# Meghan’s Cookie Catastrophe: Is Netflix’s “Holiday Heartthrob” Just a Half-Baked Bid for Royal Relevance? Critics Call It “Rehab Crafts Gone Wrong”! **By Grok McSnarkerson, Royal Roast Correspondent** *November 20, 2025 – Montecito, CA (via a suspiciously spotless kitchen set)* In a plot twist that has even the most jaded palace watchers clutching their pearls and their eggnog, Meghan Markle, the Duchess of Sussex and self-proclaimed architect of modern fairy tales, has unleashed what can only be described as a festive fiasco upon the unsuspecting subscribers of Netflix.
Titled something along the lines of *With Love, Meg: A Montecito Mistletoe Mess* (okay, fine, it’s probably just a segment in her latest lifestyle drivel-fest), the scene in question features the former *Suits* starlet channeling her inner Martha Stewart—if Martha had been raised by wolves and audited by the IRS. But hold onto your gingerbread men, because this isn’t just any holiday baking sesh.
No, this is a full-frontal assault on the sacred art of Christmas traditions, complete with enough awkward staging to make a community theater production look like Broadway. Picture this: It’s the most wonderful time of the year, or at least it was until Meghan decided to “create traditions” in a sun-drenched California kitchen that screams “I hired an interior designer who shops exclusively at Goop clearance.”
There she is, resplendent in a crisp white blouse that’s whiter than her post-royal PR spin, her brunette locks cascading like a sponsored L’Oréal ad. She’s got a baking sheet of gingerbread cookies—shaped like, what, abstract existential dread?—and she’s wielding a paintbrush like it’s the Excalibur of edible art. But here’s the kicker: No kids. Not a single Sussex spawn in sight. Archie and Lilibet? Probably off-screen, negotiating their first NDAs or practicing their trust funds. It’s less “family bonding” and more “solo therapy session with frosting.” Enter the X-factor (pun very much intended): A viral post from the delightfully savage @TheRoyalGrift, which dropped this bombshell comparison like a fruitcake on a windshield. On one side, Meghan’s meticulously curated cookie caper, complete with artisanal sprinkles and a backdrop of potted ferns that look like they were flown in from a Scandinavian hygge retreat. On the other?
A heartwarming blast from the Windsor past—circa 2018, if memory serves—featuring the late Queen Elizabeth II, a beaming Prince Charles (pre-coronation glow-up), Prince William in his “future king but make it folksy” suit, and a pint-sized Prince George, all elbow-deep in a time-honored ritual of stirring the Christmas pudding. Bowls overflowing with suet, brandy-soaked fruits, and enough generational gravitas to sink the Titanic. It’s *The Crown* meets *The Great British Bake Off*, but with actual royalty instead of Rishi Sunak’s mum. “Meghan looks like she is doing arts and crafts at a rehab facility,” quips @TheRoyalGrift in a tweet that’s already racked up more likes than Meghan’s last Spotify flop. ” @netflix what is this shite?” Oof. The internet, that merciless arbiter of schadenfreude, erupted faster than a batch of over-yeasted dough.
Replies poured in like mulled wine at a ugly sweater party: “Soooo….she’s creating traditions! We’re talking of Christmas Traditions! Decorating festive biscuits, but still not involving the children!!!” from @ThePastIsTense, who clearly moonlighted as a detective in a past life. Another gem from @debbiejoslin2: “😂😂She so does!!” Because sometimes, brevity is the soul of royal wit.
But let’s peel back the fondant on this sugary showdown, shall we? On the surface, it’s all *aww-shucks Americana*: Meghan, the trailblazing duchess-turned-lifestyle guru, bravely forging new holiday paths in exile. She’s not just baking; she’s *healing*. She’s not just painting cookies; she’s “expressing joy” after years of “unimaginable” palace persecution (her words, not ours—though ours would be “slightly exaggerated”). Netflix, ever the enabler of earnest excess, laps it up, positioning this as peak aspirational content. “Watch as Meghan reclaims the holidays from stuffy old Europe!” the invisible voiceover might as well intone.
But dig a little deeper—past the gluten-free glaze—and what emerges is a masterclass in performative poignancy that’s about as authentic as a knockoff tiara from Wish.com. First off, the optics. Meghan’s setup is a Pinterest fever dream: Sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, neutral linens that cost more than the average Brit’s heating bill this winter, and not a speck of flour on her sleeve.
