As Ever: A Masterclass in Selling Pretty, Tasteless Nothing

When Meghan Markle launched As Ever, we were promised something rare:

• Sun-warmed fruit.

• Homemade elegance.

• The Montecito lifestyle bottled into bite-sized moments.

Instead, we got crumbling cookies, watery teas, and a brand that feels less like a revolution and more like the aesthetic equivalent of elevator music.

In truth, As Ever isn’t a lifestyle.
It’s the idea of a lifestyle.
It’s the Pinterest board you save at 2 a.m. but never actually use.

And if you think this is a one-time branding blunder, it’s not. We’ve seen it before — and not just in jam jars.

Death of Curated Luxury

The first product out of the gate wasn’t a lifestyle revolution.
It was raspberry jam.

Not an earth-shattering, artisanal reimagining.
Not a flavor that rewired your childhood memories.
Just jam — the kind you could find at a mid-tier farm stand two towns over.

Early recipients noted the obvious:

• The grainy, uneven texture.

• The syrupy sweetness with none of the tart complexity good raspberry demands.

• The quiet, growing suspicion that what they were really being sold wasn't taste — it was proximity.

The jar was beautiful, of course.
The label was artful from a distance.
But when you looked closer — at the crooked stickers, the unremarkable texture inside — it became clear:

This wasn’t heirloom elegance.
This was a hotel breakfast repackaged in better lighting.

When you charge a luxury price point — when you sell the idea that your jam channels some kind of rarefied soul —
you owe people more than grocery store flavor wrapped in moodboard aesthetics.

(Related reading: How Meghan Markle Ruined Her Own Brand)

A Butter Betrayal

Shortbread should taste like you’ve committed a small crime against moderation.
It should be dangerous.

Instead, As Ever's cookie mix offered dry, crumbly, visually appealing disappointment.
The edible flower sprinkles?
The flavor?

Aggressively beige.

When reviewers describe your luxury cookies as “dry enough to absorb the GDP of a small country," you have a branding problem — and a baking problem.

(Related reading: Meghan Markle’s Brand: What Went Wrong and Why We’re Not Surprised)

All Buzz, No Actual Honey

In luxury marketing, scarcity is supposed to feel intentional.
Here, it just felt sloppy.

As Ever’s Wildflower Honey — priced at $28 — was listed as one of the brand’s nine inaugural products.
It was teased as a limited-edition indulgence, sold alongside the dream of Montecito breakfasts and hand-picked blossoms.

But there was a catch:
The honey wasn’t included in any PR boxes.
It wasn’t available to regular customers at launch.
It wasn’t even properly stocked online.

Shoppers who eagerly paid for it were later met with corporate apology emails — refund offers and vague promises of future gifts.

Scarcity only works when the product exists.
When the gap between branding and reality gets too wide, it stops feeling exclusive.
It starts feeling like a bait-and-switch.

Luxury isn't selling people a dream.
It’s delivering it.

And As Ever’s Wildflower Honey turned out to be just another empty promise dressed up in twine.

Pretty Leaves, No Legacy (or Logo)

The As Ever tea set promised soft living.
It delivered soft disappointment.

Lemon ginger, peppermint, hibiscus — the holy trinity of soothing. They should have steeped the room in memory. They should have tasted like a Sunday morning you never wanted to end.

Instead, reviewers called them "watery," "flat," and "forgettable." And if the flavors weren’t memorable, the presentation sealed the deal: plain tea bags, no distinct logo, no story, no signature.

Just generic bags inside generic packaging, whispering promises they had no intention of keeping.

You can’t brand your way into better tea.
You can’t steep a vibe.
You have to blend it like you mean it — otherwise, all you’re selling is hot water and disappointment.

(Related reading: Why Meghan Markle’s Outfits Keep Missing the Mark)

Flower Sprinkles: Basically Rabbit Food

There is no metaphor for As Ever more perfect than its edible flower sprinkles.

Pretty to look at.
Completely unnecessary.
Absolutely hollow.

Sprinkles are supposed to make life sweeter.
They’re supposed to feel like a secret wink at joy — a little rebellion against the dullness of the everyday.

These ones?
They made life sadder.
A scattering of brittle petals pretending to be decadence, but offering all the emotional resonance of rabbit food.

Because that’s what they were:
Decorative. Tasteless. Something you toss into a bowl to convince yourself you’re doing something special — when really, you’re just dressing up disappointment.

If there’s anything that defines As Ever, it’s that:
The relentless, desperate hope that if you sprinkle enough flowers over mediocrity, maybe no one will notice it still tastes like nothing.

When the Stickers Start to Peel, So Does the Illusion

Luxury isn’t just about taste.
It’s about the story you tell the second someone touches the product.

As Ever clearly understood that — or at least tried to.
The jars, the tins, the teas — all designed to whisper Montecito softness and heirloom chic.

But then you look closer.
You see the bumpy, crooked labels slapped onto the jars.
You notice the air bubbles under the stickers, the edges peeling like a poorly-wrapped Christmas gift.

Small things, maybe.
But luxury lives and dies in the small things.

And when the label on a $30 jam jar can’t even lie flat, you start to wonder what else they thought you wouldn’t notice.

You can forgive a lot in branding.
Mediocre taste, muted flavors, even awkward marketing.

But sloppy presentation?
That’s the first crack in the fantasy — and the hardest one to unsee.

The Future of As Ever (If There’s Even a Point)

The saddest thing about As Ever isn’t the bad tea or the grainy jam.
It’s the ghost of what it could have been — a brand built on the dangerous, gorgeous imperfection that real life demands.

Imagine if Meghan had let the mess in.
If she had sold us something flawed and human instead of airbrushed nothingness.
Imagine if As Ever had tasted like someone’s real kitchen — loud, a little chaotic, unapologetically alive — instead of a Pinterest board printed on cheap cardstock.

But she didn’t.

Instead, we got a brand that photographs beautifully at golden hour — and tastes like apathy by morning.

Final Brewtiful Thoughts

As Ever could have been extraordinary.
It could have made people believe again — not in Meghan, but in the magic of small things done well.

Instead, it’s just another cautionary tale:
You can dress up mediocrity.
You can stage it, photograph it, export it.

But the second someone opens the jar, the truth leaks out.

And no amount of twine and font work can seal it back in.

Disclaimer:
This article is satirical and opinion-based. It reflects personal observations, public product feedback, and cultural commentary. It is not intended as a factual investigation or personal attack. If you’re looking for a heartfelt love letter to mediocre jam, you’re in the wrong place.