I couldn't resist trying this...

Scarlett Willow
My attempts at making November's Flavour of the Month Chocolate Torte & Chestnut torte went well, despite using every bowl I had in the kitchen. The outcome was delicious and went well with vanilla ice cream, and went down very well with everyone in the office!

Scarlett's Witchy Fingers

Decided with a house full of friends staying over the weekend, I had to get in the spirit of things for Halloween and make something related to the event... the outcome being these rather gruesome looking biscuits! They actually taste much nicer than they look, and good for scaring off unwanted trick or treaters by poking it through the letterbox! I think the adults were more amused than the kiddies - but good fun all round!

Sally

Scarlett Willow

We love it when a plan comes together

We're talking about our recent recipe for the most incredible roast belly of Pork.  My brother and his family were coming over for lunch on Sunday and I needed to cook something with minimal fuss and maximum taste and it scored 10/10.  Everybody loved it, even particularly fussy teenage daughter whose currently leaning toward all things vegetarian.  The pork comfortably fed 8 with seconds plus a hearty lunch for the dog.  Not only only was it utterly delicious, but it cost practically pennies too - currently 1/3 off in Waitrose.  But remember Heston, Scarlett Willow were there first.

Angie

Scarlett Willow

An English(wo)man in New York

I heart New York! Every once in a while I like to take a bite out of the Big Apple and stay up late in the city that never sleeps. J had a business trip two weeks ago, and I thought I’d better hold his hand on that awfully long journey across the Atlantic…

Without early meetings to wake up for, I managed to catch up with old friends at their new late night haunts. It’s amazing how every square inch of the city is buzzing with energy at all hours. There’s always an effortless cool, even if the temperature at night is like an oven on full blast.

In addition to physically coping with the heat, on arrival there are mental and verbal adjustments to be made. Conversation there gallops at top speed and I find I need to change my frequency if I want to be included in their bandwidth. People don’t languish over sentences like they do in LA. In a city where time is money and if you snooze you lose, the only pause you’ll find are attached to tiny 5th Avenue canines.

It’s at this point - wondering if I have the energy or the aptitude to even momentarily slide into their slipstream – that I remember my strength. My accent. Those wonderful rounded Received Pronunciation vowels! Those staccato consonants! Natural Articulation and Enunciation. In a city that is the gloopiest cauldron of a melting pot, a clipped English accent seems to speak volumes. It implies brains (thank you Shakespeare), wit (thank you Monty Python) and charm (um, cheers Joan Collins?)

So, after cranking up the speed a gear, I also ever so slightly exaggerate my English – hello Dahling! – and find myself rollicking along with the best of them. (What’s funny is then being introduced to another Brit who’s up to exactly the same trick. It happened.) My husband looks at me like I’m slightly mad, and then chats away fluently in NY’s favourite language – stocks and shares speak.

It was just a quick burst of a trip, so by day I raced around to see the latest on the culture, fashion and food scene. A friend took me for brunch on a Tuesday and the line was a 45-minute wait (I suppose a blackberry is all the office some people need these days.) It was called Clinton’s* for those of you heading to NY anytime soon. Once you’ve put your name down, you can wander off to look at the local vintage stores (although it’s a risk, and I almost forfeited our table.)

When you’re there, don’t make my mistake. Don’t look at the enormous pile of fluffy, blueberry pancakes with butter and syrup that everyone’s ordering and then opt for something more ‘nutritious’ sounding like scrambled eggs. Or that evening you will suffer everyone saying: ‘You DIDN’T order the BLUEBERRY PANCAKES?!?!’ You have been warned.

It still haunts me. And I’ve been home for 2 weeks! As much as I heart NY – and the best blueberry pancakes that I never had – I’m a very proud Brit.   There are some things that we do so well – self-deprecating humour and Afternoon Tea to name just two.  And lest any of you doubt my patriotism, please see my new collection, Vintage Jack, made using an antique linen image of our iconic flag, I like to think it’s Britishness at its best.  Just perfect for containing those crumbs from good old teatime scones.  Enjoy!

