She went ahead and reposted a breakfast reel from Nestled Lit Life onto the official As Ever Instagram story, and honestly, it was a full-blown aesthetic catastrophe. The reel tried to channel a cozy, softly lit kitchen vibe but instead delivered a breakfast horror show.
The pancakes alone might have been passable, but things went downhill fast when they were attacked by what looked like failed floral confetti—like someone raided a discount Etsy shop and dumped the remains of dried potpourri all over the plate. These so-called As Ever flower sprinkles resembled something scooped from the bottom of a funeral sachet and passed off as gourmet. It was cursed cottagecore meets haunted brunch—“What if we made pancakes, but make them look... dead?” Forget edible gold or fresh fruit; now it’s apparently trendy to sprinkle dried weeds on breakfast and call it high-end. It’s not elevated, Meg—it’s chaos. It looks like the result of a toddler discovering a flower press and a jar of Nutella at the same time.
To make matters worse, the whole plate gave off the energy of a rodent disaster—one poor soul on social media said it looked like something a sick mouse might have left behind. If carbs could feel anything, those pancakes would be seeking a restraining order. But the real twist came with the influencer marketing play. Meghan also reposted a story from Hen Stabitz—real name Heaven Shipsky—a Black mom influencer known for her motherhood and breastfeeding content. Of course, it came with another curated PR box and a handwritten note. Sweet on the surface, but it's hard to ignore the optics. This kind of strategic visibility—particularly from someone who often accuses others of racism—can easily start to feel more like opportunism, especially when women of color are used as props to reinforce a fragile brand identity.
Meanwhile, everyday customers are still out there chasing updates and refunds like they’re trying to reach someone on a Ouija board. Influencers get boutique packages with notes and sparkles, while the general public receives dented boxes, budget packing materials, and thank-you cards that look like they were printed during a blackout. One unfortunate customer even said the contents resembled animal feed—and that might have been too generous. What’s the point of sending influencer packages when the product isn’t even consistently available to the average buyer? This isn’t commerce; it’s a surreal digital circus where Meghan plays ringmaster, drawing people in with the illusion of luxury only to bait and switch with underwhelming results. It’s clownery with a capitalist gloss.
At its core, this isn’t really about breakfast, wellness, or even floral aesthetics. It’s about creating the illusion of a thriving business. Meghan needs people to believe she's thriving so she can keep booking speaking engagements, podcast appearances, and maybe, if she’s lucky, land a buyout. That’s the only viable future for this make-believe brand. There’s no real inventory, no solid customer service, and no scalable system—just smoke, mirrors, and sad flower dust on pancakes. She boasts about selling out in 25 minutes, but how can you sell out of something you never had in stock? What kind of business model relies on hype that vanishes before anyone can even complete a purchase? Within days, people forget the brand exists at all, and those floral sprinkles fade from memory like the final season of a forgotten podcast.
The truth is, Meghan doesn’t need a real product—she needs the performance of one. She needs to look busy, look successful, and look like she’s in demand. But just like those limp, lifeless petals on her breakfast plate, the illusion crumbles the moment anyone gets close enough to taste it.
