Parking Lot Glory

Tailgating is basically a religion. The altar? A folding table balanced on uneven asphalt. The hymn? Someone screaming about the grill being too hot. And the communion? Nachos, obviously.

They’re the perfect tailgate food because they don’t demand order. You don’t need plates. You don’t need forks. You don’t even need dignity. You just rip a chip from the pile, pile it higher with whatever fits — chili ladled out of a crock pot plugged into a car battery, jalapeños from a jar that’s been sitting in the sun since 9 a.m., cheese that may or may not be actual dairy — and then you eat like the parking lot is your living room.

The nachos don’t judge your team colors, they don’t care about the score, and they don’t last long enough to see kickoff. By the time the anthem plays, the platter is a battlefield of broken chips and burnt cheese scraps, and everyone’s fingers are orange. And that’s the point. Tailgating isn’t about winning. It’s about sharing nachos with strangers who suddenly feel like family… until someone realizes the salsa spilled in the backseat and it’s officially game over.