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