Mojito Simmer Sauce

A couple years ago, Trader Joes performed one of its classic product disappearing tricks on one of our household’s staples, the TJ’s “Mojito” simmer sauce. This was one of the few sauces that did not contain stuff we were allergic to and that was not too spicy, and when we discovered it had been discontinued we bought all the remaining jars we could find. A year or so ago we used the last jar.

I’ve spent a bit of time on what I think is a faithful reconstruction of the sauce. It’s pretty simple.

2/3 cup good quality orange juice
3 T lime juice, or more, to taste
3 T rice wine vinegar
3 T olive oil
3-4 cloves garlic, diced very fine
1/3 medium onion diced very fine
1-2 t dried oregano
1-2 t ground cumin, or more, to taste
a good grinding of pepper
salt to taste
1/2 cup peas

Proportions are not terribly critical, but I think that the lime juice and cumin are important to balance. I use a food processor to chop the onion and garlic very fine indeed. Just put everything but the peas in a bowl and whisk. I usually sin by also whisking in a bit of corn starch, to help consistency.

This is great with chicken; cut a couple of chicken breasts into 1 inch cubes and marinate for a little while, then dump it all into a largish skillet and cook over medium heat, turning occasionally until done, generally less than ten minutes. Add the peas a few minutes before the chicken is fully cooked. Serve over rice.

[updated: fixed horrible spelling mistake.  I am very tired.]

Slippery Slope

“Kid,” we said to the new kid at lunch today, “We’re professional software engineers. We’ve got well over two centuries of collective experience writing software sitting at this table. We’ve been around the barn a few times. Trust us.”

The young kid nodded. It was his first day. He was still brimming with excitement, fresh from whatever they pumped into the air during orientation, and eager to get on with the job. He was too wound up to eat his sandwich. He was visibly vibrating.

“Ask us anything.”


Phil said, “Can I take one of your chips?”

“Sure,” said the kid.

Phil reached over to the kid’s bag of corn crunchies.

“STOP!” I cried. Heads around us turned to look, then turned away. Engineers.

“First lesson in software engineering in the real world,” I continued, “You don’t let anyone take any of your chips. Not even symbolically.”

“Um, okay.”

“It’s a slippery slope. First, they cut your clock rate, next they’re carving away at memory, until finally they’re saying, ‘Hey, can’t you do all of this in software?’ and you’re standing bare-ass naked in a design review with something like a four-bit dishwasher controller, half a kilobyte of RAM, thirty milliamps, and a three week schedule. And they want a billion polygons a second through it because someone with a spreadsheet ran the numbers and thought it was possible, once.”

Phil and the Fat Engineer With a Beard nodded.

“And if you can’t do it, they’ll find some young naive and defenseless newbie who’ll kill himself proving them wrong.”

Light dawned in the kid’s eyes. They got wider, and he said, “So that’s why the director of hardware wants to meet with me this afternoon.”

Phil and the Fat Engineer With a Beard nodded again. Yes, we have spies.

“Now, can I take a chip?” said Phil, reaching.

“It’s just a corn chip …” started the kid.

I gave him a look.

“Fuck off.”

“Right,” said Phil.


“The next lesson is called, ‘They Have Hot Pointy Things That Burnnn Usss, Yesss, and We Have Only Our Wits.'”

“Hardware engineers. Soldering irons. I know all about those.”

“No, I mean project managers with Agile.”