P&D's Lemonade Stand
P&D's Lemonade Stand
A man always keeps his word.
The night before Parker launched her first lemonade stand, she said a bedtime prayer for our success.
The poor girl probably was spooked.
In our test run minutes earlier, our lemonade looked more like Mountain Dew. It wasn’t yellow. It was neon green. It wasn’t sweet. It tasted sour.
I can’t lie. I was petrified too. I had diligently followed the directions step-by-step only for our first attempt to come out looking and tasting terrible. I put Parker to bed still unsure of how to fix it.
“We can’t serve the people janky lemonade,” Parker said.
The threat alone torpedoed our business plan. Whether at sight or upon first sip, we knew immediately we had to lower our previously planned prices. But we refused to wait any longer.
And so on a hot and sunny afternoon in Chicago on Sunday, after five months of anticipation, we did what I promised Parker we would do. For three hours, we welcomed all comers to “P&D’s Lemonade Stand” on the sidewalk just outside our home.
As far as I can remember, it was my first lemonade stand too. And it gave me a newfound respect for the time, thought and logistics they require.
When we originally discussed doing a lemonade stand, my plan was to sell freshly squeezed lemonade. But if you’ve ever made just one pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade, you know it takes a lot of lemons. Producing a batch big enough for the block would require an entire produce department’s supply. And in Chicago, lemons cost 58 cents each. Our neighbors are nice. But we don’t know them like that.
Besides, I was confident that simple lemonade would get a pass once the neighbors tasted our homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I told you in March, after passing on Parker’s expensive Girl Scout Cookies, that I would add our delectable cookies to her lemonade stand. I wanted to use the experience as an early lesson in business, an example of how Parker can take on an ownership mindset and do for herself and her family anything that she will be asked to do for someone else’s organization.
Before our first batch of lemonade morphed into green antifreeze, we wanted to offer cups of lemonade for $3 each. We were going to sell two cookies for $3 each as well. Or customers could purchase a cup of lemonade and two cookies for $5. Believe me when I tell you that first batch of lemonade wasn’t worth five cents.
Sugar saved the day.
Lots and lots of sugar — more sugar than I felt comfortable serving humans at this stage of my life. But if you know, you know.
And guess what? People liked our lemonade. I’m sure it was way too sugary for some while being the perfect afternoon delight for others. My palate can’t handle such sugary overloads anymore. Parker’s face lit up and her thumb shot up the second the sugar water grazed her lips. She couldn’t even swallow before expressing her satisfaction.
We settled on $1 per item. It made the math at the point of sale simple and probably made customers feel more comfortable supporting our unexpected endeavor.
We baked 68 cookies as a complement, not knowing whether we would sell out or have dozens for ourselves. Customers approached eager to purchase a cup of lemonade and were soon pleasantly surprised to find cookies were an option. Few could contain their reactions to the first bite into those mouth-watering, golden chunks.
Anthony, the 25-year-old Amazon driver, didn’t have cash. So he punched my cell phone number into his cell phone and in seconds sent us $5. He asked for only one cookie and one lemonade. I heard my phone buzz but hadn’t even checked to see if his money was received before he made it to his van. Before getting in, Anthony looked back, held up what was left of his cookie and hollered, ‘Yo, this is really good!”
Our 15-year-old neighbor Jasmine circled back grinning sheepishly, cash in hand, ready to buy more cookies. Our 62-year-old neighbor Fernando came knocking on our window minutes after closing looking for the everything-must-go, 50-percent-off discount.
We sold 31 cookies and probably would have unloaded them all if we had a better location and the ability to put our product on display. The 85-degree heat, which had a RealFeel of 95, prevented that. We were fortunate to have a sliver of shade along our sun-drenched sidewalk. They were among the many lessons that were learned.
Had we set up at the corner, we would have captured much more foot traffic from restaurant patrons. Parker also got a refresher course on unit prices while we shopped for cups. A woman who appeared to be in her 60s or 70s couldn’t help but compliment Parker on her math skills as she determined which buy was best.
On the ride home from Walmart last Thursday, Parker asked me how much I thought our stand could make. I saw it as an opening for another money talk. I pulled up an email I had received that day that happened to explain break-even analysis.
I used a simple formula to explain it to Parker. We purchased our Great Value lemonade mix for $7.42. With no other supply costs, we would need to sell eight cups of lemonade to break even.
We needed more than mix. Our operating expenses came up to $43.74. The lemonade mix and vanilla extract (a key ingredient) were the priciest at a combined $15.54. We bought inexpensive decorations, which drove up our costs but made our pop-up feel more charming. Parker made signs out of 98 cents foam boards and directed pedestrians walking east and west our way with sidewalk chalk. We incorporated yellow balloons, yellow napkins, a yellow tablecloth and a handful of lemons for decoration.
But we did better than break even. We lost count of how many cups of lemonade we sold. My bookkeeping took a backseat to nervously ensuring Parker didn’t bump the stand or spill the pitcher of lemonade. She did great. Daddy was just being overprotective.
We pulled in $80, including many generous tips, over just three hours, in a sub-prime location. Parker’s net profit: $36.26.
But after only two hours of work in the sun, Parker was ready to quit. She was done with her first lemonade stand. She was ready to go back to her tried and true devices.
“I am,” she admitted, with no shame around 4:15 p.m.
She sulked for the final 45 minutes, taking out her anger on flies as she shooed them. We closed P&D’s Lemonade Stand two minutes before 5 p.m. The sun was unrelenting. The heat and lack of steady foot traffic had sullied Parker’s enthusiasm.
But she crushed her first business venture.
Even if the last hour made her wish I just bought her Girl Scout Cookies.