Club Politique by Che Tibby

If there's one thing to be said for taking up the mantle of Nine to Fiver it's the happiness of routine. The only way I could possibly make it through the thesis was to impose a strict regime of work on myself to ensure I actually made it to the desk every day, and didn't get lured by the TV or other shiny delights.

The first three years were a hazard in that regard. There was always some new PC game that appealed to the inner child, or some event involving me, booze and prospective distractions. Mind you, those three years were also where I did the greater part of my field research, often by having to track down the elusive interview with government officials, agencies, or indigenous organisations. More often than not the only reason they'd talk to me was my categorical statements of 'not being a journalist', but an 'academic writer'.

Finally, when it came time to write the whole thing up I found myself struggling to maintain the discipline needed to work for extended periods. This all came to a head at a birthday party in 2001. Trying to impress a couple of young ladies at dinner, I again described myself as a 'writer'. Foolishly.

It turns out that the two young ladies in question were copy editors at a publishing house, and had formed the opinion that writers or authors were mostly nutters. Doing my best to dispel this stereotype I listened intently while they described their warning flags about what constituted said 'nutter'.

'Do you have to follow weird routines?'

'Do you always work exactly the same types of hours?' (for example only working midnight till dawn).

'Do you always wear exactly the same clothes to cut down time in the morning?'

The list continued, and in deference to any author out there who's reading this, I'll stop. No point having you all worried about the opinions of young ladies when you should be working.

Luckily, I used to sleep till I woke up naturally, wear whatever happened to be within reach when I crawled out of bed (sniff test pending), and pretty much make up the day as it went along. My only real routine was watching the midday news to break up the monotony of reading. But, their stereotypes were very interesting. In fact, so interesting that I tried them out.

By late 2001 I'd pretty much worked myself into a very predictable pattern. I realised that I did my best work in the still of the morning, so I'd set my radio alarm for 6.30 or 7am, haul my sorry ass out of the sack, and follow exactly the same routine of bathroom, kitchen, 'office', and would be awake and ready to work by 8 or 8.30 (after reading the newspapers online). It worked a treat, the thesis miraculously began to form before my eyes.

Even better, I became so efficient that I soon could dedicate the late afternoon to exercise or video games. Instead of ever watching TV I used to supplement my income by painting historical miniatures on commission and listening to the radio or CDs. Ah, the joys of unabashed nerdism.

Eventually, I had to quit the painting work for more predictable hours when the scholarship ran out, but I maintained the routine for the three years in the kitchen. It used to drive the flatmates nuts. Which leads me to think that maybe it wasn't the authors so much as the editors who had the issues. But, on the other hand, I used to get really grumpy if I couldn't follow my routine in order to get that damn thing written. Really grumpy. Almost toey.

And now? I find myself sitting in a big, air conditioned room hand-writing this blog because I don't have internet access. And getting paid for it. There's another temp over there reading a novel. Sooner or later the boss will hand me another bunch of files to deal with, and then at four I'll sign out, go home and sit in the super-chair till a flatmate makes me dinner (my cooking night is Wednesday). Then tomorrow I'll put on clothes almost identical to what I'm wearing now and do it all over again.

Bliss.

This recipe is something I learned way back in the day. The great thing about cooking is usually that it's sooo damn simple, but complicated by cookbooks written for people who haven't got the basic skills to navigate their way around a kitchen. If you are one of those people who can't even make heads or tails of the Edmonds, then read on.

Often shellfish are cooked in fancy-schmancy deals designed to impart a world of flavour and colour, but let's face it, your humble mollusc deserves better than that. This recipe is written for mussels, but you can really use anything in there, just make sure that if it's something like cockles or tuatua that you sit then in a bucket of water overnight to spit out their sand.

And don't cook oysters.

One time, a bunch of us were at Piha for a camping trip, and noticing that the sea was eerily still, two of us got snorkelling gear together and took a bunch of the best green-lipped mussels off the rocks. Fear of algae kept the rest of the crew away, but the two of us barbequed them and ate like kings. So, if you want to cook mussels simply, just read the bit about removing the beards, then whack them up on a hot grill.

Otherwise, read on.

You can buy mussels from the supermarket if you can't collect your own, they're usually in that big tray thingo with the water spraying over them. What you need to know is that these things are alive, and should stay that way. When you're picking your mussels, don't buy any that have the shells open already. If the shells are open they've already carked it, and might poison you.

