An Open Letter to Gwyneth Paltrow: Your Goop Candle Is Confusing My Dog

I am writing to you because I am genuinely worried about the state of your kitchen. Is everything okay in there? Does a piece of bread have to go through a twelve-step sanctification process before it is allowed to touch your plate? I have this mental image of you hovering over a single, sad grain of quinoa while a silent monk whispers ancient blessings to ensure it does not accidentally contain a calorie. It is exhausting just thinking about it.

Some of us live in the real world, Gwyneth. In this world, a carbohydrate is not a sin; it is a survival mechanism. We do not have the time or the tax bracket to ensure our pasta has been emotionally validated by a spiritual advisor.

And while we are on the subject of your domestic kingdom, we need to talk about the candles. There is a very clear line where a household object stops being a source of light and starts being a biological weapon. I do not know who told you that the interior of a luxury home should smell like a medical exam or a botanical fever dream, but they lied to you. A candle should smell like vanilla or maybe a forest, not like an over-sharing session at a spa that also sells crystals.

Furthermore, I must address the “steaming.” The average person—the ones not currently gliding through a Montecito mansion—cannot afford to spend a Tuesday afternoon steaming their internal organs. Most of us are just trying to get through the day without our internal organs shutting down from too much caffeine and existential dread. We use steam to get wrinkles out of shirts, Gwyneth, not to “reset” our souls.

Please, for the love of all that is unrefined and deep-fried, eat a piece of cheese over a sink. Do not bless it. Do not photograph it. Just eat it and let your soul be a little bit messy for once.

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