Festivus Nachos

Every December 23rd, I gather what’s left of my patience, my dignity, and a very specific type of chip for the most honest holiday of them all: Festivus.

Tradition says it’s about airing grievances, feats of strength, and rejecting holiday commercialism — which, frankly, sounds like every time I make nachos. I air my grievances with soggy chips. I perform feats of strength with melted cheese. And I reject commercialism by pretending the off-brand shredded blend is “artisanal.”

This year, I decided to honor the spirit of Festivus properly: a simple aluminum pole in the corner, no tinsel, no pretense — just me, a tray of nachos, and the truth. I spoke aloud my annual snack frustrations. “To the person who adds olives uninvited — we need to talk.” “To the restaurant that served me cold cheese — I still remember.” It felt cleansing. Like therapy, but with jalapeños.

When it was over, I sat down to eat in silence. No gifts. No guilt. Just crunchy, salty honesty. Because that’s the true meaning of Festivus — to accept that life (and nachos) will always be slightly imperfect, and to love them anyway.