“Chasseur” means a sauce containing mushrooms and shallots. it can be a sauce for many meats. Here we have allied it to chicken for a dish with rich, superb flavour. Serve with hot rice or mashed potatoes, crusty bread and separate green salad. Serves four.

In French chasseur means ‘hunter’, and this makes sense when the most important ingredient in this dish is actually mushrooms. I think that means you could likely make a vegetarian version by dropping the meat and adding beans, or perhaps paneer.

Anyhow, the list!

• 1.5kg chicken or similar
• 30g butter
• 2 tbsps oil
• 250g mushrooms
• 1 large clove garlic
• 1 cup dry white wine
• salt, pepper
• 1/2 teaspoon sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon tarragon (I had none, so substituted sage from the garden)
• 2 large ripe tomato (I used a tin of Italian tomatoes)
• 6 shallots (or use the pre-prepared fried Asian ones, they’re pretty good)
• 2 tbsps chopped parsley
• 2 tbsps tomato paste

For the brown sauce

• 125g butter(!!)
• 1 large onion
• 1 large carrot
• 1/4 cup plain flour
• 3 cups water
• 3 chicken stock cubes (I just used 3 cups of chicken stock for this and the previous ingredient)
• salt, pepper.

We made an executive decision after the tedium of the Beggars’ Chicken to get a little creative with the ingredients. I’m trying to stay true to the recipes in the book, but we need to actually be able to eat these things! I’ll admit that this may also have been prompted by Second Chef asking, “Why are all these recipes soooo boring?”

This recipe is actually fairly simple. You make a “brown sauce”, also known as a roux, then add it to your browned meats. It’s actually a pretty basic component skill brought back into to English menus (like NZL and Australia) in the mid-C20th AFAIK. No more boring chuck-it-all-in-the-pot stews!

So, the first thing to do is your prep. Cut your onion and carrot. You want this to be fine enough to saute, but not so fine it’s too time consuming.

When you’re almost done, start to melt the butter in a good heavy skillet over  medium heat, then add your vegetables.

The idea is to really brown the onions, which will impart a distinctive flavour to the roux. Do not burn them, and do not cook them too quickly. Just brown them gently. When they’re brown enough, take your quarter cup of flour, and add very slowly.

I can’t stress enough how important it is to add this slowly. If you just dump it all in then the roux will become lumpy and awful. The idea is that the flour and butter slowly combine to make a thick buttery sauce.

As you can see, the butter is bubbling as the flour is added (and, I didn’t brown the onions enough, but no worries).

Stir constantly to break down any small lumps of flour, and to stop the mixture from burning. Once all the flour is in and you have a thick sauce, start adding the chicken stock slowly. This needs to be worked into a simmering roux, and to not cool too much.

Continue to stir and stir until the sauce thickens a second time, then heat on a low-to-medium heat until it reduces to a consistency that leaves a trail when you drag a wooden spoon through it, thusly:

And then you’re almost done! Strain the brown sauce through a sieve, and then discard the carrots and onions to a compost.

I was short on time, so planned to put this brown sauce into the fridge for the next day when we were having dinner. Worked a treat.

The first thing to do is your next set of prep. Chop your mushrooms and crush the garlic.

For those unsure “crush” the garlic means just that. Turn your blade flat and crush the garlic bulb. Don’t get too carried away, the idea is to crush the bulb enough to allow the oils to escape. Crush it too much and the oils and liquid will spill onto the board and not make it to the pot! And for god’s sakes, do not use one of those stupid garlic crusher devices.

Now to build the dish itself. Put the 30g of butter into a heavy-bottomed pot over a medium-high heat, and add the chicken once it’s melted. Brown the chicken all over, then remove it from pot. You can do this in batches or all at once, depending on the amount of pot space you have.

Once the chicken is out, pop the mushrooms and garlic into the pot.

You want to cook the mushrooms until they’re just starting to look tender, then add the white wine.

Bring the wine to a fast simmer. The idea is both to reduce the liquid to about a half, and also to ‘deglaze’ the browned meat stuck to the bottom of the pot. While this is simmering, get your tomatoe ready. I took a tin of tomatoes, and processed them into a paste.

And then you’re ready to compile the dish. Add the brown sauce.

The tomatoes (and add more tomato paste if you wish. I thought we had enough tomato flavour)

And then the sugar and seasonings.

Stir all the ingredients until combined, then return the chicken to the pot.

Stir and bring the dish to the boil. Once it it boils immediately reduce the heat to a simmer, cover, and cook for 45 mins. Stir occasionally, and generally have a little relax.

