I pour out on my plate fourteen light, crispy tortilla chips, tortilla chips cupped to hold just the right amount of mild salsa, which I pour onto the plate right beside. I scoop. I eat. I scoop, and I eat. I scoop and eat fourteen times until I am swiping away the last bit of corn tortilla from my twelve year molars. I look down at the plate. There is more salsa, at least three scoops’ worth, so I retrieve four chips (just to be safe). But I overestimated. I am left with two lonely chips, craving the accompaniment of robust, sweet, and smokey salsa. I pour on more salsa. I scoop twice, yet I am left still with half a scoop more salsa. I retrieve another chip–okay three more chips, but again I need more salsa with which to dress my chips. I cannot stop unless I resolve to stop. I cannot strike balance between chip and dip.
I have scooped the last bit of salsa finally. Then I reach my hand into the bag, pull out another chip, and dip it directly into the salsa’s glass container.
I marvel at the rules we make, then break.