The Vintage Jack Collection click here to buy

* Clinton Street Baking Company
   4 Clinton Street (btw. East  Houston & Stanton), New York, NY 10002
   Phone: +1 646 602 626



Scarlett Willow

Turning Back The Years

I’m all for throwing out the rulebook and giving Inspiration and Intuition room to manoeuvre, but never the book that became women’s gospel when it was published in 1861 (that would be sacrilege.) Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management is the original guide to being a Domestic Goddess (though we all love Nigella’s delectable dedication to all things sweet.) Amazing to think Mrs B. was only 23 when she began to write her tome - at that age, I clearly had different priorities…

Her phrases are well worn: ‘A place for everything, and everything in its place.’

And nearly 150 years later she can still pinpoint the weaknesses of a modern day urban hostess like myself:

‘Hospitality is a most excellent virtue; but care must be taken that the love of company, for its own sake, does not become a prevailing passion…’

Too much late night entertaining and I might get slack on the household duties (not to mention the running of a business…) So I take note, and curb my hospitality to a healthy once per week.

I wasn’t sure Mrs B. exerted much influence any more, until I visited a University friend’s family for the weekend several years ago. After dinner (which, naturally, was black tie) the men and women separated into different rooms…

’When fruit has been taken, the ladies must leave the gentlemen and retire to the drawing room. The gentlemen of the party will rise at the same time, all remaining courteously standing until the last lady has withdrawn.’

Then the men swilled port, smoked cigars and talked about…what? Not a clue. I can only speculate on what took place in the chintzy drawing room: gentle chatter, miniature cups of coffee and the hostess actually picked up her needlepoint (I’ve never sat with such a straight back on such a poufy sofa – and it is not to be recommended..)

Mrs Beeton also started a magazine called ‘The Queen’ which grew to become the prestigious ‘Harpers & Queen’ we all admire today.  Back then it was ‘aimed at those people who naturally attended Court functions, and those who would love to have been invited’... so little has changed, including Beeton’s legendary status.

Her commandments remain very much alive and well in many corners of the country, but I personally have to admit that when J and I entertain, we do not employ staff to polish our cutlery and set them on a tablecloth ‘laid without a wrinkle’.

Nevertheless, we can but dream.  And with Mrs Beeton in mind, we’ve created a beautiful new range of placemats with images of gleaming antique cutlery complete with devilish edges.  Each one imbued with the style and elegance of an era that’s passed, but not forgotten.

The Beeton Collection - click here to buy

Scarlett Willow

Party Fever

As much as I love to entertain, I never demand to be centre of attention. But for one night of the year, I am Queen.  I have an annual Midsummer Night’s Dream party and I transform myself in Titania, my garden into the enchanted forest, and my husband into a BBQ maniac.

My garden is normally - shamefully - neglected. There’s an overpoweringly big tree that I haven’t the heart to cut down, particularly because of my precious party. I spread velvet cushions underneath it and hang miniature lanterns off its branches - and every year a repeal is granted.

I felt inspired by Marrakech this year, and thought I’d go more ‘I Dream of Jeannie’. I swathed low tables with saris in saffron and marigold and set one of my large Mabel storm lanterns in the centre of each, with a golden candle.  Then I filled lots of the small storm lanterns with Moroccan roses, broken cinnamon sticks and ginger slices to fragrance the air. I left little dishes of dried dates, figs, nuts and olives to pick at…

 

J was doing his bit by the BBQ and the aroma of roasted cumin lamb had neighbours hanging out of their windows and our nosy local tabby cat ready to pounce. I’d even managed to knock up a few tasty dishes myself: koftas with minted yogurt, salads with pomegranate, fruity couscous and spiced pears. 

