Every time I watch a Gwyneth Paltrow interview on TV I feel like I really like her. Sure, she’s a little out there at times, a little new-agey. But she always comes across as a genuine person, even if she’s completely out of touch with reality. I’ve enjoyed every SNL episode she’s hosted, because she doesn’t really have a problem with getting crazy and she’s actually quite funny. But then there are times when I want to sit her down in a hotel room with Candy Finnegan and give her an intervention because I don’t know who the fuck she thinks she is.
Take her new cookbook for example. I can’t even read the entire preview for it on Amazon without feeling nauseous, and that’s not just because absolutely none of the recipes sound appetizing. It’s because each page reeks with condescension and pretension toward us mere mortals who can’t afford the made-up foods of Gwynethland and occasionally splurge on something deep-fried.
If you can get through the description of her cookbook without rolling your eyes, I applaud you.
Last spring, after a particularly grueling schedule and lapse of overindulgence, Gwyneth Paltrow was feeling fatigued and faint. A visit to her doctor revealed that she was anemic, vitamin D deficient, and that her stress levels were sky high. He prescribed an elimination diet to clear out her system and help her body heal. But this meant no coffee, no alcohol, no dairy, no eggs, no sugar, no shellfish, no deep-water fish, no wheat, no meat, no soy, nothing processed at all!
Normally I would assume something like that had to be written in jest, but I’ve actually read a few Goop newsletters recently so I know she’s dead serious. If Gwyneth actually deigns to do any public readings of this book, I’d bet my life she reads it in her best Madonna/British accent.
The cover of the book is enough to make me toss it in the bargain bin — a picture of a fresh-faced Gwynnie surrounded by hundreds of organic zucchini? Barf. You know who eats like that and takes it seriously? Very very rich, very very white, very very out-of-touch people who think anyone who eats pizza must live in a shanty in the outskirts of Deliverance-ville.
Who has the money to buy fresh mint and pickled ginger regularly? More importantly, who would want to? Excluding Ina Garten, I mean.
Sigh. I want to like you, Gwyneth. You just make it hurt so good.