Probably not a real recipe

So I got an email from the Herald about a promotion to win a new fridge, and I could do with a new fridge, and the promotion required me to pick some ingredients and invent a dish with them. So I went to all the trouble of writing out this recipe and after I entered it turned out it’s a random draw to win. So, that was a waste of time, so here’s my recipe. I picked: prawns, chillies, ginger, fresh herbs and beans.

And it got a little out of hand. I haven’t had much sleep.

1. Heat some oil in a pan and add the finely chopped chillies and grated ginger WITHOUT burning them. If you burn them, you’ve done it wrong. Just to be clear: don’t burn the food.

2. Now bend your head down over the pan and breathe in the gingery chili fumes. Damn, doesn’t that smell good? When your wife comes over and tells you to stop putting your nose so close to the hot pan, tell her, “I KNOW MY BUSINESS, WOMAN. YOU JUST GET BACK TO WATCHING THE OLYMPICS.” She will appreciate it in the long run, and in fairness, you do know your business.

3. Oh, start a pan of water boiling. No salt, though, because you’re putting beans in it, and you don’t salt bean water. Keep in mind what your granddad always told you. “If Stewart Island doesn’t secede from this damned country, the terrorists have already won! And don’t salt bean water.” I bet you used to think he was crazy, but you know better now.

4. Don’t burn the food.

5. Oh, chop the herbs, too. And don’t pronounce it “erbs”. Annoys the hell out of me when you do that.

6. You want to know what herbs they are? Do I have to do EVERYTHING here? Whatever herbs you like. Parsley, coriander, mint, I don’t know. Go wild. I’m not your dad.

7. I’m not your dad.

8. Right, just kind of fry those prawns in the ginger-chili oil. If you have any children, make sure you say in a squeaky voice, “Noooo! Noooooo! It burns! You’re killing us and eating us!” This will teach them family values like comedy and voice acting. If they have nightmares later, explain to them that nightmares are God’s way of telling them that you know your damned business. YOU KNOW YOUR DAMNED BUSINESS.

9. Oh, about five steps ago you should have prepared a bowl of ice water, so I hope you did that.

10. Put the trimmed beans in the now boiling water. Do not under any circumstances immerse your hand in the boiling water.

11. Are those prawns cooked yet? Is the damned stove even plugged in? Should I have made that one of the first steps, idiot?

12. Right, after like two minutes drain the beans and dunk them in the ice-water bowl for a bit and then pull them out. I hope you didn’t burn them.

13. Make sure you’re getting lots of oil over all of the prawns while you’re cooking them, and they should probably be cooked now or something. How long has it been, anyway? What day is this?

14. Um. Season everything. Don’t season too much or too little. I recommend seasoning just the right amount, but hey, I also name my shoelaces and imagine them having fights with each other over who gets to marry the coffee plunger, so I don’t really recommend you do anything I say or do.

15. Mix the beans with some halved cherry tomatoes and most of the herbs. Then put the prawns on a plate with the beans/tomatoes/herbs and put the last little bit of herbs over the top of the prawns.

16. That’s called “plating”, if you can believe it. You “plate”. Pretty on the nose, isn’t it. Might as well call the whole process “fooding”. What are you doing in the kitchen? Oh, fooding, and then I’ll plate.

17. Anyway, that’s probably about it. Maybe some balsamic drizzle over the beans and tomatoes.

18. I’m not your dad.

Playing the Victim (My Morning at CYFS)

All names except for Ross’s name have been changed in this post.

As obsessive followers of me on Twitter (you know who you are, Ross) will recall, in my first week of my new job at MIT in Otara, my scooter was stolen from the MIT carpark building at 11 in the morning. The first I heard of it was receiving a phone call from a blocked number four times in a row, before a message was left. So I check the message.

“Yes, it’s Susan from the Auckland Police here. I’m calling because three odd young men were seen taking a motorcycle registered to you from the MIT carpark. If that motorcycle is still yours, please call me back.”

After a little calling around, I am finally put through to Susan Without a Surname who called me.

“Hi, you left a message saying my scooter was stolen?”

“Oh, yes, yes. They’ve apprehended them, too,” she says.

“Someone’s been arrested? You’ve got my bike?”

“Yes, it was quite a bit of excitement. We got Eagle 1 out for it and everything.”

I pause. “Wait, you had a chopper out looking for my scooter? Are you serious? I didn’t even know it was missing.”

I add that the scooter itself is probably not worth the price of the gas the chopper used.

“Oh, well, if we didn’t get it out for this kind of thing, they’d never get to fly it.”

So I wander down the road to the address where a police officer is waiting with my scooter. On the way, I realise that I probably stand to be fined more than the scooter’s worth when he notices there’s no warrant or registration.

It’s covered in what turns out to be fingerprint dust (which is a hell of a thing to get off). I’m told that the young men who took it were 15 years old. The officer wants a list of damages for his report, and I’m forced to admit that most of what looks like damage from the kids is actually damage from my wife and neighbours routinely backing into it.

“They’ve tried to jimmy the ignition, is all,” I say. “They’ve popped out the seal thing around it.”

“Where’s your warrant and registration?” asks the officer, inevitably.

“I’m juuuuuust on my way to get it,” say I.