With 35 people, I couldn’t do a seated dinner, but I wanted to mix my friends up (match-make? moi?) So I filled one box with padlocks for the boys, and another box with keys for the girls. One key fits in one padlock. You picked up a key/padlock with your first cocktail and had to find your partner for supper.  Fate worked its magic and nudged together some perfect pairings.  In the eyes of a few of my guests, I saw Turkish delight by lantern light, and watched them relish the chance to cosy up on some of the smaller cushions.

The following night J and I had been invited to an 18^th century themed party in the country.  I can normally rustle us up costumes with a quick visit to the haberdashery department and a bit of sticky back plastic. But on this occasion, I sensed we might need professional assistance: the National Theatre Costume Hire warehouse is the most exquisite dressing up box.

The party was set in a proper enchanted forest, with insect-like stilt-walkers, flame throwers and jugglers to entertain the 200 elaborately dressed guests. After dinner in a decadently red and gold saturated tent, we danced furiously under the stars with sticky pink cocktails in our hands. Needing to catch my breath (difficult in a tight corset that felt like a bullet-proof vest) J helped to hoist me onto the pyramid stacked hay bales  (it seemed easier to negotiate than the cushion covered trampoline or the hammocks in trees….)

Surveying the scene of romp and circumstance, I had to admit that my own soiree had been a little upstaged. But there’s always next year in our garden– I’m sure I could get J to put up some hammocks, build us a tree house, do a few tricks…

Please note we are offering 15% off our storm lanterns from today until the end of July 2010
enter Partyfever at checkout.

Scarlett Willow

Come Dine With Me?!

‘Hear no evil, Speak no evil….and you’ll never be invited to a party’ : the wise words of Oscar Wilde.

And they’ve helped me reach a decision. I’ve been grappling with my moral conscience over whether to tell you about the disastrous dinner party I was recently invited to. But I think some good might come of this evil…

Previous to this one, the worst dinner offence I’d encountered was committed by a dear friend of mine. She cooked one organic roast chicken for eight people. I don’t know if she was trying to perform a miracle or an experiment, but we all went home hungry.

Then last Thursday, some ‘new’ friends whom we met skiing at Easter invited J and me for dinner. Not knowing anyone, J and I arrived at their door feeling like it was the first day of school. We clasped clammy hands and held our breath, hoping to be liked. The door opened and behind our beleaguered looking hostess was something not dissimilar to Kindergarten chaos. Children running amok, dogs bounding about and wisps of acrid smoke leaking into the hallway.

‘I’m sorry!’ she blurted, as she ushered us onto her sinking ship, ‘I got distracted by the beef wellington, and burnt the toffee for the banoffee!’ I felt like I was stepping into a recurring nightmare I’ve had for years, only this time I wasn’t the protagonist. I offered to help. ‘Could you possibly set the table?!’ she squeaked apologetically, as she lead me straight into the dining room (J was a big boy and went to meet the other guests on his own.) Still in my coat, I did my best with the mismatching crockery, no placemats and kitchen roll for napkins…

Her husband had been dispatched to buy wine, which he’d forgotten to order in advance. He returned with an array of bottles courtesy of the local petrol station and I thought his wife might explode. She simmered as we sat down and her husband carved the beef wellington. But when rounds of undercooked pastry sliding off overdone meat were dished out, she utterly deflated. ‘Somebody shoot me…’ she sighed, shaking her head, ‘entertaining is so complicated – I just can’t do it anymore.’  She looked broken.

When I got home that night, I started thinking about all the dinner party disasters from the past that I have either created or been witness too.  Too many, way too many.  Then I got thinking about how it shouldn’t be like this, and doesn’t have to be like this.  What if I made Scarlett Willow a one-stop-shop for the best ideas and inspiration for dinner parties?  What if I found a panel of experts who, every month, could create the perfect, fool-proof, simple but delicious recipe, along with recommendations for delicious accompanying wines, and dazzling ways to make the table and atmosphere magical! 

Well, I’ve done it.  Next month we will be launching a monthly e-newsletter for our customers and within it there will be a regular ‘Dine’, ‘Wine’, and ‘Sublime’ section with expert guidance and tips from connoisseurs to create the kind of dinner party you dream about. 

