As early as May cleverly shaped snow cone shacks (also called “shax” or “huts”) start their migration to grocery and video store parking lots. And that part makes me happy because that means SUMMER and there’s nothing I love more. But with them come the teeny-boppers. Lots of them. They are in tiny shorts texting on their tiny phones and flirting with their tiny boyfriends (who make me feel very old because when I look at them I think LITTLE BOYS and when they see me in grocery stores they call me “ma’am”–what is this, the Old West?). But most importantly they are eating snow cones. So many of them, in fact, that if all these snow shack owners had just found their main ingredients in our mountains we wouldn’t have problems with all that snow pack melting and flooding the valley.
And here’s what I don’t get about all this: why the hype over snow cones? They are crunched up ice with sugary corn syrup and Blue 7 and Red 2 poured all over them. They freeze my teeth and one of their flavors is “Tiger’s Blood.” And they always, always drip out of their tiny cone shape down my arm and onto my new favorite tee shirt.
And that is what I don’t get about snow cones.