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I risk coming over as a Kirstie Allsopp knock-off, but at least this year’s
Christmas presents are sorted
This isn’t the
first time I’ve attempted to make candles. After my wedding, for reasons that
run the gamut from boring to stupid, I ended up with an enormous surplus of milk
bottles. My plan was simple: take the bottles, turn them into candles and give
them to our guests as a wonderful memento of the day.
So I bought a professional candle-making kit. Then I read the instructions. I quickly realised that it all seemed too much of a faff, and that my wedding guests would think I was some sort of godawful chintzy Kirstie Allsopp knock-off, and that, truth be told, I didn’t really like that many of them anyway. And now all the milk bottles are in the bin.
But although ditching this stupid idea made my life a trillion times easier, it felt like a cop-out. So, with a heavy heart, I decided to have another bash. This time, however, I went back to basics. Instead of diving in at the deep end with a wholesale candle-making kit, I ordered a beginner pack. This was much easier - I got my wax, wicks, dyes, scents and moulds in one go, and would end up with ten small candles.
The most important thing to know about candle-making is that it takes two saucepans, and you must never, ever use one of those saucepans again. Never ever. You melt your wax in a bain-marie set-up, and the top pan – the one that holds the melted wax – will be completely knackered for the rest of its life. So you have two choices here: either go out and buy a good quality, heavy-bottomed saucepan that you’ll use to gradually build your cottage industry candle-making Etsy business into the success it deserves to be, or just nick one of your mum’s saucepans. I couldn’t possibly tell you which of these I did.
After that, candle-making is a breeze. You melt wax, add dye and scent (I chose lemon, because I wasn’t aware that you can also make them smell like hot cross buns), and pour it into your moulds. Adding the wick is trickier, because you have to thread it through a piece of metal, drop it into the mould and then keep it upright by gumming it to what basically amounts to a lollystick with a hole drilled into it. Then it’s simply a case of leaving them for a few hours, popping them out of the moulds and basking in their glow. I now plan to give them to a selection of vaguely nonplussed people for Christmas.
Best of all, by making my own candles I am spared humanity’s greatest indignity – going into any shop where noxious, perfumed candles are sold. Never again will I have to pretend to be interested in the non-existent differences between scents like Season of Peace and A Child’s Wish. Never again will I have to run through a howling wind to get the stink out of my clothes. Homemade candles, I salute you.
So I bought a professional candle-making kit. Then I read the instructions. I quickly realised that it all seemed too much of a faff, and that my wedding guests would think I was some sort of godawful chintzy Kirstie Allsopp knock-off, and that, truth be told, I didn’t really like that many of them anyway. And now all the milk bottles are in the bin.
But although ditching this stupid idea made my life a trillion times easier, it felt like a cop-out. So, with a heavy heart, I decided to have another bash. This time, however, I went back to basics. Instead of diving in at the deep end with a wholesale candle-making kit, I ordered a beginner pack. This was much easier - I got my wax, wicks, dyes, scents and moulds in one go, and would end up with ten small candles.
The most important thing to know about candle-making is that it takes two saucepans, and you must never, ever use one of those saucepans again. Never ever. You melt your wax in a bain-marie set-up, and the top pan – the one that holds the melted wax – will be completely knackered for the rest of its life. So you have two choices here: either go out and buy a good quality, heavy-bottomed saucepan that you’ll use to gradually build your cottage industry candle-making Etsy business into the success it deserves to be, or just nick one of your mum’s saucepans. I couldn’t possibly tell you which of these I did.
After that, candle-making is a breeze. You melt wax, add dye and scent (I chose lemon, because I wasn’t aware that you can also make them smell like hot cross buns), and pour it into your moulds. Adding the wick is trickier, because you have to thread it through a piece of metal, drop it into the mould and then keep it upright by gumming it to what basically amounts to a lollystick with a hole drilled into it. Then it’s simply a case of leaving them for a few hours, popping them out of the moulds and basking in their glow. I now plan to give them to a selection of vaguely nonplussed people for Christmas.
Best of all, by making my own candles I am spared humanity’s greatest indignity – going into any shop where noxious, perfumed candles are sold. Never again will I have to pretend to be interested in the non-existent differences between scents like Season of Peace and A Child’s Wish. Never again will I have to run through a howling wind to get the stink out of my clothes. Homemade candles, I salute you.
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