Some sauces are born from tradition. Others are born from panic. This one started with a half-empty fridge and a Sunday dinner I refused to cancel.

I had tomatillos. I had shallots. I had half a bottle of dry sherry from some overambitious risotto night. And thanks to a neighbor with a smoker (this was years before I had my own place with room for those types of things) and a soft spot for good favors, I had a ziplock full of oak-smoked poblano and garlic.

The result was a sauce I’ve made dozens, hundreds, countless, times since. I still haven’t written it down—not properly, anyway—but that’s because it keeps shifting slightly with the seasons. It’s less of a recipe and more of a mindset: balance tang with richness, smoke with sharpness, depth with just enough heat to make you lean forward.

Here’s the rough idea:

• Roast or smoke a tray of tomatillos, shallots, garlic cloves (skins on), and one or two poblano or Anaheim chiles.
• Once blistered and soft, everything goes into a pan with a glug of olive oil and about ½ cup of dry sherry.
• Simmer until it thickens slightly.
• Add a spoon of sour cream or crème fraîche if you want it velvety.
• Blend smooth. Salt to taste. Finish with lime and—my move—a tiny knob of cold butter for shine.

It lands somewhere between a salsa verde and a cream sauce, but it doesn’t fully commit to either. I’ve poured it over pan-seared pork medallions. I’ve tossed it with rigatoni and roasted squash. Once, during a rough patch, I ladled it over scrambled eggs and ate it right out of the pan while standing at the stove. No regrets.

There’s a reason this one keeps showing up on my table: it understands my contradictions. Old-world comfort. Southwest heat. Just enough acid to keep things honest. Like most good things in my kitchen, it doesn’t come from a cookbook. It comes from a place of let’s see what happens—and a belief that sauce can save a meal, maybe even a mood.

If you’ve got tomatillos rolling around your produce drawer and no plan, try this. Don’t measure too carefully. Let your senses lead.

And whatever you do, save a little for tomorrow. It’s even better the next day.

Now if you don’t mind, I’m late for a barrel tasting at Frey Ranch.