When the gods created the universe, they did so to make it possible to say, “Dude, nachos are like the best freakin food in the universe, man.”
Hot damn we’re eating nachos tonight, bitches!
It must be sturdy to hold the weight of a skyscraper.
Its roots must burrow deep and wide. Gravity is at play. And wind and quake.
This isn’t child’s play. A lot’s at stake.
So it goes for a plate of nachos.
It must have chips of concrete, cheese of rebar.
Melted together in an immovable mesh of golden crunch and yellow magma.
Heated together. And alone. Nothing else must interfere with the marriage of these two most important ingredients. Sogginess is for swamps and soup and Spencer’s mom.
Next comes the beans. Black, pinto, refried or whole. A combo of all will give your nachos soul.
Barbequed chicken on top, in strips torn with fingers. Then pile on the steak, because nachos aren’t for wieners.
Olives–an entire can? Damn.
The pile is growing but still needs more flavor. This aint no casserole, Ma, turn up the incinerator.
Fresh salsa comes to the rescue with tomatoes, cilantro, jalapenos, and onion. A start, but
more fire is crucial for bleeding of the gums and bum. Dice up two or eight jalapenos, and a habanero for fun.
“What more?” you ask. An avocado will do. Some sour cream, Tapatio, or corn or stew. But ‘woe’–goes my heart. I sadly have none. So I squeeze a bit of lemon and call it done.