I'll never forget one of my childhood birthday parties. My mum hired a village hall out and asked me to choose a theme – I chose fairies – and everything had to match the theme: the paper plates, cups, napkins... she even made "toadstools" out of loo roll tubes and tissue paper. But the best part? The food.

My mum went in on a theme. The fairy party got iced gems laid out on plates in concentric circles; star-shaped biscuit "wands"; cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks (prodded into a melon that was covered in more toadstool-themed tissue paper); pink lemonade; marshmallows and strawberries on sticks (another toadstool nod); and tiny sandwiches on silver platters, cut into butterfly shapes. My party table was a sight to behold. It was more of an event than the magician performance, or the fairy-themed party games we played.

This is one of my earliest memories of a "spread" – something that has remained prevalent in my life since. For many years I'd attend a Boxing Day buffet with family, but my Nanny was rarely seen in the living room opening presents with the rest of us. She was always in the kitchen clucking around – arranging cold cuts of meat onto plates, assembling a cheeseboard, washing salad leaves, and making sure there were enough types of chutney on the table to satisfy. When she was satisfied that the "spread" was enough, the call of "lunch is ready" would summon all 18 of us to the kitchen – where we'd eagerly queue up in single file, clutching the plates we were ready to fill.

As I got older, I started participating more in family spread assembly. This gave me a real insight into the phenomenon. Something I'd thought was a bit of a burden to put together actually transpired to be the highlight of the year for the senior females in my family. Their eyes lit up as they discussed spread logistics: should we use the nice china plates for the ham? Oh no, don't use the pearl salad servers – they might get ruined! Do you think we've got enough relishes or shall I nip out and get some spare cranberry sauce?

Putting on my first solo spread felt like a real rite of passage. The girls and I had dabbled in them during our later teens – we'd pour Doritos into a bowl, buy a cheap dip wheel, and fill up on Cadbury's share bags. We'd always try to make the table look nice (the key part of spread success) but in our youth we often missed the mark – back then getting drunk on Bacardi Breezers and wine (stolen from parents) always felt more important than an aesthetically-pleasing table.

At uni, our spread finesse improved. Grace and I often went to the corner shop on a dead Sunday and bought as many cheap packets of sweets, biscuits, crisps and treats as we could afford with meagre student loans. Grace was good at art, so she was really good at laying those Matchmaker stick chocolates out in a pleasing shape on a plate. I'd take the role of set designer – making sure the plates were laid out nicely and the tablecloth was free from baked bean stains. It was the early days of Instagram, so we kind of knew what made a good flat lay.

The solo spreads came as I moved out and got a real job, and although I can't pinpoint my first one, there have been some really memorable moments. The pre-festival spread I put on for two male friends, who probably didn't appreciate the way I'd arranged the Sainsbury's sausage rolls. The M&S deli haul I did before Elrow – turns out those chorizo-wrapped pieces of cheese make the perfect fan shape on a small side plate, so the M&S "3 for £7" deli deal has since become a spread go-to. The post-Christmas cheeseboard I put together last year: featuring a whole Camembert with slices of garlic-rubbed bakery sourdough arranged artfully around it, ready to dunk in. The lockdown Bank Holiday picnic in the park – I decanted my Whispering Angel from a protein shaker, and served a whole burrata from a Tupperware: drenched in truffle oil and seasoned with (wilting) basil leaves. Just to make a day drinking in the park, during a pandemic, feel special.

There's something I find calming about putting on a spread. Half of the satisfaction comes from seeing everyone's reaction when it's all there together – their eyes lighting up at the sheer volume of food. I'm good at considering every palate too; always aware that a craving for sugar will often follow a big blowout of cheese, crisps and sausage rolls. I'll always include a salad too, which is funny because it rarely gets eaten. My salad has become the butt of many jokes. But it's a spread, and a spread without a satisfying bowl of greenery (plus wooden salad servers) just isn't a spread to me.

The long prep time is always rewarded by how enjoyable my guests find them. A psychologist might say this is my way of seeking validation from people – a reasonable theory, but one I don't really buy into. I'd probably still be happy to spend time alone in the kitchen, sticking cocktail sticks into individual olives, with no one to actually serve it to. It's the process of doing it that I find so meditative. And maybe I just really, really like food?

And we can't ignore it: spreads make amazing photographs. I'm all-too aware of the hideously lavish lockdown experience I painted this year. A BBQ spread; a Mexican spread; a pizza-making evening... all beautifully laid out, shot, VSCO-edited and shared. But honestly: I don't do it for the 'gram. A beautiful picture of a spread is nothing if the spread itself isn't enjoyable. Plenty of research tells us we eat with our eyes first, and I'm living proof of this theory. No one's ever enjoyed a restaurant meal that's been scooped out of a huge pot and slopped onto a plate with a plastic ladle. Even Nando's go the extra mile and serve all your sides in bowls.

My latest beach spread was one of my best, and it's truly cemented my love and passion for this weird hobby. Call me crazy; call me OTT... I'll be proudly laying spreads on for as long as I can. Just let me know if you fancy an invite next time.