t admit it). For me, its powdery undertones conjure up memories of my adored grandmother – exquisitely elegant, but aged.

Last weekend, in our favourite restaurant, J positively swooned as a glitzy couple sashayed to the table beside ours: it was a suave Italian man, with a Noodle on his arm. As we left, J insisted on asking the Noodle what fragrance she was wearing (oh the cliché!). She fluttered her eyes, stabbed me with a triumphant look and confirmed that it was ‘Rive Gauche’. Her suave suitor and I were reduced to aroma-less gooseberries. So the next day, I succumbed and bought a bottle. I figure that it’s my new secret weapon - if I spritz and J swoons, I might be able to get my way more often…

I’ve never been loyal to a perfume. I’m a perfume polygamist: I’ll happily two-time and can honestly say I have never felt satisfied. As far as I’m concerned, the only aromas with any real substance emanate from food. And there’s nothing like the waft of a freshly baked caramelised onion tart to make me really reminisce.

Last week, I mentioned the food props that we used for the Christmas brochure shoot and I promised to divulge where I go to indulge. When I started my business in 2005, my office in Fulham had the good fortune of being a skip from Megan’s Deli (www.megansdeli.com). This is where my love affair with this luscious tart began.

With Megan’s homemade food dished out in a rustic yet chic setting, the local sandwich shop never got a look in. Summer lunch hours were spent in Megan’s charming ‘secret garden’, feasting on their assortment of salads bursting with goodies: like cous cous with apricot, pomegranate and herbs, or lentils with feta and chilli! Winter sustenance was provided by hearty soups and oozing wheat-free chocolate brownies. As hard as I worked to build up my business, Megan’s ensured I was never running on empty.

We moved offices last year, but I get back to Megan’s for nostalgic nosh whenever I can.
And as I organised the brochure shoot, I called Selina, Megan’s daughter, to ask if they could deliver some food to be photographed. “It’s not going to look perfect, though!” she warned. But it was all the cracks and crumbles of homemade food that I was hoping for!

They whipped up a creamy strawberry cheesecake, a dozen cracking mince pies, delicate smoked salmon canapés, and for old times’ sake, the tart de resistance. Perhaps in the not too distant future, we might be able to access aromas and perfumes through our computers at a click of a button. But until you try it yourself you’ll have to believe me: the heavenly sweet smell of the gooey and crisp tart had us all swooning. Megan’s, I promise: I will always be faithful to you…

…although I have recently been introduced to a rather delightful dessert-making establishment that I can’t stop thinking about. Next week, I’ll tell all…

Scarlett Willow

Are you ready for your close up?

While most sane people are clinging on to the remaining wisps of a somewhat illusive ‘BBQ summer’, I’m chomping my way through mince pies. While others groan at the onslaught of Christmas merchandise in November, I’ve already been festive for months. To get my new Christmas catalogue ready in time I have to be two seasons ahead. Ironically, this uber efficiency does not make me a punctual person, much to the consternation of long suffering/long waiting friends and family.

The mince pie scoffing happened last week after we celebrated finishing the shoot for our biggest ever catalogue. I get so anxious in the run up to the event, I always drop pounds.
Taking a few pretty snaps might seem trivial to some but I’m co-ordinating children, food and photographs – three components not strictly within my area of expertise. I have nightmares of getting it all wrong and having a glossy brochure to remind me of all my mistakes for the next 365 days.

What I forget in the pandemonium of it all is that I do have a remarkable talent for hiring remarkable talent! Adam Ellis (photographer extraordinaire) Susannah Powell (stylist wunderkind) and my fabulous mini models (Jack, India, Willow, Molly, Emily, Felix and Helena) made the day a dream come true.

We borrowed a glorious garden for some outside shots and a supremely elegant house in Wandsworth belonging to Janine Stow for our interiors. By some miraculous twist of fate, it turns out that Janine is a seriously talented children’s photographer (janinestowphotography.com): so as the day wore on and the novelty of modelling wore off for our little starlets, Janine’s skills at entertaining and reinvigorating their flagging faces came into their own.

We had them wearing bibs and our new range of coloured personalised aprons (available for adults too!) and sitting at a table with our mats. Helena (3 ½) didn’t have quite enough puff to blow out the candles, but brought lots of enthusiasm to the party.

Emily was a last minute recruit, having come to watch events with her mum, and proved to be a complete natural. She had ‘Hungry’ written on her bib, which perfectly described her modelling work ethic. Molly wasn’t so keen to share the limelight (after all, she’d booked the job first) and just before gentle shoving gave way to Naomi Campbell-esque violence, Janine stepped in. A few rounds of childrens songs (the only one I recognised being Happy Birthday…) and a flash of her boobs (a time-honoured trick!) and harmony was restored. Molly’s pout couldn’t look more adorable in the photos – both the camera and I loved her.