Natasha's Garlic Mussels
You'll need only three things, a dessert spoon, a wooden spoon for stirring, and a big pot with a lid.

The ingredients are equally simple.
A many mussels as you think you want.
Crushed garlic
2 or 3 dessert spoons of butter.
Salt and pepper.

First of all you need to clean the mussels. Wash the outside of them in the sink to make sure there's no sand or grit, them remove the beards.

This is actually the only tricky part. Each mussel will have a little brown 'hairy' tuff poking out of the shell, near the hinge. You have to kind of grip this, and pull up and away from the shell. The beard will come away with a little bit of whitish flesh attached. You then chuck away both.

Once you've cleaned the all mussels you're good to go. You can clean them hours before they're cooked and just leave them in the fridge if you have to.

To begin cooking, melt the butter in the pot, which should be big enough to hold all the mussels at once, then add any amount of garlic you want. Let your own taste be the guide. If you really like garlic then go nuts, but if you don't, no worries.

Before the butter gets burnt or too hot, chuck in all the mussels, and cover for about two or three minutes. But check to make sure the temperate on the element isn't too hot or you'll burn the butter.

Next, what should be happening is that the mussels are steaming open. You put the lid on to make sure the shells are heating up, and it kills the animal inside. Then, when they open, they dump a little water into the pot, so after the two minutes you take the lid off to partially dry the whole thing out.

Once you take the lid off, and the pot is steaming slightly, put in a little salt and pepper, however much you like. Stir the garlic and butter through to mix it with the mussel juice, and get it all over them. Once they open they'll cook in no time, and you can tell when they're done by looking at them, or sampling one or two. They shouldn't be too 'slimy' when you eat them, but if they are a little underdone, it's no drama, and not dangerous.

If you see that all the mussels have opened, or at least most all of them (some stay shy), then you're ready to serve. Just tip a share of the mussels onto two plates, and serve the lot with heaps of crusty French bread and butter.

To eat them, to grab the shell and fish the mussel out with a fork. A little messy, but fun all the same.

The first time I ever came to Wellington was 1986, way back when I was dispatched from the Mount with strict orders to get a little culture. My uncle, a medical student at the time, was living in a place in Newtown and him and the flatmates put me up in a spare room for a week.

Of course, 'getting cultured' involved getting plastered at the Mt. Cook Café on cheap wine and brandy. I can only vaguely remember it, but I'm sure I poured by 15 year old heart out to howls of laughter from the uncle, and shocked looks from the uncle's significant other. Ah well, if you can't take the piss out of your nephews, who can you?

Besides the experiment in alcohol and the inevitable deathly hangover, the main thing I remember was Courtney Place, a grey, windswept haven for drunks and lunatics. There was something about Wellington then that was a fundamental shock to the system, considering my background under the azure skies and jade-green oceans of the Western Bay. Miles of concrete and a repressive, dreary climate to steadfastly crush the spirit.

Well, the climate hasn't changed, but China and India are working on it, following hard on the hells of the Europeans and Americans, so sweet as. Otherwise though, Wellington does have a very different 'vibe' to it. But, I wonder if that isn't just the old fulla of the future gradually pushing aside the child I was and making himself comfy, the way old fullas do.

By the time I had returned to the place to live here in the early 1990s I was of course a different person, having travelled a little and broadened my horizons with recreational substances. Then, a wander through Haitaitai under the influence of something the Beatles used to sing about was a trip into a hobbit village, and my companions a barbarian and a cavalier. Strange, strange days. Seated overlooking the city from the top of Mt. Victoria the towers of the CBD formed a chain of lights that made a castle wall, protecting the misty city from the boats in the harbour.

Kids, never, ever do crazy things that could permanently affect your mind. But if you have to, do them in tremendous moderation, and with friends you trust.

To be honest, the misty effect was mostly caused by mild short-sightedness and the cold humidity Wellington enjoys, but I wouldn't trade that memory for any amount of straight-laced conformity to mainstream values.

There's a danger my meandering into nostalgia is the consummate sort of middle-class retrospection about 'experimenting' with fun stuff and being 'bad' 'while I was at uni, wot', but I can state categorically it was a way of life. We lived and breathed counter-culture, but not of the 'protest against everything just because you can type', more the 'we're living in Babylon' type.

