Dear Nachos: A Love Letter

Dear Nachos,

You’ve ruined me for all other snacks. Chips alone are fine, sure, but you—layered, loaded, glorious—you’re the reason I believe in second dinners. You show up with warmth, crunch, and the kind of enthusiasm most people lose after their second tax season.

You’ve seen me at my worst. You don’t flinch when I double-dip. You don’t judge when I add extra cheese at 11 p.m. and call it “self-care.” You’re the perfect mix of chaos and comfort, a festival of flavor held together by melted determination.

They say love should be patient and kind, but love should also be spicy, gooey, and slightly reckless. You’ve been there for my heartbreaks, my game nights, my questionable choices. And through it all, you’ve never let me down—unless I left you under the broiler too long, and that one’s on me.

So here’s my confession, in ink and crumbs: You are my forever snack.

Love,
Your devoted fan