My poor friend though.  I couldn’t get her words out of my head.  In gratitude for the evening (and of course for the inspiration!), I sent her a set of coasters in the lovely red presentation box. Choosing the design was easy: having asked to be put out of her misery, the Banging Collection seemed apt. But really, a dinner party shouldn’t be a life/death situation.

To sign up to our monthly newsletter click here and follow the instructions on the right hand side of our home page.

Scarlett Willow

SEAFOOD & EAT IT….

After closing a spectacular deal last Monday, my husband J decided to celebrate. Not by whisking me off to a minute Maldivian island – oh no, no, no. He came home to announce that the last two months of anxious breath holding were over, that the deal was in the bag - and that he’d invited his CEO to dinner…

Now don’t get me wrong - I do like The Boss. We’ve spoken at various glamorous events that he’s hosted, and he always remembers my name, and what I do (whether its my eponymous business or my lingering charm that impresses, I can’t be sure…) But - he has never, until now, been to our home.

The square footage of his house is like ours…but to the power of ten. Plus a butler. He skis in Zermatt and summers in Sardinia. He shoots, fishes and hunts and is on first name terms with second tier royalty. So far, so what? I hear you ask. It’s certainly not his social contacts and calendar that unnerve me. It’s the perfectly laid tables he’s sat at, where distances between the cutleries and glassware are measured with rulers. Yikes! Gulp.

‘I am an expert’ I told myself. ‘Promise me you won’t panic’. ‘Ok, you’re right’ said me ‘I’ll stay calm’. Then I went behind my back and had a mini-meltdown. It was only when J reiterated his faith in my entertaining skills, and reminded me that I had four days until the event (on Friday night) that I breathed fresh confidence back into my bones. 

I imagine much in The Boss’s life is monogrammed. Was there time to personalize some linen napkins, I wondered? Would he prefer duck egg blue or emerald green? And should that match or contrast with the napkin of his graceful wife? Or perhaps just a subtle, colorful hemstitch? No, I thought. Pure white. On this occasion, I would let the elegant linen speak for itself.

My menu ideas were challenging each other to duels at dawn: I was suddenly over inspired. On Thursday, I was invited to a private view of the explosively exotic work of Indian artist Rina Banerjee at the Haunch of Venison gallery in Piccadilly. Hmmm….venison, with a redcurrant jus? No, out of season (and out of my league, cooking wise.) Then I got a call from my godson’s mother: would I come to Dorset next weekend? My brain suddenly clicked: Crab! Dorset Crab! In season, and no cooking required!

I went to town and created a seafood extravaganza. Spring flowers in vases, delicate lemon fingerbowls and all the tools and implements. When it came to the arrangement of cutlery and my own Flo Spots Glass platters neatly stacked with juicy fruits de mer, I made all the rules (and threw out the ruler.) And judging by the relish with which The Boss excavated beneath shell and ate every tender morsel, I hadn’t made a single faux-pas.

His handwritten note, delivered by his driver the next day, said simply ‘Thank you, Scarlett… Cracking good fun!’

So – great success all round…Oh me of little faith!

Scarlett Willow

Chocolate is the Answer

The last two weeks, I’ve had my work cut out for me. I’ve been agony aunt, tissue giver, hand holder, confidence booster, positive thinker, and – most implausibly – man mind reader. My friend L. just got unceremoniously dumped by ‘the One’ - by email, the coward. She thought he was in love. She thought he might propose. She’s not been thinking straight. Her fall has been epic, because she spent the last 6 months floating on a love cloud - and there’s not much oxygen up there.

We all saw it coming. We tried to warn her, but she was like a heat-seeking missile, hell bent on matrimony. Now she’s a burst balloon, and I’ve had to scrape her up off the floor. Rather than let her fester in her flat (which is what she was on course to do) I opted for distraction. I had two tickets to a premiere in London’s Leicester Square, and my husband J got the boot.

