...and it looks like this:
A Snoopy Sno-Cone maker.
Let me just tell you: I burned enough calories cranking on that bad boy for me to be able to have six cookies and a chocolate milkshake tonight.
(Or maybe that's just in my head. Let me have my little sweets-induced fantasies.)
The kiddos today decided they wanted to make sno cones. So they pulled old Snoopy out of the cabinet and set to work. We didn't have any actual syrup to put on top, so we used apple juice. Hey, it's got less high fructose corn syrup, right?
Essentially, I realized within the first 30 seconds of use that I hated the Snoopy Sno-Cone maker. I was trying to exert enough force to smoosh ice down into Snoopy's chimney while trying to turn the crank to actually crush the ice in the cheese-grater-type crusher while trying to hold the entire damn thing still while Sam tried to hold a glass under the "spout" to catch the 1/8 centimeter of crushed ice that popped out every, oh, five minutes.
Note the number of times I used the word "try/tried/trying."
I broke a sweat about two minutes into the operation, but we persevered. Approximately thirty minutes later, we had 1/2 cup of sno cone-like ice. Drenched in apple juice.
And my right arm was suddenly all muscular.
But the kids were ecstatic. Man, they went to town on that 1/2 cup of watery apple juice! And they thanked me profusely for letting them make the sno cones, which, of course, made the whole ordeal worth it in my book.
I have a feeling that Mr. Snoopy the Sno-Cone Maker is going to be a regular visiter this summer. Which is fine by me, cause hey -- my right arm's never looked so good.
Putting my new-found sno cone maker muscles to work. I'm the short one holding the upside-down kid.