Game Night Nachos

Game nights always start with hope — snacks, laughter, maybe a light sense of strategy. I made nachos for the occasion, thinking they’d be the perfect communal food: easy to share, hard to mess up, universally loved.

By the time I’d finished melting the cheese, everyone was already circling the pan like wolves pretending to understand the rules of Settlers of Catan. The first few bites were polite. Compliments were exchanged. Then someone went for the loaded corner piece, and it all fell apart.

There’s something primal about nachos that strips away the civility of organized play. You can be friends, teammates, even family — but if you reach for the same chip, all alliances dissolve. Someone accused someone else of double-dipping. Someone else tried to use a fork, which felt like a war crime. I stopped tracking victory points and started counting how many jalapeños I had left.

In the end, no one remembered who won the game. But everyone remembered who took the last chip. Which, to be fair, was me.