Grandma and Grandpa’s small ranch home sits in a suburban neighborhood—the place I spent most of my childhood. When I was age eight, cousin Claire and I, after a sleepover, used every chunk of energy to yank ourselves out of our grandmother’s darkened, warm, serene bedroom. We yearned for her sweet and syrupy treat.

“Are you ready for pancakes?” she asked, as we approached the aged sliding kitchen door.

We rushed to beat each other to the green, plaid, cushioned chair closest to the ivory, dim countertop.

“Who wants the first cake?” I shrieked for the first pancake of the frigid winter morning.

The Minnie Mouse pancakes sat on a greasy pan, dolloped with a glob of batter—the smell sent me into a daze. The pancake was tossed on each side, to give it a golden, crispy, rich taste.

Grandma said to me, “Livvy, do you want your small fork and knife?”

I vaulted out of my seat and grasped at the drawer to find my shiny, silver, silverware. My red, cracked, winter weathered hands reach for them.

As Grandma approached the table with plates in both hands, we echoed screams of excitement, we shrieked.

We gobbled up our food up in minutes. We patiently waited for another pancake, and only when we received them, did our pace slow.

Full bellies, we were satisfied with what Grandma made for us that on that frigid winter morning.