Scarlett Willow

I couldn't resist trying this...

2010-11-30T14:19:00.000Z

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

2010-11-02T14:28:00.000Z

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

2010-10-11T11:10:00.000+01:00

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

2010-08-18T14:27:00.002+01:00

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

2010-07-20T12:11:00.000+01:00

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

2010-06-15T11:56:00.000+01:00

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?!

2010-05-10T13:28:00.007+01:00

‘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….

2010-04-12T09:53:00.001+01:00

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

2010-03-22T11:48:00.001Z

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...

2010-02-15T13:05:00.000Z

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

2010-01-17T16:42:00.001Z

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..

2010-01-11T07:31:00.000Z

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

2010-01-04T08:10:00.000Z

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

2009-12-28T09:32:00.000Z

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

2009-12-21T07:55:00.000Z

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

2009-12-14T07:48:00.000Z

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

2009-12-07T08:54:00.002Z

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..

2009-11-30T09:58:00.000Z

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...

2009-11-23T08:44:00.000Z

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...

2009-11-17T09:52:00.000Z

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

2009-11-09T10:03:00.000Z

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

2009-11-01T18:02:00.000Z

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...

2009-10-25T17:40:00.001Z

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?

2009-10-18T18:20:00.002+01:00

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...?

2009-09-23T18:27:00.002+01:00

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

2009-07-02T17:09:00.002+01:00

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.
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!
For me, placemats complete the table - mine feels naked without them whether dining inside or al fresco.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And finally, a tip from my husband - always have plenty of bottles on ice!