okay, first things first: I didn’t even know what chilaquiles were until my early twenties, which honestly feels like some kind of crime. I grew up thinking “nachos” were the height of tortilla-chip cuisine. you know the kind—giant trays at college parties with sad Velveeta globs, jalapeños from a jar, everyone fighting for the corner piece with actual toppings.

and then, one miraculous hungover morning, a friend’s mom made chilaquiles. stale tortilla chips tossed in salsa, softening just enough but still with a bite, topped with eggs. she set the plate down in front of me, steam rising, cilantro sprinkled on top like she actually cared if I lived or died after tequila night. I took one bite and felt… saved. not to be dramatic, but chilaquiles might have rescued me from death-by-margarita.

are they breakfast? are they dinner? yes.

I keep trying to categorize them, but it doesn’t work. breakfast? sure—throw an egg on top, call it morning food. dinner? also yes, because I’ve eaten them at 11 p.m. in pajamas while rewatching the same sitcom episode for the 12th time.

once I made them at 3 p.m. just because I found stale chips in the back of the pantry. does that make it “lunch”? who cares. the point is: chilaquiles don’t follow rules. they’re chaos in a skillet, which is probably why I love them.

my first disaster batch

I thought I could wing it. dumped tortilla chips straight into salsa like it was cereal and milk. no technique, no thought. result? soggy, gluey chip mush. my roommate came home, looked into the pan, and asked if I was “inventing dog food.” rude. accurate.

I almost gave up, but the smell kept pulling me back. roasted tomatoes, garlic sizzling, a little chili smoke in the air—it felt too good to abandon. so I tried again. and again. eventually learned: toss chips gently in warm salsa, don’t drown them. it’s more about vibe than recipe.

green vs red: the eternal fight

salsa verde? bright, tangy, tomatillo magic. salsa roja? smoky, deep, chili-forward. ask ten people which is better, get ten passionate, dramatic answers.

me? I swing like a weather vane. one week I’m convinced verde is superior—lighter, more refreshing, perfect under a fried egg. next week, roja feels right—heavier, comforting, makes me want to curl up on the couch with a blanket.

one time I tried mixing both just to be a rebel. my friend said it looked like swamp water. tasted amazing though.

tortilla chip confessions

you’re “supposed” to fry day-old tortillas into fresh chips. do I? rarely. I usually grab whatever half-stale bag of store-bought chips is lying around. sometimes they’re too thin and disintegrate instantly, sometimes too thick and refuse to soak in salsa, leaving me crunching like I’m eating nachos again.

one time I tried “healthy” baked chips. biggest mistake. they dissolved faster than cotton candy in rain. lesson learned: if you’re eating chilaquiles, you’ve already committed to messy comfort food. don’t ruin it by pretending it’s diet food.

toppings = personality test

I think you can tell a lot about a person by how they top their chilaquiles.

fried egg people = morning optimists, probably productive

scrambled egg people = chaotic, maybe still drunk

chicken on top = practical, looking for actual protein

avocado slices = bougie, or just someone who got lucky with ripeness

queso fresco = traditionalist, bless you

sour cream = dramatic flair, love extra

me? I’m all of the above, depending on the day. once I even threw leftover pulled pork on top. tasted glorious, looked horrifying.

kitchen chaos episode

I was making chilaquiles one Saturday morning, salsa simmering, eggs frying, chips standing by. then the smoke alarm went off (always does, my pan hates me). dog started barking at the alarm. neighbor knocked because apparently the smell was “suspicious.” I opened the door holding a skillet of half-finished chilaquiles like it was evidence.

the neighbor ended up staying to eat. said it was the “best brunch ever.” I didn’t admit the eggs were half-burned on the bottom.

grocery store spirals

I swear I only go in for tortillas and somehow come out with:

five different hot sauces I didn’t need

a random jar of mole paste I’ll forget in the back of the fridge

cilantro that I’ll definitely let wilt (again)

a “surprise” bag of chips I pretend was for guests but inhale alone on the couch

also, every single time, I forget the eggs. which means making chilaquiles at midnight without the fried-egg topper, which feels almost illegal.

neighbors and accidental bribes

once I made too big a batch—like, way too big, because apparently I can’t eyeball salsa-to-chip ratios. ended up with a mountain of skillet chilaquiles. carried a plate over to Brenda (yes, same Brenda who judges my cheese choices for elote). she said, “too salty, but edible.” then ate two servings.

now she asks, casually, “so… when are you making chilaquiles again?”

mistakes I keep repeating

drowning chips until they’re mushy soup

forgetting to salt the salsa, then overcompensating and basically creating brine

frying eggs too hard so the yolk doesn’t run (and then sulking about it)

trying “low-fat cheese” once… never again

why it hits different when hungover

I can’t explain it scientifically, but chilaquiles when you’re hungover taste like forgiveness. greasy, tangy, salty forgiveness. one morning after too many tequila shots, I ate them cold from the skillet while sitting on the floor in pajamas, dog staring at me like I’d lost my mind. probably had. didn’t matter. they saved me anyway.

the vibe (not the rules)

people always want rules. how long do you simmer the salsa? how crispy should the chips be? what toppings are authentic? and honestly… who cares. sometimes mine are crunchy, sometimes soggy, sometimes I mess up the eggs, sometimes I nail it.

it’s not a science. it’s a vibe. it’s a dish that forgives you for screwing up.