To serve this I put it into a dish and allowed people to take their own. It’s certainly rich-looking. Pop some fresh parsley and some browned shallots on there, and it’s peachy.

And was it boring?

Apparently not.

VERDICT:

This was a relatively simple dish, and buttery as all get-go. Not something you’d want to eat every week else you’d risk obesity! That said, buttery goodness does make for a delicious dish. Although next time I’ll likely reverse the proportions of mushrooms, probably using the large flat mushrooms, or as many wild mushrooms as I can get, and less chicken.

So, you’ll need:

• some parboiled small or new season spuds
• a couple of tablespoons of ghee (or just plain old butter if it’s all you have)
• tbsp of tumeric
• 2-3cm of ginger
• tbsp-ish of cumin seeds
• 1/2 tsp of chilli powder, or a couple of fresh chillis
• a pinch of asafoetida

From here it’s easy

The first thing to do is the slice the ginger, then chop it very finely. Some say to peel the skin, but I like it left on.

While you’re chopping it, the ghee should be melting over a low to medium heat. Enough to melt the ghee, but not enough to make it pop or burn.

Once the ghee is hot, add a generous pinch of asafoetida. You can buy this stuff at Indian spice stores and it has a… unique smell. It’s not too bad if you keep it in an airtight container. It’s also very good for the gut, cuts down flatulence, and generally does great things.

The asafoetida will start to pop a little, and once it does get your ginger in there and stir it in along with the tablespoon of cumin seeds.

Stir that all, then get the chilli in.

And then the boiled spuds. Now, I didn’t include instructions for those. If you’re having trouble, mention it in the comments and I’ll put them up.

The next step is the important one. Use a large spoon and turn the potatoes in the butter and spices. Really coat everything well, but don’t damage the spuds. You want them intact.

OK. Now my favourite bit. Add the tablespoon of tumeric, then stir the whole lot in again so the potatoes become a golden yellow.

And there you have it. Masala potatoes. I portion them into threes because they fit into the containers I have. The only problem is that they reheat really badly. Microwaves do terrible things to spuds. But, they taste great cold! I reheat the curry, then just pop these on the side.

Awesome.

You’ll need:

Oats, maybe four cups

Dried fruits, pretty much whatever you’re into (and won’t break the bank)

Dried coconut

Seeds; pumpkin, sesame, sunflower. You get the picture

Vegetable oil

A sweetener. We use a golden syrup, but you could use honey (if it wasn’t so damn expensive), or malt. Even brown sugar could do.

So this recipe is pretty straightforward. Toast the oats in the oven, toast the seeds on the stovetop, and chop the fruits. Here we go.

The way I usually swing this is to heat the oven to around 150C. Then, put your oats into an oven dish, and add the oil and golden syrup.

Once you have those on, pop the whole shebang into the oven. The idea is to dry that stuff out. So stir it frequently to make sure it’s not burning around the edges.

While the oats are cooking start cutting up your dried fruit. Like I say, use whatever you like. The purpose of this exercise is to make the muesli you really like. We’ve tried a few different combinations, but usually end up settling on raisins, dates, dried papaya, and dried pineapple. Today we’re getting adventurous and adding some pre-cut apricots. I suppose you could also try dried banana, apples, peaches, mango, whatever the heck you want.

Depending on how confident you are multitasking, you can also toast your seeds. The only trick is to heat them really slowly. I put them in a pan, toss then often, and keep and eye on they while I’m cutting up the fruit.

And let me ask you a question. Are you remembering to turn the oats?!

As you can see, they start to colour as the oil and golden syrup toast, so stir frequently. But not too frequently

By now you should have all your ingredients ready.

The next stage is to begin combining them. Toasting the coconut in the pan is possible, but I find I get a better result if I add it to the oats late in the piece. In this case the raisins I bought were a little dicey, so I heated them to get rid of the some of the sugar on them.

Once the coconut and the oats are toasted, combine it all! A side-note is that Chef Du Plunge doesn’t really dig all the seeds. This means I usually separate out a supply for him, then compile the ‘adult’ version for myself and Second Chef. Works well for everyone.

Voila! Muesli. I usually enjoy this oat milk.

This is one of the renowed dishes of the Orient. The chicken was originally wrapped in lotus leaves, then in clay, then thrown into a hot fire. Supply chopsticks for four lucky people.

You’ll need:

1.5kg chicken

3 shallots (I used a small onion, which was probably a mistake)

2.5cm piece green ginger

1 tsp sugar

3 tbsps soy sauce

2 tbsps dry sherry

1 tbsp water

1/4 tsp five spice powder

2 extra tbsp soy sauce

2 tbsps oil

extra oil

1kg cooking salt (!!)