It’s curated chaos, the kind where the mess is measured in milligrams. Contrast that with the Windsors’ pudding pandemonium: Red velvet curtains, a towering tree decked in heirlooms older than the Magna Carta, and bowls so deep they’re basically cauldrons for a coven of corgis. Prince George, bless his collared cherub self, is up to his elbows in sticky batter, grinning like he’s just been knighted by Father Christmas. The Queen? She’s there, stirring with the quiet authority of someone who’s seen nine prime ministers and zero failed Christmases. It’s tradition incarnate—centuries of stirring wishes into the mix, from the Blitz to Brexit. Meghan’s version? It’s like swapping Stonehenge for a yoga mat. And the kids—or lack thereof.
This is where the intrigue thickens like unset custard. Meghan and Harry have built an entire brand on “protecting our family” from the prying eyes of the press, yet here she is, beaming solo for the cameras, kids quarantined like they’re allergic to authenticity. “Where are the kids?” demands @LinRich182701, echoing the collective side-eye of the realm. Is this “creating traditions” or just cosplaying them? One can’t help but wonder: Are Archie and Lili in the next room, Zooming with their godparents (Bezos? Oprah? A suspiciously friendly alpaca?), or has Meghan outsourced the family fun to a team of understudies?
It’s the royal equivalent of posting a gym selfie without mentioning the trainer, the steroids, or the fact that you hate kale smoothies. Critics—and by critics, we mean everyone from tabloid trolls to actual foodies—are piling on with the precision of a pastry bag. “Just like nobody holds a beasting brush the way she does, no one holds a paintbrush like that either.
All only posed for the camera,” snarks @Loren017Mary, eviscerating Meghan’s grip game with the glee of a *Real Housewives* reunion. @GriffinTheory drops a lump-of-coal bombshell: “Ahhh poor baby…she gets nothing but a lump of coal for Christmas,” linking to a Yahoo article about Meghan allegedly seething over Kate Middleton’s unassailable holiday charm. (Plot twist: Kate’s probably out there whipping up mince pies with actual mincemeat, not this vegan vicuna wool nonsense.) Even the beauty beats are getting dragged: “White finger nail polish. Didn’t Dirty Diddy request white finger nails only?” from @CJ04185522, because nothing says “festive family time” like unintended Epstein-adjacent shade.
And @PughKaren2609? “Tell me there is no hair in that food?” Honey, with those extensions, it’s less “hair in the food” and more “hair *as* the food.” @burkcottage seals the roast: “She’s not qualified to work anywhere near a: 1.) Senior Center 2.) Rest Home 3.) Daycare… 4.) The UK.” Brutal, but fair—especially that last one, which feels like a mic drop from the ghosts of Christmases past.
So, what’s the endgame here? Is Netflix’s yuletide yawn-fest a desperate Hail Mary to salvage the Sussexes’ $100 million deal, now devalued faster than the pound post-Brexit? Or is it Meghan’s sly subtweet at the Windsors, whispering, “See? I can do cozy too—minus the corgis and the class”? Sources close to the production (read: my aunt who subscribes to *Hello!*) whisper that this is just the appetizer; expect full episodes of Meghan muddling mulled wine and Harry harmonica-ing carols next.
But as @paula_berge wisely notes, “American celebrity shite 🤦♀️ The Royal Family have traditions that root back 1000 years. 👍” Indeed. While Meghan paints her perfect picture, the real royals are out there *living* theirs—stirring, not staging. In the end, this cookie clash isn’t just comical; it’s a cautionary carol for anyone chasing clout with a spatula. Meghan’s holiday hustle might snag a few streams from the *Tiger King* crowd, but it’ll never top the timeless allure of a pudding stirred by queens.
So, Netflix execs, take note: Next time, add some actual heart—or at least a kid or two. Otherwise, this “tradition” is headed straight for the compost bin of cultural irrelevance. Merry crisis, everyone. We’ll be over here, toasting with the good stuff. *Grok McSnarkerson is a fictional correspondent for The Daily Snide. Opinions are his own, but the eye-rolls are universal.*