We toasted our achievements by gorging on the food props, so I easily managed to pick up all the pounds I’d dropped. When you see the brochure you’ll appreciate how hard it was to resist nibbling until the end (and yes, everything tastes as good as it looks.) The mouth-watering morsels came from two places in London that I couldn’t live without. Tune in next week and I’ll divulge where they are…

Scarlett Willow

Is everybody sitting comfortably...?

I’ve just returned from a jaunt to Ibiza which involved a gaggle of friends, a private plane and an air conditioned yacht: the super-food ingredients of a spectacularly indulgent treat. (It is nice to have friends with toys and being invited to play with them.)

Leaving my business in the very capable hands of my office cherubs, I padded around the deck in an array of colourful bikinis, reclined languidly and generally lapped up the lifestyle. I love the ship-shape organisation of nautical life. Every nook and cranny has a use so there’s no room for junk. The tiny kitchen is pared down to good quality, essential tableware and cooking utensils. Everything I needed to whip up fresh watermelon martinis: my favourite!

A good time was had by all. Then an old friend of mine (male, trustworthy) called me ‘an extrovert’ at 12,000 ft on the return journey. I was totally offended: isn’t an extrovert the polite way of saying ‘attention grabbing loud mouth’? Someone that constantly feels for the spotlight and tries to edge others off their stage? A girl at school with me was ‘extroverted’, she’s now divorced and apparently alienated all her friends.

Extroverts are the kind that tweet and blog, confident that their musings will nourish a ravenous flock of admirers. That didn’t sound like me. Sure, I like to throw an impromptu party and create an electric atmosphere whenever possible, but I never demand to be Queen Bee once the guests arrive. A party should be an ensemble, not a one-woman show.  I’m social, but actually deep down a little shy. Obviously not the image I’ve been projecting to my friends.

He could see I was hurt, so he reassured me that in fact people often misinterpret the word: an extrovert is someone that is energised by the people around them (an introvert is energised by being alone). They like to talk to someone rather than sit alone and think.

Ok, well that did ring true. My husband and I will think of any excuse to entertain at home, to be stimulated by dynamic and interesting people (though that doesn’t mean that we don’t love being a deux!) And in business, I work best when I’m discussing ideas, listening and learning what people want. Friends or clients will often call me to get advice on what to buy to impress their wife/husband or appease their recalcitrant brother-in-law. That interaction definitely energises me. And to hear the results, it’s wonderful to say my advice always has the desired effect.

And so, clutching my seat as we bumped through the turbulent blackening clouds, an epiphany dawned. If I survive this flight, shouldn’t I, as a newly baptised extrovert, share my tips with all my clients on a more official basis? Pass on any pearls of wisdom that come my way? Embrace the new age and become a blogger?

Well, I survived to tell this tale, and this is my first blog.

Scarlett Willow

Scarlett's Tops Tips for Alfresco Dining

1. If you can't face the annual sanding down of your garden table, the easiest solution is to cover it up with a crisp white tablecloth – if you don't have one, the best trick is to use a flat bed sheet instead. Just as good and then you have a clean white canvas to decorate as you wish.
2. Add a lovely vase of freshly cut flowers – go for a single variety, one colour and a low arrangement is ideal so that your guests can see each other! Or you could pack a small Scarlett Willow storm lantern out in volume - I find rose buds are perfect for this or use large blooms such as sunflowers to save on cost. For something completely different that might last the summer, plant simple mini terracotta pots with herbs: lavender, rosemary etc - original and practical!
3. For me, placemats complete the table - mine feels naked without them whether dining inside or al fresco.
4. I know they're low on the maintenance front but I've never been a fan of paper napkins and always favour a beautiful linen napkin. If you are using the herbs in terracotta pots running down your table, why not add a posy of fresh herbs tied with string around the napkins – it looks fabulous.
5. Add slices of orange to your jugs of water. It not only looks lovely but adds the perfect delicate flavour to the water. Mint leaves are also a favourite and make a change from lemons or lime.
6. Welcome your guests with a yummy homemade cocktail – a wonderful way to make everyone feel welcome. Here is my current favourite: 'homemade' sorbet - sugar syrup and lemon zest poured into ice cubes and frozen. Use the cubes to make slush in your blender then add to a tall glass with either Gin or Vodka and a dash of Angostura bitters.
7. For the best BBQ – always use locally sourced organic meat and marinate. Make plenty of homemade salsas and salads. Once you have finished cooking add an enormous bunch of rosemary to the BBQ to fill the night air with the soft smell of summery herbs.
8. Candles are a must, even in the summer – it’s a cheap and easy way to make the table look pretty - my storm lanterns are fantastic at fighting the pesky wind we've been having in London.
9. The perfect and easily the most delicious summer pudding I know - freeze some summer fruits or buy some ready-frozen, melt some white chocolate (my personal favourite is Green & Blacks) in a pan with a dash of cream. Pour over the fruits and serve immediately.
10. And finally, a tip from my husband - always have plenty of bottles on ice!