Let her cook

You birds are so hateful!!

How ya’ll sound.

I promise I didn’t want to talk about With Love, Meghan. I had every intention of keeping my mouth shut, minding my business, and enjoying the series from my liberal bubble. The world is noisy enough these days; I don’t need any extra hateration or holleration in my dancery. But once again, you lot seem determined to ruin the fun with your big mads.

I won’t attempt to explain or dissect why it troubles people to see a Black or mixed race woman win, even strive. There are decades of research suggesting that unconscious biases can influence how people perceive and evaluate us, and Google is free.¹ It doesn’t matter if we’re running for president or building a balloon arch; the bitterness jumps out every time. And there’s just something about this lady in particular that bothers you to such a degree that she can’t so much as make a frittata without causing an international crash out. It’s terrifying, but it also tickles me.

Truly, aren’t y’all exhausted? It’s been nearly a decade. I can’t imagine the hours of sleep lost, the elevation in blood pressure. We are hurtling toward the collapse of Western civilization. Yet here you are, worried sick about a woman with a $100 million Netflix deal, while your man is blowing his retirement fund on FanDuel. It can’t possibly be worth the energy.

Yes, she’s kind of a cornball. She says things like “a latte love” and “there’s nothing lazy about that Susan!”² At times throughout the show, she reads a bit too earnest. She giggles and glows, and winks while opening a bottle of Taittinger (a royal family favorite). It’s very live laugh love, very Rosé All Day.³ She tries too hard, and it offends you—even though your painfully white faves continue to be duller than ditchwater and cringe as fuck, and you eat. them. up. every. single. time.

I have a feeling you're the same people inserting Gwyneth’s jade eggs and pumping the landfills full of Skims. You’re hate-following tradwives and living vicariously on the Ballerina Farm. Miss Thing from The Wing used your membership money to build her girlboss empire on systemic racism and discrimination, burned it down, then opened a hotel—where was your outrage? Blake Lively [redacted]. Taylor Swift is selling you 12 versions of the same song and flying private to the farmer’s market and y’all live. She’s so down-to-earth and relatable! Why, because she dates fuckboys and dresses like a Sim townie? Be for real, abeg!

At this point, you’d probably feel better if you just let Meghan pick berries and save the bees. Let her decant. Let her prepare food in buttery neutrals and billowy sleeves. (Unless you’re paying her dry cleaning bill I scarcely see why it matters.) Let her tell you what her last name is. We can’t choose how we want to be addressed now? Lord knows you’ve called her everything else.

Let her be calculated. Let her be fastidious. Let her be the girl in class who reminds the teacher they forgot to assign homework—annoying, but not harming you in any real way. Let her “want the gold star.” Let her listen to yacht rock. Let her be clueless about TikTok trends and Gen-Z slang. Like damn, just let her be uncool! People hold such rigid views of Black and brown women—stereotypes we’re supposed to fit⁴, boxes we’re meant to squeeze into. We tell you constantly that we are not a monolith. The idea never quite computes but the proof is in the chia pudding.

She’s talking about chili oil here, but I can read between the lines.

I myself am often accused of being an over-thinker (I am). I can live between my ears, as my mom would say. I’ve tried to be less concerned with details, but I don’t believe thinking deeply and thoroughly is a negative characteristic. I prefer to plan ahead and clean as I go; see you in court, I guess! Maybe more regard for the comfort and emotional safety of others would have come in handy when y’all were filling out your ballots. But back to Meghan Sussex.

Let her be disturbingly considerate. Let her fuss over her people! If I show up at my rich bestie’s house for the weekend and they’ve left fresh-cut flowers by my bed, made me bath salts, and hand-poured a beeswax candle from their private hive…well, diva, I’m canceling my return ticket. I’m soaking myself in the freestanding tub, and I’m counting my blessings as I breathe in the arnica, lavender, and pink Himalayan sea salt. Is it over the top? Hell yeah. But one thing about me is I appreciate being appreciated. Do you not have a caring, thoughtful friend who anticipates your needs and wants you to feel relaxed in their home?⁵ If you don’t want a personalized harvest basket with eggs from Archie’s Chick Inn and a sweet note written in calligraphy, suit yourself—more crêpes for me. A lot of you don’t deserve to have guest rooms. Or guests!

And not to bring the transatlantic slave trade into this, but…since when do y’all take issue with a woman of color knowing her way around a kitchen and large plot of land? It’s a kiki as long as we’re cooking for your families, cleaning your homes, and raising your children, but watch us bake focaccia for our own and suddenly, you’re scandalized. Suddenly, a Black woman tending her garden, growing her own produce, and making meals from scratch is wildly unrealistic to you. She’s “cosplaying Martha Stewart.” Okay, so there's some education that needs to be done. I can see that.

Let my sister have her Nancy Meyers movie moment, the farm-to-table fantasy. Let her cook. And while you’re at it, let her flop, too. Let her fuck up and bounce back from her mistakes. Let her earn a living producing shows you don’t have to watch and selling artisanal preserves you aren’t obligated to buy. Let her have her failed business ventures and high company turnover, and then let her reinvent herself like you do everyone else.

Let her sort herself out. I think we can all agree that, while Meghan is an incredibly privileged person, she’s also been going through it—family estrangement, career drama, a miscarriage. Let her grieve all that. Let her revert to her Tig days, before the Daily Mail and daily death threats. Before exotic DNA and “(almost) straight outta Compton.” Consider for a moment that hosting adult tea parties and arranging bouquets and charcuterie boards, however not relatable to you, could be helping her process trauma.⁶

Let Black women live outside of your narrow expectations. Let us have perfectionist tendencies and questionable taste in music, and let us make silly puns like “working hard for the honey” and “good chives only.” Let us have our passions and speak our love languages. Let us be curious and cloying. Let us enjoy ourselves and smother branzino in salt before the asteroid hits.

I recommend taking a walk. Do a few rounds of 4-7-8 breathing. Learn how to spell “crudités.” The lady from Suits is not out to get you. It’s going to be okay.

As ever,
Britt

My personal favorite yacht rock song. Images from Netflix.

1. For now.

2. Reminder that this is the same woman who, when asked by Oprah about a DM article linking her love of avocados to a human rights crisis, said, “That’s a loaded piece of toast.”

3. Perhaps she’s stuck in 2015 because that was the last time y’all left her alone.

4. See: Doechii’s speech at the Grammys and that mortifying Megan Thee Stallion interview. (Who said anything about fighting?)

5. Whenever I house-sit for my BFF Danny, he stocks my favorite snacks, fresh fruit, wine, and a six-pack of Coca-Cola Classic. That shit means the world to me.

6. Not that you would know anything about that!