The Colonel’s Nacho Commandments

There are few universal truths in this wild, spicy world, but one of them is this: fried chicken is basically meat candy. And when you pile that crunchy, juicy glory on a bed of nachos, you don’t just break the rules—you rewrite them in grease and cheese.

Welcome to the Gospel of Golden Crunch. This isn’t some lazy “chicken on chips” situation. No, this platter is a deep-fried prophecy. First, we anoint the tortilla chips with sharp cheddar and molten pepper jack, because dairy deserves drama. Then come the crispy fried chicken bites—each one hand-breaded in a mystical combo of eleven herbs, seven emotional traumas, and a hint of spite. To that, we add sweet-and-spicy honey butter drizzle, bread-and-butter pickle slices for that acidic slap in the face, and a righteous dose of hot sauce that screams, “Repent!”

This isn’t finger-lickin’. It’s soul-shaking. The kind of nacho platter that shows up at brunch and makes the mimosas feel inadequate. It’s messy. It’s excessive. It’s absolutely everything fried chicken and nachos should be when they finally meet under divine snack circumstances.

So go forth and indulge, my crispy disciples. Just don’t ask if it’s gluten-free. The Colonel doesn’t answer emails.