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