4 cups plain flour

1 1/2 cups water (approx)

The recipe itself is pretty simple, the first thing to do is to mix all the dough, then stuff the chicken with the surprisingly limited amount of spices, wrap the whole shebang in foil and dough, and cook that thing for a total of FOUR HOURS. You’ll need to pay attention to that last bit.

Oh, and an editorial note, the camera crapped out half way, so we switched the phone for the photos. Quality has been effected. Yay.

The first thing to do is measure out your flour (I used some wholemeal, as we already had it, and didn’t want to buy four cups of flour just to throw then away at the end of a recipe), and your salt into a bowl.

I try to mix with a wooden spoon initially, to ensure the dry ingredients are well blended, then gradually add the wet.

And that’s your “pastry” casing.

Next prepare your spices by roughly chopping the shallots and ginger, and mixing in the soy sauce, sherry (I used brandy, again because I didn’t want to buy a new ingredient to use it once), sugar and five spice (interestingly, I had to make my own using Christine Mansfield’s Spice cookbook. Great resource that book).

So, with your casing and your spices all prepared, you’re ready to wrap your bird. First lay out your tinfoil. I used two large pieces side by side. Then lightly bush with some of the oil.

Now, the next bit is kind of important. Fold the wings of the bird back like so, and twist the neck skin before placing it along the backbone. This will help keep the spice juices in the cavity.

Then, cover your bird in oil and soy sauce (I did this the wrong way round. Go the soy sauce first…)

Next, tilt your bird up and fill the cavity with the spice mixture. Then truss the cavity shut with a wooden skewer, or use the method I outline here, where you make small incisions in the flaps of skin either side of the cavity and poke the legs through to seal the cavity shut.

Once the chicken is prepared, you’re good to go. There is no real science to the wrapping, just make sure you have a good bind all the way round the bird, and that the tinfoil is nice and tight.

And now onto the casing. Roll your pastry out until it’s about a centimetre thick, then pop the chicken up on top. Bring the sides of the casing up and over the chicken, being careful not to break the pastry. You want a complete seal to keep the moisture in with the chicken.

And there you go. Next, a slightly difficult part. Oil your roasting dish, then pop the cased chicken in there. Then, using small amounts of water, close off all and any joins in the casing. You want to ensure the whole shebang looks airtight.

And then you’re into a very hot oven, approx 250C for one hour. After an hour, turn the heat down to around 120-150C, and cook for a further three hours.

When it’s cooked the casing will look thusly.

I tried breaking the casing with a wooden spoon, but barely dented it, so ended up giving it a whack with a hammer.

This was starting to make a mess, with bits flying everywhere, so I covered it will the teacloth and gave it a real good knock.

Once the case was cracked I was able to remove it, and transferred the chicken to a bowl to have the foil removed.

The chicken looked a lot like it had been cooked in a crock-pot, and to be honest, after all this palaver I probably would prefer to cook it that way.

But I duely served it up with some rice, some frozen veg to keep Master Chef Du Plunge happy, and a little broccoli, because he likes it.

THE VERDICT:

Quite a bit of fuss for a fairly average dish. I’ve been reading First Catch Your Weka lately, and David Veart talks about cookbooks often containing aspirational recipes. This type of recipe is really to tempt the imagination of the cook more than it is to provide a concrete or credible alternative for a meal. This looks to be such a recipe. You can of course imagine an 80s cook bringing a chicken to the table and giving it a jolly good pounding at a dinner party, but you wouldn’t want to be doing it every week.

I found that I should have used shallots are requested. The onion was overpowering, and the limited rang of spice washed out pretty quickly in the cooking. The chicken was tasty, but has a samey-samey taste you often get with poorly prepared crock-pot dishes. What it certainly could have used is lemongrass, perhaps whole coriander roots, and a boatload more five-spice at the very least.

The problem I’m addressing is that the walls of Newlands Manor are concrete, so in Winter they soak up a lot of the heat we put into the bedrooms, and the air becomes *very* cold at night. In addition the old pasterboard on the walls was damaged after 60 years of use, and we needed to replace it. So, in comes me with my trusty hammer and chisel.

The first task was to carefully remove all of the covers off the windows and doors, and to lift off the skirting boards. These are made of very old rimu (a native timber now protected) and are very brittle, so it was quite a long and careful job. Then, I demolished the old fibreboard cornices. I’d seen a professional cabinet-maker unable to take these off cleanly, so didn’t worry about that myself, just dragged them down.

