Imagine my surprise when I received the June issue of Bon Appetit, and instead of a strawberry rhubarb pie or a luscious summer salad, your face was staring back at me, offering me a bite of spaghetti. The magazine called you “food’s newest face” and described you as a cookbook author.
Gwyneth, I love you, I really do. I see every one of your movies, and thought your performance in Shakespeare in Love, was truly worthy of the Academy Award and Golden Globe that you won.
I didn’t complain when you decided you wanted to be a singer. Many an actress has been known to sing. Did I find it surprising when you sang at the Country Music Awards? Yes, I did. It seemed a bit of a force fit, but I was hanging in there with you, rooting for you. Even when you stole the dream of every girl from fourteen to forty-four by singing with Matthew Morrisson on Glee, I didn’t complain.
I expect to see you looking gorgeous on the cover of In Style or Vogue. I don’t expect to see you sporting a slinky blue knit dress on the cover of Bon Appetit. When I look at the picture of you serving up grilled barbeque chicken, all I see is your perfectly manicured hands and antique engagement ring.
I get it; everyone wants to write a book. But couldn’t you have just written a memoir?
If you want to cook a meal for your family, I’m all for that. But here’s my beef – you are making the rest of us look bad. While most of us women are doing a pretty bang up job of trying to balance career and family, you just keep raising the bar higher.
Go ahead, be gorgeous all the time, have perfect kids, sing like an angel, win awards, but I beg you to stay out of my kitchen.