I called and invited her. Her voice was raspy from wailing. Between the sniffles, she considered my offer. The film was called ‘The Bounty Hunter’, and as she’d been seeking solace in industrial quantities of chocolate, it seemed to strike a chord. My promise of meeting its star - Gerard Butler - in the beefy flesh, closed the deal. The following evening, I went to her flat and transformed an unkempt lump of misery into a glossy, snot-free stunner.
We arrived on the red carpet and the screams were earsplitting. Gerard Butler and Jennifer Aniston were wrapped around each other for the frenzied delight of the photographers. I considered nudging my friend into the background, so that her ex might see a paper in the morning and choke on his coffee - she was luminescent and he’d lost her (aka the Kate Middleton strategy.)
Credit where it’s due, Jen looked incredible too: that hair, a teensy little Valentino dress, and the most toned and honed body I’d seen in real life. With lithe Jen literally hanging off him, Gerard wore a satisfied smirk. Both were busy fuelling the romance rumours (snap, snap – ker-ching!). Whether true or (most likely) not, the poster-girl for break-up survival looked like she was having a ball. My friend L. was impressed, perhaps even a little inspired...
…Although not yet ready to kiss goodbye to carbs. Under cover of darkness, we worked our way through popcorn and maltesers (I’d promised to support her through this ordeal – that meant sharing the pain and the calories.) The movie was a funny, action-packed heart-melter, and with great relief, I heard the familiar cackle of my friend throughout.
As the lights rose, her face fell. Would there be a happy ending for her? We decided to stand up Gerard at the after-party, and head back to my house. We shook off our killer heels, and she hugged the sofa as I made her a hot chocolate (now I’m catering to her cocoa obsession.) Placing it on one of my heart coasters, she sighed, ‘The closest thing to my heart now is chocolate…’
I thought for a moment.
‘Well it’s rich, dark and very smooth… ’
There went that cackle again.


Scarlett Willow

Everyone's a Winner...

Awards season is finally upon us. In Tinseltown, hopes are dashed as dreams are fulfilled at the Oscars, Golden Globes and Emmys – shiny statues held aloft by beautiful people in sharp suits and sparkly gowns. The celeb-tastic extravaganzas are the TV highlight of my year. But I have to say, the glitz and glamour of the American events pale in comparison to our British counterpart. And for one very good reason: I’ve succeeded in getting underneath every hot dish at the BAFTAs.

While most TV viewers are glued to the faces of the stars at their dinner tables, my eyes are fixed lower, namely under their plates. For 5 years now Scarlett Willow has had the prestigious role of providing the placemats for the London based event. Its satisfying to know that dressing the tables is as important as dressing the stars…

Using stills from celebrated movies, the mats are always a big hit, and have a habit of disappearing at the end of the night. In 2008, James McAvoy may not have got a gong, but he left clutching his Scarlett Willow placemat, looking very pleased with himself. It seems that for those who have everything, there’s still space in their lives for a Scarlett Willow placemat. I like that.

I’m not sure who’s hosting the event this year, but my fingers are crossed that it’s Stephen Fry. He’s my unlikely secret crush. As an actor, comedian, presenter and brain box with a personality, he’s one of our most valued national treasures. It was because of his velvety narration that I became engrossed in ‘Delia through the Decades’, a recent TV ode to the queen of cuisine, Delia Smith.

As I’ve already admitted, I’m a disaster in the kitchen. While the nation has relied on Delia, I have relied on dialing for delivery or more latterly my considerably more culinary competent husband. In cupboards across the country, copies of her ‘Complete Illustrated Cookery Course’ lie splattered, battered, grease-stained and annotated, while mine (a hopeful gesture from J when we married…) remains almost pristine.

I say almost, because of one chocolate smudge that marks the day I made her brownies. They were squidgy and moist and scrumptious. I think the fact that I had my 12 year-old goddaughter as my sous-chef might have helped. Who am I kidding? The girl was completely in control of the situation – but I offered support by arranging them onto one of my glass platters, for stylish tea-time serving.  Ah, the glorious symbiosis of Delia Smith and Scarlett Willow – so obviously made for each other!