Once I’d exposed the studs and dwangs I carefully looked them over for rot or borer. They weren’t in bad order, and were pretty well-laid out. They looked to be a rough-sawn hardwood of some variety, as the house-building plans had requested, and they seem to have lasted well since construction in 1951. Once everything was exposed and cleaned, I put in some polyester/fibreglass insulation.

Our main hope is that the insulation slows the heat loss to a minimum. This will help keep these rooms drier as well.

Next, I put up the first of the new panels. I was originally planning to use pine. Someone suggested cedar, and while I was looking into it I discovered an Indonesian wood called meranti. This was a pretty expensive option though, coming in at around $NZ85 a sheet. Pine retails at around $NZ60, and I needed at least a dozen sheets. While looking for a cheaper source I had a conversation with the guys at Mitre10 Mega in Petone about a wood they have there called Okoume. I went home a googled it (to be sure it wasn’t manufactured from Panda bones or something…), and discovered that it is a popular marine ply from West Africa. And only slightly threatened. Furthermore, it has a finely-grained texture and a very light salmon colour. Even better, I think it cost around the same or less than the pine! Win.

Pretty soon I was throwing up panels.

Before you know it I had all the panels up, rimu batons cut to size and nailed up, the old rimu skirting boards put back on, and some rimu cornices I made up installed. The lighting adds nicely to the marine feel of the room. This week we’ve a sparky coming in to check the wiring, install a ceiling light etc.

The floorboards in the photo below are also rimu, and as you can see they come up a nice colour. We’re hoping the rimu I installed comes up as nicely, and we’ll likely polyurethane the floors so they can be exposed without scratching. The okoume we’re thinking we want to tint to a light gold/orange to complement the rimu.

Here’s another corner of the room along with a window stool that was a casualty of the renovation, as was the right window cover. Thankfully that was it for major stuff-ups.

We’re planning to strip the window frames back to bare wood, so the poor damaged stool will likely we swept up in it, and I might have to replace all the covers on this window because the new cover to the right and the old covers are different depths!

And here’s a shot with some furniture and the curtains.

It makes me think that the interior decorating can’t come soon enough. The walls need the depth that a decent stain will give to make them look less industrial.

All in all the whole shebang came in reasonable but not cheap, and we saved a huge amount in builder’s fees. Took me a week of getting out of bed at 7am, and working till the light failed (I will admit to pausing to watch a few sci-fi films!), but I got it done.

Oh, and in my spare time that week I built a fence.

And because serendipity is what it is, this morning at David White on Able Smith St Second Chef uncovered this:

This is the cover of a cookbook we once owned in Mount Maungaui. I remember frequently opening it and wishing we had the means to afford half the things this book said we could make. The How-To series is in point of fact modelled on the pictures contained in this book, and much of my cooking history has been an effort to learn how to make recipes I remember drooling over. And yes, this does count as Food Prn.

And so now, because I am older, wiser, and more financially able, I will proceed to cook every single recipe in this book, and post them for you right here – a la Julie and Julia.

So you’d best be prepared for exotic dishes from the mid-1980s including:

“Chinese Fish”

“Sates’

“Rum-Caramel Pineapple”

and “Chips”.

Strap yourself in!

The similarity in the nature of the authoritarianism depicted by London and Orwell reinforces for me the ease with which any imaginer can foresee their own system of government slipping into a future distinguished most strongly by control, with the machinery of this control only differentiated by favoured contemporary political philosophies. The potential to garner authority (and its exercise by an oligarchy or plutocracy) imagined by these authors is also exhibited the recently-read Paul Auster, In the Country of Last Things (1987).

Of course, it is nothing new to claim that all dystopia are marked by authority-masquerading-as-utopia. What is interesting to me is the manner in which dystopia is so readily imagined to emerge as a consequence of contemporary events, and the suggestion that the here and now may, by virtue of being the opposite of that dreaded  future, in fact be the utopia we have long sought. This is especially the case when reading other contemporary fiction such as Atwood’s Oryx and Crake (2003, which I’m currently in the middle of) and by Marcel Theroux, Far North (2009), where the marvels of the C20th and early C21st are remembered as halcyon days.

The placement of utopia in the here and now, instead of placing it as a future to serve in contrast to a dystopia we need fear, a heaven and hell, is an idea in which I have become increasingly interested. In a manner of speaking, we do currently live in London’s  “wonder-city of Asgard”, and our capitalists do operate an oligarchy in which a great many wonders are possible. It was strange therefore to be reading The Iron Heel as the Occupy Movement began to unfold across the US, and to see the authorities in Oakland begin to come down on protest. Part of me wondered if what London calls ‘standing on faces’ might not have continued and expanded had there been a different President in the White House.

