KEY POINTS:
We met in the back room of a Grey Lynn cafe where the big cheese, code-named F, spoke in hushed tones about my impending mission. She produced instructions in well-thumbed manuals, explaining this was no ordinary assignment. At first glance her caution seemed misplaced; surely even I could emerge triumphant from the kitchen front line. But all hope of a story with a guaranteed happy ending evaporated when she produced the third cookbook and, with trembling hands, opened it to page 75.
And there it was, my nemesis in white - a pristine meringue swan.
Viva editor Fiona Hawtin had chosen three dishes from well-known chefs' cookbooks, and I had to make them for this week's self-help issue.
First up, with a medium degree of difficulty, hand-crafted pasta with an oozy cheesy sauce from Essex lad-about-the kitchen Jamie Oliver.
There was a touch of Mission Impossible about F's briefing. Not quite "This cookbook will self-destruct in five seconds" but she did tell me to glue together the pages of the (vegetarian alert) revolting dead game animal section.
Then a simple chef's salad, courtesy of Nigella Lawson. What? No cream, chocolate or pork crackling? No, I'd have to go beyond my brief and do Nigella justice. I'd have to make a fat-laden little something to have with coffee - a square involving a can of sweetened condensed milk, dark chocolate, pistachio nuts and butter.
Mmmmmmm ... you'll just have to picture cashmere-encased Nigella suggestively licking her mixing spoon and looking like a kitchen sex kitten.
I'm not the middle-aged woman for that job.
Dessert - God help me - was the avian nightmare from England-based Frenchman Jean-Christophe Novelli's Everyday Novelli cookbook. The swan looked serene; I was not.
This, with a high degree of difficulty, had the potential for French farce.
Now I had to produce it all for public consumption. A dinner party was organised for guests with robust constitutions and a healthy sense of humour.
The charming Mayor and Mayoress of Pt Chev agreed to come, as did the beloved Northwests, who labour under the misapprehension that Kumeu is too far north to be part of West Auckland.
The Herne Bays, dear friends who would provide levity - and counselling if the evening turned to custard - were keen. And M, a trusted ally and experienced kitchen operative, said yes and also offered to come early and help. Bless her.
Preparation would be key, so a day ahead I decided to make the meringue swan components. First step: preheat the oven.
There must be some mistake - no mention of heat, no mention of an oven.
Emergency call to Viva HQ. "Wildlife emergency! Doing the bleedin' swans ... ever heard of uncooked meringue?"
This was news to F, whose Martha Stewart tendencies run to reading cookbooks in bed and trawling cake decorating shops for leisure.
A contingency plan was formulated: leave the bird bits to dry for the 24 to 36 hours stipulated in the recipe, but if they remained flaccid, I'd shove them into a low-heat oven. Sorted.
Meanwhile I had swan necks, heads and wings to pipe on to a baking tray. Once firm, they would be attached to a scoop of ice cream which would serve as the bird's body.
The results were a mixed bag, but most looked like they'd come from a lab run by rogue scientists hell-bent on creating genetic monstrosities.
"That one's like a turkey," said the 10-year-old apprentice, ever willing to share her forthright views.
It was true my swan heads were much more robust that Jean-Christophe's and, with necks like front row forwards, looked better suited to Eden Park than Western Springs.
Undaunted and secure in the knowledge my friends would still like me whether the swans flew or were complete turkeys, I forged ahead.
The day of the dinner party and I was in complete control.
Relaxing breakfast with friends before arriving home to find the shopping, ordered by internet, waiting for me.
Hang on. Where's the gruyere? I need it for the oozy cheese pasta sauce. Out of stock.
The gruyere was already a substitute for fontina, a cows' milk cheese crafted in the Italian Alps since the 12th century but absent from the shelves of Woolworths, Auckland, in 2008. No gruyere at the little local supermarket either. Next best thing, according to internet foodies, edam. It would have to do.
Now it was time to put the dinner into party.
Nigella's chocolate and pistachio squares were simplicity itself - I melted the decadent ingredients, tossed in the nuts and put them into a pan to set.
Time to check the health of the wildlife. Alas, the birds, who'd been resting in a cool, dark place for about 28 hours were still limp.
They'd never survive the transplant operation, and I'd be up the swanny.
No, it was time to put the heat on those softies, harden them up. I'd stick them in the oven while I prepared Nigella's salad, an uninspiring tumble of iceberg lettuce, tinned corn, emmental cheese and avocado chunks - diced ham forgone.
Hang on, isn't the netball on telly ... I'll just watch the first quarter.
Nice smell emanating from the kitchen. Hell! The swans!
Now some of my birds, already with front-rowers' necks and deformities, had turned brown. Emergency Google. Yes, there were indeed brown swans and any diner complaints could be countered with birdwatchers' accounts from Massachusetts, USA, and Britain. Did you know the juvenile mute swan is brown?
The 10-year-old cranked out the food colouring and her paint brush and before long our mutant swans had beaks and beady eyes.
Time to attempt Jamie's pasta.
M arrived just in time. We whizzed the flour and egg to a dough, kneaded it and started forcing globs through the pasta machine.
The resulting sheets were then fed through the cutter and hey pasta! Fettuccine.
But how would we store it until we were ready to cook it? We tried putting it into a bowl with oil, but it soon congealed. So we decided to try draping well-floured pieces over the kitchen shelf. Beautiful.
All we had left to do was boil the pasta and some broccoli florets then melt the edam, parmesan and creme fraiche for the oozy cheese sauce - all shortly before serving.
Jamie's cheesy pasta was indeed pukka. Went down a treat with the guests, who were more muted about Nigella's salad.
It may have had a better hit rate with some of the guests if the coquettish one herself - who could make salad servers look like sex aids - had been dishing it up.
After a wee rest to let the pasta digest, it was time for the dessert to take flight.
Unfortunately, the first swan had suffered serious trauma between the baking tray and its icecream body and had a truncated neck.
"It's a duck," exclaimed the Mayor, clearly taken aback by the unexpected wildlife experience.
There were other astonished comments from guests as the next swans were brought out, and I think the words "vulture" and "tumour" were uttered.
Mr Northwest later confessed he'd thought the whole thing had been a spoof.
When the swan excitement died down, we all needed a nice cuppa and Nigella's pistachio chocolate. Mmmmmm. ... you get the picture.
My mission was complete, but was it a case of mission accomplished?
There had been a few avian casualties along the way, but I'd be back to fight another day. This would not be my swan song.
