Dinner with Jim and Carole Anderton

Jim Anderton

Visualising Jim Anderton in his undergarments is not the most desirable exercise after a three-course meal.

But it doesn't deter his wife Carole, who's recounting a recent incident when her husband was on all fours, trying to coax the family's stubborn golden labrador into a new luxury dog-house.

"The dog just looks at him with a face that says 'stuff you, mate!' She wasn't having a bar of it," she laughs, re-enacting the scene.

Jim's cackling awayin his favourite recliner, belly jiggling and eyes watering. A ridiculous waste of money, that dog-house, he moans.

The Anderton family home is laidback and friendly. It is easy to see why over the years, the less fortunate in the Andertons' largely Housing New Zealand neighbourhood have found a welcoming face, a meal and sometimes even a bath here.

In the small lounge, a support crew of close friends is already sucking their Midoris through metal straws.

Jim's a really good cook, his friends insist. It's just that it's so rare.

"We've had 20 years of no cooking from him. I don't even get a poached egg these days," says Carole, a claim which is met by snorts from Jim. Tonight Jim is cooking - spaghetti bolognaise because it's his favourite. But with the bolognaise part of the meal prepared, there's doubt over how much he helped.

"He bought the mince," jokes Carole.

Says Jim: "This meal's going to be alright because it's supervised. I wouldn't describe myself as a gourmet cook. But I can cook this stuff."

He has even added his own touch - a dash of brown sugar.

"Stir the mince, Jim!" yells Carole from the lounge. Jim duly gives the meat a delicate swirl.

 

Suddenly Carole appears in the kitchen and takes over the pot containing the pasta.

"I think we're going to turn this down. It's going to boil over."

"No it won't!" protests the chef.

"Yes, it will," insists Carole as a fury of white foam threatens to drown the stovetop.

Disaster avoided, Jim responds to my request for cooking tips. "Yeah, make sure your wife's not around when you're cooking," he says loudly. His dig is rewarded.

"Yeah, you know all about it? Do it yourself then," barks the reply.

Dinner, served with luscious fresh bread, parmesan and sour cream, is in the dining room. Jim sits at the head of the table, while a large photo with the same comb-over, only less grey, looks down from the wall in between paintings gifted from foreign dignitaries. The photo, taken for the 1999 election, was a present from Carole. Jim hates it.

"If there's one thing I dislike the most, it's posing for photos. They always say to smile with your eyes."

His look a bit sad.

"Well, life is always a bit sad ... If you don't have some sadness - not that it's a good thing - you have no understanding about what's going on in life. I get hundreds of people coming to see me about suicide because they think I may understand and they're right."

He is talking about his daughter Philippa, who took her own life when she was young. Suicide is the talk over the tablecloth tonight, following the local paper's feature on the topic. Jim chastises counsellors who tell grieving parents that time will heal their pain. "Get over it? You buried your son or daughter. You will never get over it."

 

Like the wine, the conversation is random, peppered with a bit of self-congratulation - "Can you taste the brown sugar? A brilliant touch," says Jim.

Dessert is Carole's berry mini-pavlovas, which Jim puts together with dollops of cream. "What do you call this, Carole?" he asks as he drizzles a berry-coloured sauce over the pavs.

"Berry sauce."

By 10.30pm, we are bundled out of the house, full of good food and perhaps one too many of Carole's special Midoris as a proud Jim waves goodbye with a smile, and a sigh of relief.

- Herald on Sunday