A Nacho Confession

I need to come clean — not because I want to, but because the crumbs have started whispering my secrets. I don’t always eat nachos like a civilized human being. No, sometimes I stand at the sink, shoulders hunched, jalapeños sliding off like tiny regrets, praying the sour cream doesn’t hit the faucet handle.

It starts innocently. You think, “I’ll just have one chip.” Then suddenly, you’re crouched like a raccoon at midnight, holding a half-collapsed nacho tower in your bare hands, pretending this is efficiency. The sink is your plate, your confessional, your friend who doesn’t judge — only drains.

Standing over that cold metal basin, there’s freedom. You don’t care about napkins or table manners or whether the cheese has welded two chips together in a beautiful act of defiance. You just eat. You live. You crunch your truth.

So this is my confession: the best nachos aren’t Instagrammable. They’re sink-born, gravity-assisted, and slightly shame-flavored. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.