If we were good, when we stayed overnight at Grandma's house we would have Swedish Pancakes for breakfast. The farmhouse she lived in only had heat in the kitchen and living room, the "cold parlor" next to the kitchen had a nearly vertical staircase that lead up to an attic which was connected to two small bedrooms. In the morning would wake up, hop out of our toasty beds onto the cold linoleum floor and quickly dress and then scurry down to the warmth of the kitchen. The griddle would already be lightly smoking when we entered. The wood stove she cooked on would occasionally make a crackling or hissing sound, as if it were laboring under great duress. She ladled out the thin batter just so, paper-thin. When done, the crepe-like pancakes would be buttered, rolled and doused with maple syrup.
The pancakes were heavenly. My grandmother would sometimes smile at us children as we ate for reasons we didn't understand. Now that I am approaching the age that my grandmother was then, I also occasionally smile at children for my own mysterious reasons.