On Saturday at 3:12 p.m., the sun clocked in for a shift on Maple Court. Two fifth-graders—best friends and co-founders—unfolded a resin table, zipped open a plastic tub, and revealed their entire power plant: one briefcase solar panel, a lunchbox-sized battery, and a lemon-yellow extension cord that somehow made the whole neighborhood grin.

“Welcome to Solar Sips,” said co-founder Priya Das, who wore a visor and the unbothered confidence of a seasoned COO. Her partner, Theo Martinez, adjusted his sunglasses and pointed at a laminated menu. “Classic, Sparkle, and Mega-Pucker. First two are two dollars. Mega-Pucker is three and comes with a souvenir squint.”

At the edge of the table, a QR code rested in a tiny frame labeled “Tap the Sun.” The ice machine (a countertop cube humming like a friendly robot) burbled to life—powered by photons that were, moments earlier, simply warming the driveway. A battery readout blinked 89%. A hand-painted sign promised, “Net-Zero Pucker. Locally Sourced Sunshine.”

How a Lemon Becomes a Lesson Plan

Priya’s mom, an electrical engineer who swears she’s “only the unpaid intern,” says the idea arrived the day the kids learned about “phantom loads.” “They asked if appliances were secretly nibbling electricity,” she recalls. “I said yes. They asked if the sun would work for snacks. I said also yes.”

That was two weeks and one garage experiment ago. Now, the stand has a supply chain: lemons from Mr. Varela’s backyard, sugar from the discount aisle, water filtered by a pitcher that the kids introduced as “our aquifer.” The solar panel charges the battery; the battery powers a mini-fridge, the ice maker, and a USB fan aimed at a bowl of mint leaves that smells like a garden took a deep breath.

“We’re not anti-grid,” Theo clarifies, tapping a clipboard that looks suspiciously like a business plan. “We’re just… pro-sun. Also, my mom said the extension cord can’t cross the sidewalk ever again.”

The Neighborhood IPO (Ice Pouring Offering)

By 4:00 p.m., the cul-de-sac had achieved something between a block party and a micro-economy. A dog in sunglasses was photographed for marketing. A neighbor DJ (age 14) provided a solar-themed playlist that was mostly the same song about sunshine, politely remixed ten times. Retirees brought lawn chairs. Someone donated a gingham tablecloth that immediately raised the stand’s valuation by 30 vibes.

“I haven’t seen folks gather like this since the great garage-sale treaty of 2018,” said Ms. Carver, who keeps a running oral history of the block. “Back then we united over crockpots. Today it’s citrus and photovoltaics. Progress.”

Even the homeowner association melted. “Our bylaws technically prohibit… generators,” admitted HOA board member Louise Trent, inspecting the battery like a suspicious cupcake. She squinted at the sun. “But this is more of a… sky outlet. Carry on.”

Regulators, Mount Up (With Clipboards)

At 4:27 p.m., a city inspector ambled over from his sedan, which was parked respectfully in the shade. He introduced himself as Alden, then apologized for “the aura of paperwork.” He measured the table (legal), checked the food-handling gloves (adorable, also legal), and asked if the ice machine was inspected (it hummed coyly).

“I’m really just here because someone filed a noise complaint against the sun,” Alden sighed, flipping through a booklet. “We don’t regulate stars. Yet.” He bought a Mega-Pucker, winced, and leaned in. “Keep the extension cord out of the public right-of-way and the QR code clear. Also, my daughter is eight. She is going to unionize your workers in five minutes.”

Unit Economics of a Summer Afternoon

The kids tracked everything on a whiteboard labeled “P&L (Pucker & Lemon).” Expenses: $27.13 for fruit and sugar, $12 in cups (compostable, per a stern note from Priya), and one $5 donation to the “Neighborhood Bees,” a nonprofit that may be a jar with tape on it. Revenue by 5:00 p.m.: $94 and two coupons for dog-sitting.

// pseudo-accounting (per CFO Priya)
lemons = 40
cups = 50
price_classic = 2
price_mega = 3
gross = 18*2 + 20*3   // sold out of Mega-Pucker, obviously
battery_soc = 61%     // state of charge; vibes = 100%

“We priced in externalities,” Theo explained solemnly, pointing to a chalk doodle of a tiny earth with a straw. “Also, Mega-Pucker includes a souvenir sticker that says, ‘I Survived the Citric Cycle.’”

The Soft Power of Soft Drinks

Neighbors who hadn’t spoken since a passive-aggressive Facebook thread about hedge heights were suddenly trading cookie recipes. A toddler made first contact with a sprinkler. A teen volunteered to design a logo and returned ten minutes later with a minimalist sun that looked suspiciously like a bagel. (The logo was adopted unanimously.)

“It’s silly,” said Mr. Varela, chopping mint with the reverence of a sushi chef. “But this is the first week the whole street felt like a street again. The kids fixed something the rest of us couldn’t name.”

Exit Strategy (Sundown)

As shadows stretched and the battery winked to 39%, the founders debriefed like tiny executives. “We learned hydration is scalable,” Priya said, tallying cups. “And we’re piloting a new product called ‘Cloudy Lemonade’ for overcast days,” Theo added. (It is, in fact, lemonade.)

They packed up at 7:11 p.m.—panel folded, cords coiled, QR sign tucked into a binder like a sleeping ticket. The neighborhood lingered, swaying in that happy, fizzy space between daylight and porch lights.

“See you next weekend,” someone called.

“Weather permitting,” Priya replied, glancing skyward like a seasoned operations manager who knows her supplier is 93 million miles away.

Polly’s note: Businesses come and go. But a stand that runs on sunlight and neighborly curiosity? That’s the kind of enterprise that leaves a taste in your mouth—in the best possible, lemoniest way.