It’s nice to see Gwyneth Paltrow giving us a non-smug look for once on that magazine cover. That unfortunate pasta anticipation gremlinly lipbite face looks like me when I’m faced with snack cakes. Piggy realness.
GOOP’s third career (after “actress” and “insufferable snob blogger”) is “cookbook author”. Unfortunately her publishing empire was dealt a blow by the New York Times. In an article about cookbook ghost writers, they claimed that Gwyneth wrote her cookbook My Father’s Daughter (he was an asshole, too?) with chef Julia Turshen.
“Love @nytimes dining section but this weeks facts need checking. No ghost writer on my cookbook, I wrote every word myself.”
That “love” doesn’t feel genuine to me. You can feel the nasally, passive agressive tone she statused that in, right?
Yes, she wrote every word. Every ponderous word about ingredients you can’t afford, cookware that’s only available at a tiny shop in the Pyrenees, and how much better she is at making this shit than you are. Ugh, she’s a prig. Her husband must think about sticking his head in that outdoor pizza oven on a daily basis.