Meghan Markle has taken a surprising turn with her latest venture—she’s swapped acting and podcasting for something far stickier: raspberry jam.
Her new brand, American Riviera Orchard, debuted with dreamy visuals of jars stirred under moonlight, surrounded by hummingbirds, and finished off with perfectly curated Instagram posts. It all looks like something straight out of a romantic countryside fantasy. But take away the filters, and what you’re left with feels more like a carefully crafted illusion—or as some are calling it, a “Scam Jam” situation.
The entire launch has been a whirlwind of mixed messaging. In one moment, Meghan’s seen gracefully stirring fruit in a pristine kitchen, channeling a fairytale farm-to-table vibe. In the next, it's mass production mode, with jars flying off a conveyor belt like they're trying to beat a Netflix deadline. So which is it? A lovingly handmade delicacy or just another mass-produced product with a duchess label slapped on? The contradictions are louder than any royal trumpet blast.
As expected, Meghan’s PR machine kicked into high gear, sending elaborate jam gift boxes to a parade of celebrities. The Kardashians got a taste, as did Nacho Figueras, and even that friend no one really remembers. Her mother, Doria, made a cameo too—reluctantly tasting a banana dessert and offering an expression that could only be described as “get me out of here.” When even your mom struggles to fake enthusiasm, maybe it’s time to reconsider the rollout strategy.
Things only got weirder from there. The original batch featured strawberry jam, a classic crowd-pleaser. Then, without warning, it was all about raspberry. No announcement, no reason, just a quiet switch and a brand-new narrative. Was it a cost-cutting move? Did raspberries test better with Meghan’s target demographic? Nobody knows. Meghan’s keeping mum, sealing her lips tighter than the jam lids themselves.
And don’t bother asking for actual sales figures. Her team’s been sidestepping any real numbers while tossing out vague brags like “sold out in Australia” and “top jam in Japan.” Sounds impressive—until you realize there’s no context. Are we talking ten jars? A hundred? A few that went to her hairdresser? Without receipts, the global success claim falls flat. Instead, they're dangling promises of digital insights to track who’s buying and where—basically a fancy way to avoid giving straight answers.
Then there’s the product itself. The label is all aesthetic and minimal detail—no word on the fruit source, whether it’s organic, or even where the jam’s made. What’s clear is that it’s smaller than standard jars and costs twice as much. That’s not artisanal—that’s a duchess markup. The packaging? Pure spectacle. Oversized boxes, layers of wrapping, and so many ribbons it could pass for a bridal shower centerpiece. It’s all designed to catch the eye of influencers, but offers little substance behind the shine.
So, if you're ready to spend $14 on a tiny jar of questionably-sourced jam praised by celebrities who haven't touched sugar in years, Meghan’s your girl. But for everyone else, “Scam Jam” feels about right. With no clear numbers, zero transparency, and nothing that actually screams “homemade,” it’s all just another masterclass in royal PR—packaged neatly in a mason jar.
