I tried making Gwyneth Paltrow’s #BoyfriendBreakfasts. I’m not going back.

A pristine kitchen. Flax linen pajamas. A skillet. If you haven’t spent a lazy weekend morning scrolling through actress and Goop founder Gwyneth Paltrow’s #BoyfriendBreakfast videos — named for the meals she’d whip up to woo then boyfriend, now husband Brad Falchuk — you’re missing out. Looking effortlessly chic and decidedly “ungroggy” in her nightwear (though a recent reel showed her making Tuscan-inspired shakshuka while topless), the Oscar winner painstakingly whips up culinary creations like turkey sausage made from scratch and Persian omelettes using the finest ingredients and a gas stove worthy of Architectural Digest. There’s always something absurdly complicated and yet mouthwatering going on in that kitchen — and I can’t stop watching.

Unfortunately, however, I am honestly terrible at making breakfast. As a working nonfamous mom of two young kids, I barely have time to pound a coffee in the morning, let alone cook something elaborate — not for myself, and certainly not for my husband. Sorry, not sorry. Dude can microwave his own frozen breakfast burrito.

But … I started working with a trainer this year, lifting much heavier weights than ever before, and generally trying to work out every day if I can. In the process, I noticed my a.m. energy flagging the more I carried on my lifelong practice of breakfasting on nothing but coffee and air. And they do say (despite inconclusive research fwiw) that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right? So after spending weeks drooling at my screen and getting hangry by 11 a.m., I decided to take #BoyfriendBreakfast into my own hands and start making my own.

The key difference — other than my budget compared to Paltrow’s and the ensuing lack of unlimited fancy appliances in my kitchen — is that I would be my own boyfriend in this scenario. Yes, I planned to cook large enough breakfasts to share with my husband (and the one child who eats non-beige items). But my purpose with Project #BoyfriendBreakfast was to treat my own self to a luxurious-feeling morning meal worth sitting down for.

I would also not be whipping up truffle omelettes or arranging edible flowers on matcha pancakes. That level of Gwynething is best left to Gwyneth. My first attempt was more humble: a lazy riff on Paltrow’s Tuscan shakshuka, with kale and eggs and mushrooms and zero overnight-soaked beans, thank you very much. I added veggie sausage and tempeh bacon because I don’t eat meat.

Reader, I sat down. I ate it with both hands. I did not scroll or scold my child, who had pulled off his diaper to turn it into a “baby carrier” for his stuffed animal. For 10 whole minutes, I pretended I lived in Gooplandia, where mornings are slow, eggs are soft and the lighting is always good.

And then I did it again the next weekend. This time it was sweet potato hash with caramelized onions and goat cheese. Did my kids eat it? No. Did they ask why I was finally picking some of the overgrown basil from the yard? Yes. But did I feel, for a fleeting moment, like a person who might own linen napkins? I sure did.

I’ve started looking forward to Sunday mornings. I made gluten-free protein pancakes. I texted my sister, who knows how to bake eggs in ramekins, about whether or not I should be baking eggs in ramekins (“Don’t bother,” she told me — bless her). In the sad, weird world that is 2025, actually intentionally feeding myself feels like, I dunno, a small act of rebellion against the pressure to be working all the time for everybody else.

And care, it turns out, is contagious.

I was up early one morning trying to finish a story by deadline, typing furiously from bed. My husband was already awake. I figured he was out running, but no: I heard him clanking around in the kitchen, and soon after he materialized at my bedside with a plate. “I made you breakfast,” he announced, deadpan. “#BoyfriendBreakfast.”

This is a man who thinks eating one tub of plain hummus counts as a complete and balanced meal. Who once gave me such a look of shock and awe when I asked him to “just make the vinaigrette for the salad” that I never asked him again. And yet, there he was, proffering avocado toast with eggs.

It wasn’t perfect. The avocado was maybe a little too ripe. And my husband later admitted that he had struggled mightily to open my vacuum-sealed bag of gluten-free bread to make the toast. But it was lovely, and it was made with care. And isn’t that the point of #BoyfriendBreakfast — whether you’re making it for someone else or just for yourself?

In the end, I’m not sure who Gwyneth Paltrow’s #BoyfriendBreakfasts are really for. Maybe they’re for Brad. Maybe they’re for Instagram. But mine are for me — and whichever stray spouse/child/neighbor happens to wander in hungry that day.

My family’s cooking doesn’t look half as pretty as Paltrow’s. Our kitchen is often a mess. We do not now nor will we ever own whatever expensive julienne-potato gadget she is making hash with. I don’t have the bandwidth — or the budget — for imported harissa or heritage pork. But I’ve got eggs. I’ve got hot sauce (OK, like nine different kinds of hot sauce). And I’ve got 20 minutes on a Sunday morning when I’m just as Goopy as Gwyneth — minus the bone broth and bee venom facials.