The Aftermath

Christmas Day came and went in a blur of wrapping paper, questionable playlists, and excessive confidence in my ability to feed everyone with nachos. I made an entire “Nacho Christmas” playlist — 42 minutes of songs from every genre, no logic, one haunting cover of Silent Night, and a track that was literally just chip crunching ASMR. I wrapped presents in foil printed with cartoon jalapeños. I was all in.

And honestly, it worked — mostly. People laughed, plates emptied, and someone asked if nachos counted as a main course. They do now. But now it’s the morning after, and I’m surrounded by evidence that joy is messy.

There are chip fragments in the couch cushions, jalapeño rings fossilized to serving plates, and a faint smell of roasted cheese hanging in the air like a memory that refuses to move on. The guac is gray. The queso bowl has hardened into something that might qualify as pottery. One of the gifts is still half-wrapped, a bottle of hot sauce poking out like a survivor.

Still, I can’t be mad. Nachos are honest — they never promise longevity, just enthusiasm. They burn bright, then fade fast, kind of like the holidays themselves. So I’ll clean the pans, open a window, and maybe start plotting next year’s playlist while the tree still blinks in protest.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no matter how chaotic the season gets, there’s always room for one more chip.