“Hmmm,” he says. “Anything else you want on the report? About what you want to happen to the kids?”

“Whatever’s best for them,” I say. “I’d prefer alternatives to punitives.”

He makes a note of that.

A few weeks later, I get a phone call from Jack from CYFS. He asks me to please attend a Family Group Conference with the 15-year-old who stole my scooter. I say that I will, and he emails me the details.

That evening, I happened to be catching up with a friend who’s a retired South Auckland police detective. I ask him what to expect.

“They can be really depressing,” he says. “There will be lies. There will be a lawyer there whose job is to get the kid off everything. Mostly they lie about whether or not they’ve done community service. Half the time people don’t check up on it.”

“However,” he adds. “You’ll get to have a say in his punishment, if you want. You could get him to come to your place and clean your bike, for example.”

And I check the CYFS description of a Family Group Conference, which is a little more upbeat.

So yesterday morning, I wander down the road to CYFS. Everything in Otara seems to be wandering distance from each other. I meet Jack, the facilitator, and I’m taken into a room with the following people…

  • Jack, the facilitator
  • Jill, the police officer
  • Nathan, the young person in question
  • Nathan’s mum and dad and little sister
  • A youth worker (awesome guy)
  • Nathan’s court-appointed lawyer
  • Nathan’s lay advocate


The first thing that happens is we go around in a circle and introduce ourselves and our role in things.

“I’m Ryan,” I say. “The victim.”

Jack asks the family if they want to kick things off with a karakia or prayer or anything, and we all bow our heads as Nathan’s mother stands and says a prayer in her own language (Samoan, I think).

Jack tells us that Officer Jill will read the charges and Nathan will say whether or not he admits that they’re accurate. If he says no, we all go home and it goes to court. If he says yes, we continue. Jill reads a detailed description of how Nathan and his friend stole my scooter, which is really interesting to me. They basically just rocked up and wheeled it out, then down the road, through a backyard and into a shed in an unoccupied property.

I should describe Nathan at this point. Nathan’s a big kid. 15 years old, sure, but pretty solid and probably almost my 6’1″ in height. He’s mumbled everything he’s said so far, and his elbows are on his knees and he’s just staring straight at the floor.

Nathan mumbles something. His lawyer asks him again. “Yeah, I did it,” says Nathan.

Jack turns to me and tells me that we’re now at the point where I can give my point of view.

“Um,” I say. “Uh. I guess I wouldn’t mind knowing why, first. Like, what were you thinking?”

Jack turns to Nathan. “Nathan? Do you want to tell Ryan why you stole his scooter?”

Nathan turns to me, maybe the first time he’s looked up so far. “We thought it would be fun,” he says. “We just had nothing to do and we saw it and thought it would be fun to take it.”

“Well,” I say to him. “That was pretty fucking stupid, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says, already back to staring at the floor.

So I say to everyone, “Look, it’s a pretty banged-up scooter. It’s not worth a whole lot, but it’s how I get around at the moment and I’m pretty attached to it. The kids fucked the ignition and I haven’t had a chance to get that fixed, because I’d have to leave it with the mechanic place for a few days, and I need it to get to work.  But it still goes, and it’s not like Nathan punched me in the face or anything. There’s practically no harm done, and I forgive you,” saying the last bit to him.

Jack asks Nathan if he’d like to apologise.

Nathan looks up again and mumbles, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry we took your bike. I just…” And he’s a 15-year-old kid surrounded by eight adults who are all there because he did a Bad Thing and everyone’s looking at him and he doesn’t know what else to say and I feel really, really sorry for him.

“Sweet as,” I say to break the silence. “Just don’t do it again, okay?”

He says, “I won’t,” and I walk over and shake his hand.

“Right!” I say. “That’s me done. I’m off back to work.”

“Wait,” says Nathan’s mother. “I want to apologise to you too.”

“Okay.” Sitting again.

“We’re really sorry he did this thing. And we want you to be paid for getting the ignition fixed. We want him to pay you for it.”

Fair enough. I won’t say no.

Facilitator Jack turns to me again. “Is there anything else you want? Would you like him to do some community service?”

So I turn to Nathan and I say, “Nathan,” and he looks up. And I say, “Nathan, I’ve done some pretty shitty things to people in my time and felt pretty bad about it and I don’t always have a way to make it up to them, and I know something from experience. You actually feel bad about this?” He nods. “Well, you probably should, and I can tell you one of the best ways to feel better about having done something shitty to someone is to do something nice for someone else. It won’t make it all better, but it helps.”

Nathan nods. Maybe all in one ear and out the other. Who knows. So I tell them I’m fine with community service and I’d like Nathan to pick something he thinks will help people and I’m glad he’s getting a mentor and will be staying in school, etc. And I leave them to the rest of the meeting.

The facilitator is going to keep me posted on how things go with Nathan. As I write this, he’s in court and the outcomes of our conference are being communicated to the judge or whoever.

I was struck by the number of people being paid to be in that room at once time. Lawyer, lay advocate (maybe unpaid), police officer, youth worker, facilitator. But if it’s effective (and CYFS claims a low reoffending rate for kids who go through this process and its follow-up), worth every cent.

All in all, an interesting experience.