Living with someone who’s older than sliced bread is a unique experience that involves a lot of baking and not just in the kitchen. Memories here are as fragile as a soufflé, prone to collapse at the slightest touch and requiring constant reinforcement to maintain their structure, except the recipe for memories is constantly getting rewritten like a batch of burnt cookies that refuses to rise. 

The situation is as vintage as grandma herself, filled with tales of yesteryear that somehow always leave out the part where she was wrong. It’s a charming mix of forgotten ingredients, misremembered instructions, and a dash of selective amnesia, all kneaded together into a narrative that’s as flaky as her pie crust.