Floyd Kelly

People ask how my niece’s lemonade stand started pulling in over $150 a weekend, and I always say, “It’s the hot butter.”

Then I pause, let that sink in, and wait for the questions.

It started with just a card table, a wonky umbrella, a pinata, a hand-drawn sign that said LEMONADE, and my niece pouring icy lemon water with the confidence of a tiny entrepreneur. That would’ve been the whole story—until Granny showed up with a mason jar and a wild sparkle in her eye.

She plunked the jar down next to the Dixie cups and said, “Here you go, sweetie. Would you like that on a cracker or straight through a straw?”

I looked inside. The jar held a thick, reddish butter that gleamed oily under the sun and smelled harsh enough to make the hairs in my nostrils curl up. Three parts Komodo dragon chilies to one part buttercream, chilled overnight into something that technically still qualified as food.

Granny called it her unforgettable Komodo Dragon Butter. She started offering tiny samples on crackers, and pretty soon, we had cars stopping mid-drive, people running up the sidewalk like they were rushing the stage at a concert. Some people gasped mid-chew, their faces flushed and eyes watering like they’d licked a stove top. One guy took a bite, turned bright red, and just laid down in the neighbor’s grass while the sprinklers wet him down like a fire drill. Another woman shouted, “THIS TASTES LIKE MY THIRD DIVORCE!” and bought two jars.

That’s when my niece started selling milk shots for $2, “Emergency Lemonade” for $1.50, and — the stroke of genius — Hello Kitty-themed face fans for $1 a pop. She labeled them “Cooling Kitties.” Kids bought them. Adults clutched them with both hands, waving frantically like they were trying to put out a mouth fire. We had to post a handwritten sign the next day that said:

TRY AT YOUR OWN RISK. NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST EYEBROWS, SHARTS OR EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.

We were so successful that Granny made a fresh batch every week and started naming them like rock albums. After Komodo Dragon came Scorpion Surprise, which honestly should’ve required goggles. She claimed it helped her sinuses and “cleared the bad spirits out the kitchen.”

And that’s how a sweet little lemonade stand turned into a full-blown chili-based crisis center, complete with fans, fluids, and free crackers. I still handle quality control, which basically means I taste things and scream while my lips go numb and my ears start ringing like a tuning fork.

Granny says the next batch will be smoked. She’s calling it “Afterburn.” Lord help us all.