While The Iron Heel degrades into a fantasy of class-, or caste-based warfare, the initial exposition of the failures of capitalism are very interesting, presenting as they do a critique of an economy in which monopoly and resource exploitation are rife, and in which competition to smother smaller players is both necessary and acceptable. While reading of absorption of the petite bourgeoisie by the corporations I was easily able to see the expansion of the mega-malls across the US, and the migration of the small-business-owner into minimum-wage jobs, and in the transformation of farmers to serfs I was reminded of the growth of gigantic monoculture industrial farming.

So does this mean that I think the US is slipping into authoritarianism, with London writing a vague script to a gathering revolution? No more than I think 1984 is likely. As it is The Iron Heel sits alongside the great dystopian works as a reminder of the paths on which no rational humanist would want to find themself. Moreover, what The Iron Heel and 1984 have in common is an imagined world in which resource-exploitation continues to be feasible. If you contrast those worlds to more recent works such as the aforementioned Oryx and Crake, Far North, or even Bruce Sterling The Caryatids (2009), all of which feature the collapse of the nation-state system under stress from resource shortages and environmental change, things start to get a little more real.

The story begins with the children growing up together  in a stately home that looks and functions much like a boarding school in any Western country. Of course, this is no ordinary school, but instead a place where the children are kept in peak condition, in much the same manner as are well-treated free range animals. And it is this that makes the story so horrifying. These are of course human children, but humans intended as nothing more than mobile organ banks. Accentuating this horror is the knowledge that man’s inhumanity has created such injustice throughout history, be it in the greed that created slavery, the malice that worked Jews to death, or the myths of superiority that saw British invade and slaughter thousands of Australians.

A society where clones are bred for purpose is so likely, the setting so familiar, and the drive for self-preservation so hard-coded within each of us that such as place as these children grow, and learn, and love before they are dissected to extend the lives of their gerontologic masters could be occurring right now.

It’s a compelling film, an extraordinary example of the social critique scifi should actually serve, and one I heartily commend.

Curtains open on a small flat. To stage right is a door leading to outside. To stage left is a door leading to a bedroom. Between the two runs a kitchenette with stove and oven, a sink, small cupboards. A fridge stands next to the bedroom door. Above the kitchenette is a double window with net curtains. In stage front is a couch facing towards audience. A small coffee table is positioned in front of couch.

Scene One:

Daylight through window, flat furniture is covered with dust cloths.

Door opens. Woman in early to mid-20s enters carrying suitcase. She pauses, looks around, and then lugs the suitcase through the room to the bedroom on the other side. She audibly drops the suitcase.

Woman re-enters, looks around as if reacclimatising, wanders a little, eventually sitting on a couch. She looks bored.

Fade Out

Two:

Night, furniture uncovered.

Woman is sitting on couch talking on phone.

Woman

Well of course it’s nice to be home

Johan? No I still haven’t heard anything yet.

I didn’t have a number for him, so I sent a letter. Prolly hasn’t got it yet.

Mum… Don’t be like that. Johan’s a good man and you guys just don’t get on, that’s all.

He has not done a runner.

(beat)

That’s just your own prejudices talking.

Mum… Mum… Mum… Will you stop going off like this?! It’s not his fault and you blimmin’ know it!

Well you’ll change your attitude when Johan’s back and Mark’s back and everything is cool again.

Mum… Mum… Mum!!

She slams down phone.

Ah for Christ’s sakes…

Fade out

Three:

MidDay, direct light through windows

Woman standing at kitchen sink in room. She’s looking past the net curtains and out the window. She balances on her hands by leaning on the sink. She turns away from the window and looks towards the audience. Pauses, but quickly looks out the window again.

Fade out

Four:

MidDay, direct light through windows

A squeal comes from the bedroom. Woman runs from bedroom door through to front door and outside. There is a brief pause, and she re-enters carrying a swaddled baby and a large bag of baby gear. She drops the bag and waves past the net curtains to the outside.

Woman

Welcome home, Mark.

Fade out

FIVE:

Night, direct light through windows

Woman is on couch talking on the phone.

Woman

When can you come home?

Won’t they give you the visa?

But they said it was being signed on account of the deal I made.

Customs did. They said they’d make sure you got a visa if I went through with it.

Well of course they wouldn’t lie Johan… Chris… Don’t raise your voice… The visa must just be slow getting to you.

Johan! Stop shouting!

Baby begins to cry from the bedroom

Christ Johan… I gotta go, Mark is crying.

