Instructions: This is the ninth of 10 columns by Cat Cora, executive chef of Postino in Lafayette. They are being written with Nicholas Boer.

I love baking. But baking is a science. It goes against my "Cooking from the Hip" philosophy. A forgotten pinch can turn a biscuit into a pancake.

Still, its not rocket science. I was the master of my Easy-Bake Oven at 7 years old. I took my first dozen cakes door-to-door and sold them all - at a nickel apiece - to the neighbor boy two houses down.

I couldnt hang with baking, however. The saying goes, "Until youve baked it a thousand times, youve got to follow a recipe." Or something like that. Even I use cookbooks when I bake; I measure, I follow instructions, I keep my rebel instincts at bay.

So at the restaurant I leave the sweets to my pastry chef, Yasmine Hernandez, and her assistant, Cynara Guyer.

Im thinking of all my past baking disasters when, suddenly, the phone brings me out of my reverie.

Its Sunday. Im tired. Im not answering it. Maybe its the restaurant. I reluctantly pick it up.

My heart stops. My eyes pop. I mumble. Yeah, yeah. No problem. Click.

"Im glad I caught you," my friend said. "Can you bring a big salad bowl along with you?"
I was supposed to make dessert for her new boyfriends birthday. I totally forgot.

Its 4 p.m.; her house is 45 minutes away, and Im supposed to be there at 5. I would pick something up at the restaurant, but thats 45 minutes away - in the wrong direction. Safeway comes to mind. I cant. Im a chef. Im supposed to impress her boyfriend.

Its hot and Im sweating. I head to the kitchen and open the refrigerator.

Berries! I bought a half-flat of fresh-picked strawberries this morning. And Ive got ripe blackberries and blueberries, too.

I swing open the freezer, drop to my knees and thank God. A big wedge of pastry dough from an event last week is staring me right in the face.

Now I have a plan. I grab the strawberries and flip down my cutting board.

Bomboloni, here we come. Ill assemble and bake it there, but Ive got to get these strawberries macerating - now .
I rinse, stem and cut up four baskets in three minutes. I toss the berries with a big handful of granulated sugar and a pinch, two, three of brown sugar.

Ive got a recipe for this someplace - but no time for that.

Baking is a science, all right. Mad science.

I toss the berries and the sugar, run upstairs and throw on some makeup. I put on a chef jacket.

Now its 4:20 and Im sweatin bullets. Downstairs, I grab the pastry and ice cream - and head to the car.

Half an hour later Im dead-stopped in traffic. Ive got the pastry on the roof - defrosting - with my left hand. The ice cream up against the air conditioning with my right. What a sight. Ms. Nonchalant I come screeching up to the house at 5:15. I touch up my hair, powder my face. Im Ms. Nonchalant. I gather up my stuff. Wait - wheres the salad bowl?

Hmmmm. "Hey you guys, guess what?" I call out as soon as my friend lets me in. "Im making dessert right here!" Ooohs and aaahs. "And for your birthday present," I say, "Im gonna give yall a hands-on cooking demonstration!" I head to the kitchen. It smells of tuna fish. I throw the ice cream in the freezer and breathe a sigh of relief when I see my friends ultralong, ultraclean kitchen counter.

All five of them are in the kitchen now. I line them up along the counter, putting big Jeremy at the opposite end of the counter where theres some elbow room. I dump a couple of handfuls of flour in front of everybody and give them each a bottle of wine from the case Jeremy just opened - one of his gifts.

"These are your rolling pins," I say. "No drinking allowed." Rolling, rolling, rolling
I unwrap the cold - but thawed - pastry and slice off six pieces. I shape them into disks and flip one in front of everyone.

"OK. Like this."
I rub the wine bottle with flour and scatter some flour in front of me. I pat my disk, which is about the size of a hockey puck, with flour and set it on the floured table. I place my wine bottle on the center of the disk and, with the bottoms of my fingers resting on both sides of the label, I press down with a smooth, firm motion. My hands roll across the bottle and stop at the base of my palms. The dough stretches out as the bottle rolls to one edge. I give the dough a quarter turn, flour everything up lightly and press again.

I look up. Jeremy has already started. The dough is sticking to the bottle.

"Hey big fella, a little more flour. Look at me." Theres flour in my hair and on my shoes. And everywhere in between. I should have just used store-bought puff pastry. It comes rolled out and works just as well. Especially the all-butter Dufour Puff Pastry they sell at upscale markets.

I do two more turns and then run the bottle lightly over the dough to get a smooth circle about 6 inches across and 1/4 inch thick.

Everybody is doing well, except for Jeremy, who has rolled his out from here to China. I fold his dough back up and he rolls it out again. Its more of an egg shape now than a circle, but itll work. I hand Jeremy a pastry brush and tell him to brush off the excess flour from the top - hes got a snowdrift going. He passes the brush down the line.

Fruity desserts
I get a slotted spoon and scoop a pile of strawberries in the middle of Jeremys dough. I move on down the line scooping, and sliding, until I finish up the berries on my own circle.

"OK, now fold." I lift one edge of the pastry so that it comes about a quarter of the way over the berries. I continue to make folds, moving around the dough and pleating it all the way around - leaving a golf-ball-size hole in the center.

While they are folding away, I hop over to the other counter, throw a big handful of sugar and flour into my friends food processor and turn it on. I grab a stick of butter, cube it and throw it in. I pulse the processor a few times. The streusel topping is done.

"Okee-dokee," I say looking at Jeremys misshapen blob.

"Thatll work."
I sprinkle some streusel on top of Jeremys crater and hand the processor bowl down the line.

"Just sprinkle a bit in the center," I say as I grab a couple of cookie sheets. I fit three bombolonis on each sheet.

The oven buzzer rings.

"Tuna casseroles ready," says my friend.

"Gee, great," I say. I shouldve done the ice cream cones.

The casserole comes out and onto the table. I put another oven rack in - taking my time. The canned-tuna smell needs time to escape.

In go the bombolonis. I crank the oven to 400 degrees.

"Can you toss the salad, Cat?" my friend asks.

Think quick. I wash my hands and throw her cut-up lettuce and veggies into the paper grocery bag I brought my berries in.

"This is the best way to dress a salad," I say, thinking quickly, as I douse it with her bottled dressing. "You see, the paper soaks up any extra vinaigrette - and you just put handfuls of salad right on the plates - like this. No bowl to wash!"
I slip the rest of my casserole in my napkin and head to the kitchen.

"Got to rotate these bombolonis."

In another few minutes the table is cleared and I pull out the gorgeous golden brown pastries. I hand Jeremy the ice cream and tell him to start scooping.

I throw all the sweet juices from the strawberries in a blender and puree them with a basket of stemmed berries.

My friend heads to her back yard for some fresh mint.

I pour the sauce on six plates and place the hot pastries on top. I garnish each one with blackberries, blueberries and slices from my last basket of strawberries.

On goes the fresh mint. The bombolonis look professional. The kitchen is a total disaster. But thats mad science for you. Contact Cat Cora or Nicholas

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