And Babylon it was. We were poor, undernourished, perpetually wasted, borderline paranoids, filtering down out of the Aro Valley in second-hand clothes and cardboard-soled shoes, working in crappy service jobs and living in damp dives.

We'd watch and laugh at the suits as they forever preened and groomed themselves, smug in their incomes and moving into OUR neighbourhood because it was a 'little more funky' than Thorndon. They'd push up the rents and complain about the noise, or they'd park their cars in our spots. They'd demand 'better' service from our friends and bitch when they were treated like outsiders.

Back then it was easy to see Babylon all around us. Them, the other bastard sons of the flower children, a revolution against the revolution our parents had fought to break the walls of conformity our grandparents brought with them down to their own families. An army of reformers breaking the consensus about what life could be like in a society that took care of its own.

And today I donned the mantle, a navy-blue suit, and joined the ranks.

I know I'm maybe ten years behind many of my friends from those days. Did you feel like you were selling out against the things we used to believe? I kind of didn't really hide for all that time, I was on a journey after all, and I'd like to think the old values are still guiding me, but there's still that nagging doubt.

Maybe the first paycheque, destined to be spent in the neon-lit Vegas of the New Courtney Place, will soothe the whispering.

We shall see.

I was busy unpacking my gear over the weekend, and discovered an interesting photocopy I made when sifting through files at the State Library of Victoria a few years ago. In the 1960s, in a fit of liberal fervour following the 1967 referendum, Aboriginal Affairs throughout Australia were given a shake-up. As part of this watershed in Australian approaches to their minorities, including migrants, old bastions of colonialism like 'Protection Boards', 'Welfare Boards' and Church Missions were phased out and replaced with modern bureaucracies.

Anyhow, in Victoria, this took the form of the 'Ministry of Aboriginal Affairs', which was charged with getting Aboriginal people into housing and generally taking care of their welfare. In 1971 this Ministry produced an annual report, the cover of which I was forced to photocopy for a permanent poster. It hung there in my office in Melbourne for the entire time I lived in Carlton, but it was only yesterday that I remembered why it did so.

The picture is of two boys (and no, that's not the reason...), one white and one black, both sitting on some steps. The white kid is maybe 10, very clean-cut, and wears nifty little socks and sandals. His hair is blonde, and he rests his chin on his hand while talking to the other boy. The Aboriginal boy is the same age, but kinda scruffy. He has bare feet and a woolly jumper, he's scratching his head and has this look on his face like 'what you talking about Willis?'

The caption attached to the picture said:

This non-Aboriginal boy in deep discussion with his Aboriginal friend at Lake Tyers, Victoria, has accepted naturally the concept so many adults find so hard: Aborigines are, first of all, people.

That is essentially the message of this Ministry.

Now, I'd always kept the picture because I thought it summed up the mainstream perception of 'intercultural dialogue', so the note was a bit of a surprise.

I mean, 'first of all, people'??

In combination with an blog-comment-exchange I'd been having over at Troppo Armadillo last week the quote really jumped out at me.

I know that you're all probably bored with hearing me rant about the way things are over in Australia, but believe me, the anger faded a long time ago, only to be replaced with a kind of mystification at the way minorities are perceived. 'People'?? Of course Aboriginals are people, but there was a conventional wisdom floating round in the 1800s that they were little more than 'naked savages', and not the noble kind. And being naked does wonders to contribute to anyone's reputation for being a 'savage', or uncivilised.

After all, it was when they woke up to their nudity that Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden, right?

Personally? On a good warm day I like nothing better than letting my flab hang out to tan. Yup, there's that pasty white manflesh again 'ladies'. Grrr, tiger.

Anyhow, the comment exchange centred on the way in which current Australian law prevents some groups from being able to claim native title over land if they haven't had a ongoing relationship to it. That is, a relationship prior to and since colonisation.

The main problem with this is that if an Aboriginal group was removed from their traditional area for any reason, for instance in order for them to be incarcerated, the traditional link was broken. The obvious problem then is that most all of NSW, Queensland and Victoria forcibly removed their Aboriginal people. So, no ability to claim back Crown lands under the Native Title Act 1993.