Slams down phone

Fade out

Six:

Morning light through windows

Woman is sitting on couch knitting and watching TV. Baby is in rocker next to her. She pauses and looks over. She smiles gently. A faint bicycle noise sounds, growing slightly louder. Short time passes, and she looks up as if hearing the bicycle, stands, walks to the window to street. She sees something and jumps up in the air.

Woman

The postie!

Immi-gra-shoin…

She runs out the front door. When she returns to the room she is reading a letter.

What?

Fade out

Seven:

Daytime, direct light through windows

Woman has phone in hands, is pacing behind couch and talking loudly.

Woman

Constable Smith… I was told that if I cooperated with the operation my husband would be given a visa and this has not happened.

What do you mean that’s not how it works? I was assured that it wouldn’t be a problem!

No I am not making this up. I was given a verbal guarantee by Senior Sergeant Brown that my cooperation would not go un-rewarded.

There were four officers present at that meeting. Are you telling me that none of them will confirm what I’m saying?

But… But… I have to go.

Slams down phone.

Fade out

Nine:

Night, Room is dark except for street-light through windows

Woman sitting on couch. Weeping. Baby crying in background.

Fade out

Ten:

Night, Room is lit, small amount of ambient light through windows.

Woman lying on couch under a blanket. Baby swaddled lies next to her. She talks on the phone.

Woman

I know I need to eat Dad, but I just don’t want to talk to Mum.

Of course I don’t blame her, and I don’t blame you either.

I know you did your best to stop it happening.

It’s because of the way mum is. An entire ten months and she never came to visit me.

It was hard on her?! Does she even know where I was? She’s ashamed of me, isn’t she?

Don’t be like what?! I’m the one who went through all this but she’s the one who suffers?

Thanks for the invite Dad, but I don’t feel like it… Love you see you bye.

Hangs up.

Fade out

Eleven:

Morning light through windows

Woman leaning on bench, talking on phone.

Woman

Thanks for agreeing to speak with me Mr. Gulliver.

Well, I was wondering where I stood in relation to promises me to me by the police as to why they can get away with what they did.

Yeah, I know that once it’s all be through the courts it’s all said and done, but I was given a verbal guarantee that if I cooperated I’d be rewarded.

Wait, so you think that what happened was the reward? Surely they can’t be that bad?

Well I know that they gave me a verbal guarantee.

Well how can I hold them to that verbal contract?

But the only witnesses were the police officers present

So it’s my word against theirs?… Are you suggesting it’s hopeless?

But surely… You’re my lawyer, can’t you do something?

Fade out

Twelve:

afternoon light through windows

Woman sitting on floor next to bedroom door, crying. Baby strapped into a car-seat on couch is also crying. Woman stops, looks up. Stands, walks to see baby. Turns, walks to kitchen sink, grabs plates and smashes one against the floor.

Woman

(Screams, glaring at child.)

Why do you constantly have to cry and be, so, fucking stupid!?!

Fade out

Thirteen:

Night, Room is lit, small amount of ambient light through windows.

Woman leaning against bench, talking on phone.

Woman

Yeah, everything is OK.

Nah, not needing anything.

Mum, Dad put you put up to this call, didn’t he?

Well I say that because you don’t seem all that interested in talking about anything real.

“Real” means “real” Mum, if you have to pretend you want to call then you just shouldn’t bother.

I’m not being like anything! It’s your bloody fault I’m in this damn mess and all you can do is pretend everything is fuckin sweet as and offer to make me fuckin biscuits!

Baby begins to cry from bedroom.

Yes it is your damn fault! You and your fake heart attack bringing us back home when you damn well knew Johan wouldn’t get a visa!

You know I can’t go back there after what’s happened they won’t let me.

Well that’s not our fault Johan couldn’t find work!

God… Why do you even bother calling if all you’re going to do is fight with me?!

I’ll blaspheme all I goddamn want to goddamn it and you can just fucking live with it!

Slams down phone.

Fade out

Fourteen:

morning light through windows

Woman standing in flat. She has longer hair, and is carrying the slightly bigger baby on hip. Is walking to and fro, trying to get baby to burp and/or go to sleep. The telephone rings.

Woman

Hello? Yes. Ah, Mr. Gulliver, how are you? Me? Yes, good thanks.

Sorry, you’ve been talking to who? Oh, isn’t he the radical guy?

Right, so what’s happening with that? Does this mean we might be able to get Johan a visa?

Not yet? What does it mean then?

Really? Who are we taking this to? The Department of Justice? But aren’t they the one’s who got me in this pickle in the first place?