So, while the world speculates about who might win at the Baftas, I’m busy wondering what they might eat. What crumbs and smears might find their way onto my placemats. Although I’d imagine the nominees are all too nervous for food, and that the mats that they sneak home at the end of the evening are as clean and unspoiled as my cookbook. It may not be the coveted award they were after but at least no one goes away empty handed!

Scarlett Willow

Talking Shop

This week I’ve been retracing the steps I took before Christmas, every panic filled, present buying footfall. I’ve been returning and exchanging the gifts that I got in haste (the lesson: beware of impulse buys for family - they won’t pretend they love them.) My sister’s sweater didn’t fit, my father had read the book I’d got him, and J didn’t like his new pyjamas (not soft enough.)

So I’ve been Christmas shopping: Round 2. And with the sales on it was even more chaotic, hence my shopping hangover. Consequently, the idea of going to next week’s Trade Show filled with gifts and interior accessories is making me feel queasy. This could be the wafer thin mint that forces me to finally explode.

I’ll have to harden my resolve, as it’s vital for my business. Top Drawer is a trade only event held at Earls Court for three days, today until Tuesday 19th, where we showcase our goods to shops and potential stockists. Full to the brim of top quality brands launching their newest products and designs, it’s serious shopping. It all happens here before it hits the high street, so it’s quite exciting to see future trends.

There are hundreds of stands competing for attention, and some are more glamorous than others. The truly extravagant have a team to bring in proper furniture and lights to perfectly display their wares, which then all seemingly collapse into a Mary Poppins style flight case at the end of the show.

SW, on the other hand, isn’t such a smooth operation on tour. We’re the smallest stand, with a very simple set up. Without a big budget to blow (the really chi-chi can cost in the region of £20,000) I rely on my products to speak for themselves. And I‘m relieved to say its always worked in the past.

What hasn’t worked is the travelling bit. For the get out, stands are allotted times for their vans to pass outside the building for quick loading, creating a seamless sushi-style conveyor belt. I forgot to book a slot last year, so our van was forced to park a ten-minute walk away. Not far, unless you’re dragging an un-collapsible table, two stools, a stepladder and a vast array of kitchen and tableware.

It’s always a palaver setting up for shows, but I couldn’t do it without Paul, the handyman. He puts up our shelves so efficiently that I had him make a huge bookcase that I have at home (and it always gets compliments.) With cowboy builders aplenty, Paul is a complete anomaly. He’s our knight in shining armour and our Milk Tray man and he goes everywhere on a scooter with just a Tardis-like rucksack. Feel free to email me if you’d like his details, I’m not selfish!

Come to think of it, if marketplace mania hits me and I do fall apart, at least I know good ol’ Paul’s around to repair me

Scarlett Willow

The Big Chill..

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!! I’m huddled over my computer, exhaling, and I think I can see my breath.
I’m on my squillionth hot beverage, I’m wearing five layers including two fleeces and they’re talking ridiculous temperatures of - 22 degrees on the radio. What on earth’s going on with our weather?!

The snow in Scotland over New Year’s Eve was beautiful to look at and great fun to play in. But, now, back in London, I’m totally over it. Give me back bland British drizzle. Boo and hiss to this treacherous icy road and pavement situation.

For many, snow means a glorious day off work and a chance to frolic outdoors. But for me, it means late deliveries, irate customers and complete chaos.

I’ve been doing battle since well before Christmas:
First we had the postal strike. Then (as soon as they’d eventually cleared the backlog) the bad weather hit. The snow reprieve over New Year’s was clearly only the eye of the storm, because here we are, back at panic stations again…

Whenever there is delivery disruption I work hard to contact customers and apologise personally. It’s important to be courteous and let them know that I’ve been tracking their order. Most clients - but not all - are sympathetic.

