Can you burn down a house with pancakes, The Bold and The Beautiful and Poppycock?

The sickness is upon us.
It's hard to think of much else these days other than the H1N1 flu,
but every now and then, we need a little laughter, a little brightness
in our lives.
May I introduce my grandmother Lois, who is with my family now just in
spirit and memories.
God love her, she was a hoot.
My grandmother was divorced and had spent a long time alone, living in
her little seniors' building. Whenever we went to visit, she never had
anything in her fridge - maybe a can of ginger ale, maybe some of her
famous almond cake. (I miss that cake so much).
She ate out a lot, often ordering something that wasn't on the menu.
But the restaurants made it for her because she was a regular. And,
when she was hungry for a “quick bite” it was easier for her to drive
to the local Tim Hortons than it was to go do a full grocery shopping
trip.
She always went to get her hair done and loved shopping from the Sears
catalogue. She'd never be seen without her hair curled just so and all
her makeup on. She loved doing her nails. Never went anywhere without
her nails perfectly filed and painted.
(When we went to her funeral years ago, I was horrified to discover
that the funeral home's makeup artist had not just toned her down, but
made her look completely natural. She looked pretty, but not like my
grandma. Where was her coral fingernail polish? Where was the fushia
lipstick? She wasn't drenched in perfume. That's the over-the-top lady
I knew and loved).
When I was 10 years old in Grade 5, I caught a bad case of the chicken
pox. Both my parents worked, so my mom called my 75-year-old grandma
to come and look after me.
I was stationed upstairs in my sick bed, with my grandmother
downstairs watching her soaps. She loved the Bold And The Beautiful
and All My Children.
One day, she decided to make me microwavable pancakes for lunch. They
were a new thing. You just nuked 'em for three minutes.
I laid upstairs for what seemed like forever doing homework and watching TV.
Eventually, I thought I should go check on these pancakes.
I came downstairs to find two torched pancakes in the microwave, which
was blinking 33:33. My grandmother had cooked these things for 30:33
too long. They were sizzled to death, like when a kid fries an ant
under a microscope.
My mom banned my grandma from using the microwave and ordered me to
keep an eye on her. (The pancake smell never came out of our
microwave, even after many vinegar baths).
I spent the next week in the den with my grandma watching soaps. I can
still turn on All My Children and follow the stories of Adam Chandler
and Erica Kane.
And I made the lunches for the remainder of her visit. I remember many
bowls of licorice allsorts and Poppycock.
Even in sickness, you have to smile.
Black pancakes always do it for me.