Oh, so it’s not immigration? Why Justice? Is that because of the Police connection?

Ah, got it now. So you’re pushing for what?

Preparations? Oh, [laughs] sorry, reparations.

Fade out

Fifteen:

Afternoon light through windows

Unnerved woman is standing looking at the front door, which is closed. She walks across to couch and sits down, picks up remote and switches on TV. Phones rings.

Woman

Hello…. Dad! Glad you called, they’ve been round again.

They only just left.

Two officers this time, they said they wanted to come in and talk to me.

No, I didn’t let them in. They even threatened to bring back a search warrant, but I told them to F-off.

Well, they started really reasonably, but they kind of started to get a bit hyped up when I wouldn’t let them in.

They can’t honestly expect me to trust them after what they’re done to me and Johan. I mean, really…

Really, you think they’re a bit spooked? Who is Gulliver talking to?

Listens, nods agreement, mumbles, listens.

So you’re saying that this reparations thing is going to look that bad on their records?

Surely there must be more to it than that? They were after Johan for ages before we left the country, so wouldn’t it be better to give him a visa then try to arrest him when he gets here?

Well, this is the thing, Johan was always to smart for those small town country bumpkin Police.

Yeah, Mark will be waking up soon, so I’ll go check on him now. Thanks for calling.

OK, I’ll be careful. Love you.

Fade out

Sixteen:

Mmorning light through windows

Baby sleeping in car-seat on couch. Woman sitting on couch staring out window of flat. Plays with hair, glances at TV, glances to check if baby still asleep. Gets up and walks through to bedroom door, walk in. Pause, sound of toilet flushing. Walks back into room, sits on couch. Picks up magazine, flicks through it. Glances at TV, looks back to window.

Fade out

Seventeen:

Night, Room is lit, small amount of ambient light through windows.

Woman talking on phone. She is jumping up and down and squealing with delight.

Woman

God it’s SO GREAT to hear from you! Mark is doing OK, started teething a little, but is otherwise an angel. Dad is being great and Mum is being a bitch, but hey, ain’t she always!

How’s things there?

Oh, the visa, yeah, it seems to be coming along well, Gulliver has been ‘shaking some branches’ in Wellington if that means anything to you, and he reckons that we could be given some kind of word soon.

Nah, dunno what kind of word, but he reckons a visa is an option they’re looking at.

Mmmmm, that’s the thing. On account of the police actions they think that they will be forced to try to make some kind of repayment to me for loss of well-being or something.

No, I’m not sure what the details are but… geez, bad cough there darling, you OK?

Yeah, you should have given up the smoke years ago… Wow, bad cough alright.

Johan, you aren’t sick or anything are you? You sure? Because I’d get that cough checked out if I were you.

And yes, that is a wifely order. Get to it, chop chop! [Laughs]

OK, um, so what are you doing with yourself over there?

Fade out

Eighteen:

Morning light through windows

Rattle of key in lock and woman bursts into room carrying baby. She slams the door behind her and yells through net curtains.

Woman

FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING SHIT ASSHOLES!!!

Baby has begun to cry and she begins to console him. A car starts and drives away outside. She picks up the phone and dials.

It’s me put Dad on.

No I don’t want to talk put Dad on.

Look for fucks sakes I just had two cops try bail me up in the street outside my flat so FUCKING PUT DAD ON!

Woman walks to bench and puts on kettle, begins to console baby, who starts to cry a lot less.

Yeah it’s me.

I’m OK but two big cops just tried to hassle me outside the flat.

They kept saying we should drop the case against them.

Something else about them never making any promises to a little whore like me.

She begins to cry a little.

Nah, I’m OK, it’s not as bad as when they had me bailed up in the cells last year. Spooked me a little that’s all.

Yeah, they’ve been round a fair bit lately, sorting through my rubbish looking for something, dunno what.

Yeah, one did go through a pooey nappy, that was pretty funny [laughs a little].

Well I’ve got nothing to hide, have I?

Yeah, maybe he did just like pooey nappies [laughs a little more].

Dad, when’s this going to end?

She begins to cry a little more. Puts baby in car-seat, finishes making cup of tea. Sits on couch.

Dad, I’d better come clean.

Well, about what actually happened.

Well, I told you that the cops had made a bust on the place where I was staying when I was just home and pregnant with Mark.

Yeah, the place over on Hamilton Street.

OK, actually… [Pause] I wasn’t just caught up in a bust and charged illegally.

Look, I haven’t told you any of this because the cops said if I told anyone they’d ‘have me’.

I know I know it was stupid of me not to tell you everything, but I thought I had it all under control, you know?

