My grandmother made these pancakes every morning in the summer. They were so important to us that I wrote a story about it. This is a story of hope. When I was little, I lived with my mother. We moved from place to place to place. Sometimes I lived with my father and his wife. At their place. But every summer I lived at Grandma's house. No matter what. Grandma always lived in one place. With Grandma, things always stayed the same. Same house. Same clothes. Every morning, she made Grandma's pancakes for breakfast. They were my favorite. They were different from other pancakes. One pancake took up the entire frying pan. It was very thing, like a balloon that has popped. When one side was done, she flipped the pancake over with the flat part of her knife. Just smelling those brown, crispy edges made me happy to get up. When the pancake was done, I'd put a pat of butter in the middle and roll it up. Some people prefer strawberry jelly. But everybody rolls them up. At lunchtime, Grandma sometimes made hamburgers. She called them patties. They were oval and bumpy and never came with a bun. They tasted better than any other hamburger I ever had. When I wanted a snack, Grandma would peel a cucumber and slice it into spears. They were cold and crunch and smelled like snow. For dinner, Grandma sometimes cooked roast chicken sprinkled with caraway seeds. And sometimes she sent me down to the corner to get her favorite food. Pizza. Cheese pizza. At the end of the summer, I would go back to live with my mother. Or sometimes my father. Now I am grown. I have two children. Their favorite breakfast is Grandma's pancakes. I make it for them every day. One likes them with butter. One likes them with jelly. We always roll them up. And now, I always live in one place.