The Nachobread House

Every December, people gather to build small, edible houses that no one ever eats. It’s tradition. It’s festive. It’s also a terrible use of perfectly good ingredients.

So this year, I made something better: the Nachobread House.

Nachobread, for the uninitiated, is like gingerbread’s savory, overconfident cousin. You make it the same way — roll it, cut it, bake it — but instead of sugar and spice, it’s cornmeal, cheddar, chili powder, and a little butter to keep things morally flexible. The result is a sturdy, spiced dough that smells like the holidays and a tailgate. It’s the kind of aroma that makes you both nostalgic and hungry for something with jalapeños in it.

Construction was surprisingly smooth. The walls were crisp and golden, the bean paste mortar set beautifully, and for once, gravity seemed like a team player. Then came decorating — guacamole garland, olive doorknobs, sour cream icicles, tiny jalapeño shingles that refused to stay in place. It looked less like a holiday dream and more like an ambitious concept doomed by enthusiasm.

Still, it worked. The Nachobread House may have leaned slightly to the left and smelled faintly of taco night, but it was fully edible — which already puts it leagues ahead of gingerbread. It didn’t sit there for weeks collecting dust and guilt. It was built, admired, and devoured all in one night.

So no, it won’t make the cover of any lifestyle magazine. But it stood long enough to be appreciated and tasted good enough to be destroyed. And really, isn’t that the spirit of the season?