The truth? The truth is that a couple of detectives came to me and told me that if I cooperated in an operation they’d give me a visa for Johan.

Well why shouldn’t I believe them! They are the Police and they can do things like that.

Look I know you’re getting angry with me but just hear me out, please Dad?

These detectives said that if I helped them with their operation in that house, they’d make sure I wasn’t prosecuted, and that in return Johan would be given a visa to come back.

Yes, I’ve told all this to my lawyer.

It didn’t come up in the case because the lawyer didn’t show up in court, remember?

She begins to cry again.

God, ten months in jail because that bastard got leaned on by the cops…[sobs]

They ruined my life, and all for a little pay-back… I can’t get work, I can’t walk in the street without people whispering about me…

I’m sorry Dad, I know I should have told you, but I couldn’t. I kept thinking that they’d come good on their promise but they never did, and once I was inside, there was nothing anyone could do.

So I waited till they released me, and now here we are.

She finishes cup of tea, sniffles, wipes nose.

Gulliver is onto it. He’s taken up the case and is looking into getting this recognised.

Johan? He knows.

He’s got this persistent cough but seems to be fine, and says he’s looking forward to coming home.

I didn’t think it was more than a bad cold, but his mum says he’s in the hospital recovering.

Fade out

Nineteen:

Afternoon light through windows

Woman walks from bedroom to living room to pick up phone.

Woman

Hello? Ah, Mr Gulliver, how are you?

Yes, good thanks. Do you have any news for me?

Really?! Good news! What is it?! [listens, mumbles understanding]

Let me see if I’ve got this right, they’re accepting that the case against me was false, but they’re wanting to settle out of court? What are they offering again?

The choice between the value of the state house I’m living in, and a visa for Johan?

The choice should be obvious shouldn’t it?

When do you expect it to be issued? [pause] That soon! Unbelievable! I’m soooo happy! Thank you thank you thank you! I’ve got to go, need to make calls. Yes yes yes call me if anything changes.

Hangs up phone and immediately makes another call.

Dad! You won’t believe it!

Fade out

Twenty:

Night, Room is lit, small amount of ambient light through windows.

Woman is dialing phone, and looks expectant. Baby is in car-seat on couch. When the phone is answered she speaks slowly and deliberately.

Woman

Hel-lo can I speak with Johan please.

Yes. This is his wife.

Where is he? Does someone there speak good English?

Ing-lish… Yeeees… Ing-lish

Hi! Hello! Yes! Is Johan there?

Yes, Johan.

Yes, I am his wife.

What do you mean sorry? Why sorry?

He… what? What do you mean?

What? He… He…. died? Wh-wh-when?

Woman drops phone, falls to knees, begins weeping.

END

I’m looking at the empty grooves now, and asking,

“Is this tea?”

“Be quiet and eat.”

“But it’s just weetbix.”

“The benefit isn’t till tomorrow, so eat up.”

“But it’s breakfast isn’t it?”

“Just eat up.”

It’s a story I tell for years, of the superimposition of hunger by ‘our situation’. In retrospect it’s the one thing I associate with benefit dependency, the constant hunger, not only for basic nutrition, but for the many small things others take for granted you lack. The small luxuries and the simple things you cannot afford. A hunger for invaluables like comfort, security, certainty.

You see these things among people you consider rich, and you crave them. You hoard small objects, the cast offs of the better offs, and you think yourself lucky to have snatched such prizes.

I remember being perhaps 10, or 11, and sitting on the floor of the dining room reading Australian Womens Weekly Cookbook, a glossy A4 softcover filled with large pictures of simple foods. Brandy snaps. Yorkshire pudding. The pages were something I would treasure, the details of the recipes something I would pore over, a series of simple how-to pictures I must have subconsciously replicated here on this very blog. I would look at these foods and yearn for the ingredients, the know-how. But to practice we would need more than what we had. And what we had wasn’t enough.

So where are the choices in that? We were making the right life choices. We were frugal as our station demanded. We made the most of what we had. But still we ate cereal for dinner while our neighbours’ cat ate gravy beef.

What is it about dependency that means you must suffer in silence the ire of those who consider themselves your betters?

I sit now in comfort, folded in the bounty of the middle classes, and I look back to those days as a hazy memory, and I’m thankful to be free of then. I can sit now and listen to people run down the poor to someone the feel is a social equal, and while I no longer feel myself an interloper, I sometimes feel I have abandoned my past, that I have turned my back on what it was to be both hungry and undeserving.

Until I see the ire acted out again, as if by rote, an endless script of hate and condescension.