Checkmate, Cheese

Chess has kings, queens, and pawns. Nachos have cheese, guacamole, and crumbs. And yet, the parallels are almost too neat. Both games end the same way: with one wrong move, the whole thing collapses.

Cheese is the king. It doesn’t move, it doesn’t flash, it doesn’t win on its own. But it’s the piece you protect, because without it, the board is just empty chips. The queen is guacamole, versatile and dangerous, expensive enough that you ration it, powerful enough that it decides the outcome.

Chips are the rooks. Straight lines of foundation, sturdy until they crumble and take the whole tray down with them. Salsa plays the bishops, cutting diagonally across the board in streaks you never quite predict. Jalapeños are knights, jumping into your mouth from angles you didn’t see coming, leaving chaos in their wake. And pawns? Pawns are the extras — sour cream, onions, olives, cilantro. You dismiss them, you sacrifice them, and then you look up and realize they’ve quietly taken over the whole game.

The nacho platter is the truest chessboard: strategic at the start, pure carnage by the end. Nobody remembers who moved first, just who grabbed the last loaded chip. And when you win, it isn’t with elegance or foresight — it’s with cheese strings hanging off your face, declaring checkmate over a battlefield of crumbs.