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Istand on a chair pulled up to the counter. My nose hovers near my mother's elbow as I strain to see everything she is doing.

Despite my elevation, she still towers above me. She is God. With a capital G. She knows everything. She sees

everything, right down to the lone chocolate chip that strayed from the flock.

I have witnessed her save burned cookies and breathe life into an inanimate pile of flour. She is indomitable, and her anger, although rare, is to be feared.

I shall not talk too much. I shall not pester her with questions. I shall not touch things until I am told. I will be good, better than I've ever been before, because she has answered my prayers and is teaching me to bake.

Before we begin she issues her commandments:

Assemble all ingredients.

Read the entire recipe - twice.

Always wear an apron.

Don't eat the batter.

Share with the whole family.

The last decree makes me wish I was an only child.

Ready? She pulls boxes and bags from cupboards above my head, aligning them in order. She reads the recipe aloud and touches each ingredient. Half a cup butter - her long, slim fingers tap the parchment-wrapped brick. One, two, three eggs. Two cups flour - she rests her hand on a large checkered bag that weighs more than I do.

Clear Pyrex measuring cups with fading red print and a yellow ceramic bowl appear from the cupboards below. She opens drawers and sets a wooden spoon, a nest of metal measuring spoons and a rubber scraper on the counter. She keeps adding items until there's barely a free inch of space left.

I think I will burst when she produces two aprons. The first she ties snugly beneath my armpits. The hem flutters about my ankles and, if I strain, I can brush the lip of the pocket with my chin. Don't be silly. Pay attention.

She wraps the second apron around her own waist, and I bounce on the chair in anticipation, plucking at the apron pocket with my fingers. She looks at me. I'm not using my chin, I tell her. She smiles and pinches my cheek. She knows I am trying, although I see in her eyes that my five-year-old "best" is not as good as she would like.

She reads the recipe aloud again, this time explaining its meaning. The baking has begun. To keep my hands to myself I wrap them in the apron, twisting it tight. When I'm instructed to tip the carefully measured flour into the bowl, I whip my hands free, letting the apron fall back in place, forgotten in the excitement.

She then hands me the spoon and I carve wild circles in the batter, swirling in one spot like a figure skater spinning on the ice. She places her hand on mine and guides my arm. Place the spoon at the back of the bowl, push it down to the bottom and pull it toward you. Now, pull it up and out. Slide it back and begin again.

Fold gently, so as not to send flour flying. Gently, so you can feel the tug of the batter. How else can you know if it's too thick or too thin? Fast is for television commercials. Fast is for cake mix. This is homemade. From scratch. This is baking.

When she turns to check the recipe I sneak a finger of dough and she solidifies her omniscience. Without looking up from the page, she warns me there will be nothing left to bake if I continue.

I resist further transgressions only because I know she will move swiftly from gentle warning to strict punishment. Another stolen bite and I will be sent to my room. I love the raw dough more than baked cookies, but the thought of being exiled from the kitchen makes my eyes fill with tears. This culinary threat alone keeps me in line.

Together we drop the cookies. She scoops the dough while I scrape the lump from the spoon onto the cookie sheet. Not too close. They need room to spread. How do you know how much room to leave? How can you tell when they're done? When they're cool enough to handle? Cool enough to eat?

The questions tumble out of me faster than she can answer. To silence me, she hands me the dough-covered spoon.

This morsel occupies me for several minutes. Determined to get every scrap, I lick so hard my tongue hurts from the friction.

I am immediately deflated. She performed a minor miracle while I was distracted, scraping the bowl so clean you'd swear it had never been used.

Time to wash up. Why do we have to wash the bowl? Because it's dirty. How do you know when it looks so clean? But she knows. She knows

everything.

While the cookies bake we return the kitchen to its pristine, prebaking state. She washes. I dry and put away. Without looking, she tells me where the measuring spoons live and where to return the bowl.

Each item has its own spot. Bottom cupboard, second shelf, far right, beside the Dutch oven. Middle drawer, at the front, between the grapefruit spoons and corn picks.

She is indeed the Kitchen God, restoring order where chaos once reigned, feeding the masses and healing the pain of terminal curiosity.

Charmian Christie lives in Guelph, Ont.