But, in the case of Victoria, after an unsuccessful claim by the Yorta Yorta people for Crown lands (in the form of the Barmah State Park), a compromise joint-custodial arrangement was negotiated with the State Government. A good outcome for all. The Crown in the form of the Bracks Government gets to save face, and Yorta Yorta get an interest in the lands.

A comment that popped up on Troppo Armadillo was that this type of thing should happen more often to solve the native title impasse, and that the money spent on the Court cases would have been better spent to simply buy land for Aboriginal claimants.

Well, the response to this was muted, but only by the 'academic' nature of the website. In a nutshell, opposition ranged from statements of the undesirability of granting 'productive land' to Aboriginal people, who obviously can't farm, to statements about the need to forget all that and just assimilate a 'stone-age culture'. Again, not shocked, just mystified. I should also mention that the pro-comments were also a little disturbing, with some readers still maintaining outright weird ideas about the perfection and nobility of the pre-colonial Aboriginal lifestyles.

What amazes me is the level of stereotyping, negative and positive that is carried about Aboriginal people. It goes back to that picture, with the reasonable and tidy white boy talking to an 'obviously stupid' black kid who just doesn't get it. Besides the natural parallels with the way some see Maori, it's amazing that in the Twenty-First Century people can still think that just because Aboriginals used to live with stone age technology that they are still stone age.

Naturally this story is larger than just the comment exchange, I walked away when the level of bigotry both left and right got too much for me, but it once again reinforces the problem of intercultural dialogue and how important it is to ensure that minorities have a voice. Without it, you end up with well-meaning and/or ill-meaning majority people coming up with the most bizarre information about minorities and their place in the world. A good situation for no-one.

The title to this series was originally going to be either of two alternatives, Cooking Made Easy for Munters, or Food to Pull Chicks, but I thought that isolating half your potential audience was a little foolhardy. But, I have noticed that food is something sadly neglected by the average Kiwi male. So in the interests of public safety and the general reputation of other Kiwi blokes, over the next few weeks or months I'll be putting up a few recipes stolen from the various restaurants I've dishpigged in over the years.

Mind you, not all these recipes are stolen. Some are ones I've read in various cookbooks and dumbed down to my level of skill, which means if you're the kind of bloke (or sheila) who can't find their arse or elbow in the kitchen, you should be right to whip these beauties up.

But again, if you can't even cook toast without burning it, then you might even be too hopeless to do any of this stuff. However, if you're feeling adventurous, and want to foray into the wild world of good food and a big wicked smile on the (potential) missus' face, then read on.

Now, I'm not a chef. I never had pretensions of being a chef, and I don't particularly like the buggers. I did however pay attention when they were busy and I wasn't, like all good employees should. As a consequence, I've learn a few tricks that simplify the stuff you read in the cookbooks produced by choir boys like Jamie Oliver, and I'm willing to share this all with you.

Aren't I a nice bloke?

Thing is, awhile back I realised that if I ever wanted to eat decent food again I had to either move back in with Mum, or get hitched asap. As neither was an immediate option, I started making all kinds of crap food to see if I could do it. Fifteen years later, I have a few ideas and a few gems I use when cooking for other people. Also, having had to cook for myself for the past eight years or so (flats in Aussie typically do 'own food'), I have the proportions right for cooking for one or two. Convenient ay?

Mostly this is a public service, like I say. Bad food is a blot on the nation. If you're the sort of bastard who goes to a fancy restaurant and orders a steak of Black Angus, Well Done, you deserve a bullet. Maybe you can get away with that in a dodgy place, sometimes you need that steak to be well-done to avoid food poisoning. But man, a big hairy animal DIED so you can have that steak. It was never a bit of 'red stuff' in a cryo-vac (hopefully). At some stage someone has EXECUTED one of the worlds creatures, and you go and have the bejesus cooked out of it because you can't stand the sight of blood. I'm sure the cattlebeast didn't like the sight of blood either...

Anyhow, most of these recipes are simple fare, or one-pot boilers that emphasise good eating. If your only intention is to provide an entree before you get her kit off, then piss off. Seriously. Piss off right now and don't come back. Ever. Order a pizza for Christ's sake and buy a box of red goon.

Food is about people and their company, so if you just want to put on a good feed, one those one's that make you fart unexpectedly, or if you're doing it to provide that elusive 'dinner conversation', then bloody good on ya boy, I'll put up a few meals that can help you out, should you need it.