It’s hard to know how to placate someone who makes no concessions whatsoever for events that are out of my control. So I end up being incredibly polite…and then having a little scream in the office bathroom on my own (my cherubic assistant turns a deaf ear…)

To add injury to insult, I slipped on the ice outside my office this week. (Grit! Grit! Our kingdom for some Grit!) It was a cartoon-style fall that swept my feet right up into the air, and landed my bottom on the ground (…at least it’s adequately padded since Christmas.)

I scraped myself up off the floor and cursed my zero traction Uggs. Yes, they are Ugg-ly. But boy, are they warm. So now I’m scouring the internet for the ultimate boot to combat this Big Freeze: snug, stylish and safe. Can such a thing exist?

My super-chic friend C swears by her Mukluks (www.muklukstore.com) They’re beautiful beaded suede booties surrounded by fur, that look ineffectual but are in fact traditionally worn by Canadian aboriginals for hunting in the snow. I was with her in Scotland. She wore them in the snow. They survived.

Given that Canadians consider our current conditions somewhat tropical for winter, their country is a good place to look online for boots. J got a pair of Sorels for a ski trip (www.sorel.com) and they look indestructible and impenetrable.  Their women’s selection looks seriously heavy duty: you can sort by size, price…and temperature. 

Closer to home, the Celtic Sheepskin Company (www.celtic-sheepskin.co.uk) make their boots in Cornwall. Their Aqualamb boot looks snug like an Ugg, but has deeper treads and is waterproof.

Hmmmm. Decisions, decisions….

Whatever I order though, I’ll be especially patient for their arrival.

Until then, I’ll be sellotaping some tennis rackets to my feet.

Scarlett Willow

The days between Christmas and New Year are always an eerily quiet vacuum. Finished with the fracas of Christmas and in anticipation of the hedonism of New Year’s Eve, it feels like its designed to inspire contemplation: on the year just lived and the year in waiting. It seemed particularly acute this time, as we enter into a new decade.

J and I went to the Scottish countryside, miles away from civilization, which was covered in a thick layer of snow. We stayed in a (freezing) house brimming with children who were all very loud, very lively and utterly loveable. Their tiny feet didn’t pitter-patter, but rather thundered down hallways. And meal times were especially cacophonous. Brothers and sisters thumped each other regularly and with real intensity, but miraculously always with laughter, no tears (Having had no brothers to beat me up, I think I’ve missed out on some serious character building and lessons in resilience.)

We had a New Years Eve bonfire with hot chocolate, snowball fights and some very excited spaniels. The grown ups almost missed midnight as we were still ploughing through a belly bursting dinner of slow roasted lamb shanks with mash, mountains of cheese and Tarte Tintin with custard. We had to frantically scrabble to find the champagne to pop the corks in time.

Now that we’ve left the self-indulgent Noughties, it may be time to discipline and re-educate ourselves. As the Teens stretch out ahead of us, there seems to be a shift in mentality taking place in which we know we need to grow up and be more responsible: socially, ecologically and financially.

Using ‘Unpackaged’ is one of my New Year’s Resolutions (www.beunpackaged.com) It’s a shop in Islington that sells eco-friendly, fair trade and organic products without any packaging. I store so many of my kitchen products in big jars and tuppaware anyway, that it seems to make perfect sense!

How it works is you bring your own containers to fill up as much as you need of their very reasonably priced essentials. With a great range of food, drinks, household cleaners and toiletries to choose from, their products are good for you, and for the environment. They even sell biodegradable chewing gum (have you seen the splodges of discarded gum all over the streets of London, by the way? Yuck!)

We always try to recycle packaging at home and at work, but reusing containers is definitely the way forward. I even use my old SW coaster boxes for buttons or safety pins. And the larger ones work perfectly to store ribbons or as a jewellery box.

The ‘Unpackaged’ philosophy is to reduce, recycle and reuse. It’s certainly a good lesson to learn for the decade ahead.

Happy New Year!

Scarlett Willow