The Nachos of Frankenstein

The platter arrives stitched from chaos. Chips fused together with too much cheese, sauces bleeding into one another, toppings that don’t belong sharing the same scorched surface. It looks less like food and more like an experiment gone wrong. Yet under the crackle of burnt edges, something stirs.

The guacamole doesn’t sit neatly on its side — it oozes. Sour cream pools like pale skin under lightning. Salsa erupts in streaks of red, a wound across the surface. Each topping fights for dominance, yet the cheese binds them in one molten, grotesque harmony. The result is uneasy, but undeniable: the thing is alive.

You don’t eat these nachos delicately. You tear into them, pulling chips that snap and groan under the weight of their toppings. Some bites are brilliance — chip, cheese, meat, sauce, the perfect combination. Others are horror, a plain shard or a mouthful of onion that feels like punishment. But that’s the truth of the creature. Flawed, stitched together, never meant to exist… and yet unforgettable.

The villagers may sneer, torches in hand, but you know better. These nachos weren’t born of logic. They were born of hunger and hubris, pulled from the oven with a crack of thunder. A monstrosity, yes. But a monstrosity worth devouring.