the first time I made salsa verde, it looked like pond water. not even exaggerating. I threw tomatillos in a pot, boiled them to death, blended them while still steaming, and then stood there holding a jar of swamp. tasted as bad as it looked. and I remember thinking, maybe salsa verde just isn’t for me.
but then I ate the real thing. roasted tomatillos, charred onion, garlic that smelled like it belonged in heaven, cilantro punched in at the end. bright and tangy and smoky all at once. suddenly tacos weren’t just tacos anymore. even plain tortilla chips felt fancy.
tomatillo mysteries
they’re weird little guys. sticky husks, green skin, kind of alien-ish. first time I bought them, I left them on the counter too long and they shriveled into something you’d see in a haunted house. roommate walked in like, “are those… props?”
also, fun discovery: if you peel them and toss husks in the trash, your kitchen will smell like wet cardboard sadness for days.
roasting chaos
I tried broiling them once—open oven, smoke pouring out, alarms screaming. my dog barked along like it was karaoke night. Brenda (neighbor, constant critic, occasional taste tester) texted: “is everything on fire?” I sent her a photo of blackened tomatillos. she sent me the eye-roll emoji.
still, roasting is worth it. boiled = dull. roasted = drama.
blender trauma
one hot batch, lid wasn’t on tight, and I basically redecorated my kitchen in green polka dots. found salsa splatter on the ceiling fan weeks later. I swear the dog had a green streak on his tail for a whole day.
every recipe says, “cool them before blending.” do I listen? not usually.
heat level: russian roulette
jalapeños lie. one is sweet and tame, the next one will send you crying into the sink. serranos? even meaner. once I made a salsa so hot Brenda dipped a chip, went silent, then marched into my kitchen and drank milk straight from the carton. still came back for seconds.
when I forget ingredients (aka always)
no lime? I convince myself lemon juice works. (it doesn’t.) no cilantro? I shrug and blend anyway. once I roasted garlic too long, it turned into black pebbles. tossed them in anyway—bitter as regret, but I ate it.
weirdest experiment? added avocado on its last day. turned creamy, almost like salsa-verde-guac. not authentic, but I stood over the sink eating it with chips, so… a win.
chips ruin dinner plans
I always tell myself, “I’ll save this for tacos.” nope. I hover over the blender with a bag of chips and demolish half the batch before it cools. one day I ate salsa verde for all three meals. breakfast with eggs, lunch with rice, dinner with… just chips.
dog tried to lick some off the floor once. instant betrayal face. sulked under the couch like I’d personally ruined his week.
grocery store nightmare
tomatillos are elusive. sometimes they’re piled high, sometimes just one sad basket with husks half-moldy. one time I asked where they were, clerk pointed me to kiwis.
and limes? I always forget limes. always. midnight runs to the corner shop in slippers, begging the cashier to check the back.
salsa on everything
tacos, yes. chips, obviously. but also:
eggs (scrambled, fried, whatever, just dump it on)
roasted potatoes (unexpected, but wow)
burgers (don’t judge me)
pizza (chaotic but it worked)
directly from a spoon at 2 a.m. (standing in the fridge light like a gremlin)
disasters I’d rather forget
forgot salt once = green baby food.
dumped in canned tomatoes because panic = pink salsa. it looked embarrassed.
raw onion blended in = tasted like punishment.
chili powder accident instead of fresh chilies = dusty sadness.
not a recipe, just vibes
sure, I could give you numbers: 6 tomatillos, 2 jalapeños, garlic, onion, cilantro, lime, salt. but that’s not how salsa verde works. every batch is different. sometimes fiery, sometimes mild, sometimes way too tangy, sometimes perfect by accident.
it’s not about steps. it’s about roasting until smoky, blending until messy, spilling some, licking the spoon, ruining your shirt. salsa verde isn’t a recipe. it’s chaos in a jar.