Quiche, by nature, is fancy. It is for prim ladies in floral dresses, their delicate hair tucked under wide-brimmed straw hats, lounging on wicker furniture. It is for garden parties where everything is served on antique bone china, garnished with a light smattering of freshly minced herbs, and eaten with very small forks that aren’t quite miniature but certainly not designed for the monstrous paws of the plebes who weren’t invited. Quiche is something you eat half a portion of, declare, “Oh my heavens, it is just so rich I simply cannot bring myself to eat another bite!” and then spend the remaining hours sating yourself with lemon water and the wafting scent of your uneaten lunch.I do not get invited to these parties. I don’t own any floral dresses, but I do have yoga pants that are wearing out in the crotch, but which I refuse to throw away because the ventilation they’re providing in this humidity is utterly fantastic. I once tried to be one of those ladies who could pull off a straw hat, but my cat decided he needed to use it as a bed for an entire week, then peed in it to let me know I look stupid in hats. I’ve never had the problem of finding quiche so rich that I couldn’t eat an entire slice—or, for that matter, the entire pan in one sitting. Yet its elegance cannot intimidate me, turning me away from its creamy, cheesy, eggy splendor. Once the delicate crust, daintily trimmed herbs, and antique bone china are stripped away, you find that quiche is not much more than a bacon, egg, and cheese that went to Princeton. There’s no reason that folks like us, with our holey-crotch yoga pants and cat-pee hats, can’t have a quiche of our own. Something that makes us feel we are grabbing a slice of the good life of those society types, while keeping one foot in the gutter where our hearts truly lie. Our quiche may have gotten rejected from Princeton, but Daddy called in some favors and managed to get our sweet baby into Notre Dame. It’s a scientific fact that any pedestrian bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich can instantly be elevated to Michelin standards by adding some ketchup and a crushed-up 50-cent bag of Doritos. So logically, building a quiche based on this principle will result in something akin to the Mona Lisa of brunch. Since pie dough doesn’t need to rely on gluten to hold its form, we can replace the majority of the flour in a standard pate brisee with “house ground Doritos flour”—an ingredient we’ve managed to find many uses for in our kitchen and bedroom. Baked with a traditional quiche filling swirled with crispy bacon and cheddar cheese, we cover the top in a tangy tomato glacé (read: ketchup), then gild the lily with a crown of roughly crushed Doritos for extra crunch and so all the other quiches know not to fuck with it. We’re not remotely concerned with whatever nutritional damage our tremendously awesome upgrade may cause, because truthfully, even without our interference, quiche is legitimately one of the most unhealthy things you could possibly eat. It’s primarily butter, filled with half-and-half, fatty pork, and cheese. Even if you added spinach or fancy herbs there is no saving you here, so just own that and embrace the insanity. Breezy floral dresses are excellent at covering up Doritos gut.Doritos QuicheIngredients*If you have problems keeping the dough together, add a little water, knead it in, and try again. If worse comes to worst, pick the dough up piece by piece and patch it together in the pie plate. No one can see the insides, anyway.Note: This recipe is in no way sponsored or condoned by Doritos. We just like them.Allison and Matt Robicelli are the authors of the critically acclaimed cookbook Robicelli's: A Love Story, with Cupcakes andhave created multiple internationally viral desserts.