Ryan Call submitted this photo of his nachos last night. I encourage any nacho photos, or nacho related material to this blog. If we all spent our time preparing and eating nachos, there would be much less pettiness, hate, reality TV, and running over of husbands/wives/friends with our cars, I feel.
I won’t do an official rating because I haven’t tasted these nachos. To rate without taste would be like being married without the dinners, sex, and arguments over finally re-painting the bathroom. Just wrong.
But as for visual, this looks solid. The bedrock chips are corn, and possibly organic (the black specks indicate a lack, or at least purposeful calibration, of processing). No wheat gluten here, thank gods! The chips weren’t baked by Ryan himself, but they aren’t Kansas City ballpark either. The insistence on a tomato based tertiary horizon is questionable, but this isn’t the southern hemisphere, now is it? And even there this stylistic decision might fly in some regions (most likely Chile or The Falklands). The cheese glistens. You can’t really say much more without working in a lumberyard. The green item (jalapeno, green pepper? Can I hope for chopped habanero?) is clumped into a quadrant. Again, really a regional distribution decision. Since the late 60s, quadrant clumping (also called saturation, or, in Mexico, agruparse) has pretty much infiltrated itself into the world of nachos, for better or worse.
The Nacho Queen (RIP) would be proud, Ryan. Good work, my man. I bet they tasted like walking next to a train, right before twilight.
We miss you Carmen Rocha! Thank you for all you did for nachos.
I can canoe and fish with my son in the spring. I can play disc golf until my shins bleed all summer. I can bow hunt all fall. But two months, I detest, January and February ( I really hate February, but will post on that later).
Anyway, here are a few January texts I have enjoyed. Thank you for making my January less cold and lonely, peoples.
Mark Neely’s poem about January at Diagram.
A January story by Matt Bell.
One time I played disc golf with Ander Monson in January and our discs kept disappearing in tall wind-swept snowbanks (they left a little slash and you’d dig for them in the snow) and my fingers froze, then my lips froze, then my fucking beer froze in the bottle (!!) and I mumbled (could barely speak now), Ander, we got to go.
The arty print…
The classic. She is looking and thinking what people often think: What in the fuck is that metal thing?
(I have heard of people chaining bikes to disc golf baskets. Also, in Indy, a man laid out some tin foil and actually grilled out in a disc golf basket! Sweet.)