Oh, and read the recipe BEFORE you start to cook. Saves on the dramas.

Big Creamy Pasta or Cabonara

For this recipe you'll need a few things. If you don't have these or can't identify them, ring up your Mum to explain what they are. And all of the ingredients should be available at the supermarket. I know some of you worry that cooking will make you a 'homo', so I'll try to never send you to the deli if I can help it. These things are:

A frying pan.
A biggish pot, two thirds filled with water, and a lid on it.
A sharp knife (blunt knives are more dangerous that sharp ones).
A wooden spoon to stir the pasta and sauce.
A dessert spoon to measure things.

OK, for ingredients you need (this recipe is for two).
300ml of full cream.
150g of Tomato paste.
One onion.
Two teaspoons of crushed garlic.
A bunch of raw bacon, however much you like. Usually one 200g pack sliced into 1cm squares (cut off the chewy rind and chuck it away, but leave the fat on there).
A chunk of smoked chicken, maybe 150-200g cut into little 1cm chunks.
A packet of that fresh pasta, whatever kind you like, but I tend to use penne or farfalle (bowties), to avoid embarrassing accidents with things like spaghetti.
Salt and pepper.
A packet/tin of parmesan cheese, grated finely.
A bottle of olive oil. Don't use plain oil, canola oil, peanut oil or anything else.

The number one thing to do is to turn on the water while you're preparing the sauce. If it's boiling while you're getting ready, just turn it down a bit, and crank it up again before it's time to add the pasta.

This food is very, very easy to make. First, chop your onion as finely as you can. You don't want filthy great lumps of the stuff floating around, so put a bit of effort in. Slice it long-ways, take off the skin, then cut it all across one way, then across the other. Whack the lot in the pan, then add the crushed garlic. You can buy crushed garlic off the shelf, and save faffing about slicing it finely. Next, add about two dessert spoons of the olive oil.

Turn on your frying pan, and when it starts to sizzle, stir it all with the wooden spoon. You DON'T want the garlic or onion to turn brown or burn. Usually you just turn the temperature up to about half, and cook it gently. This isn't a barbie you're dealing with here.

When the onion starts to turn a paler colour of white, and before it burns, chuck in the bacon, stir for a couple of minutes till it looks like the colour has changed from 'red' to 'pink', then chuck in the chicken.

Meanwhile, the water is boiling and you've already put the fresh pasta in the pot. Seriously, fresh pasta. Don't be a goddamn cheapskate. Fresh pasta is easy to use and tastes great. If I thought you weren't a total nuffin I'd be telling you how to make your own. But, baby steps, baby steps.

Add a dessert spoon of olive oil to the pasta pot, along with a tiny bit of salt, and stir to make sure the pasta doesn't stick. Leave the lid off, if it stays on the water will boil over and that's a hassle.

By now the pan is ready for the cream. Tip the whole bottle in, and stir the lot. Add a little salt, put in a little pepper. Then, add about half a dessert spoon of the tomato paste. Put the rest in the fridge for next time, that's all you'll need. Then, stir maybe one or two dessert spoons of the parmesan cheese into the mix.

OK, now this is the tricky part. The idea is to reduce down the amount of liquid in the pan. At the moment there's too much water in there, and you need to simmer a little off. It's actually easy, just stir the mix till the sauce doesn't run off the wooden spoon, but kind of sticks to it in a slightly 'melted cheese' kind of way. You don't need the heat too high, just enough to keep the whole thing simmering. It should take about five minutes.

While you're doing this, you can check the pasta. It's cooked when you bite into a piece and it doesn't have an uncooked bit in the middle. DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT cook it till it's a soggy, limp piece of crap. It should be firm to the bite but not raw. Again, a little tricky, but practice makes perfect.

If your pasta is ready, but the sauce isn't thick enough yet, just turn off the heat, and tip the water out. You can either use a sieve or keep the lid on and tip water into the sink. Be careful, pasta accidentally going into a dirty sink is a 'bad thing'. To stop it all sticking to itself while the sauce thickens, put about a dessert spoon of olive oil in there and stir it through. Sweet as.

Once the sauce has thickened up, either tip the pasta into the pan if there's room, or vice versa. Stir the lot together, and serve.

Piece of piss.

If you're game, you can even add a few pitted olives to the mix when you fry the bacon, and garnish with a little fresh basil.