I don’t know about this, y’all. Between this pancake kit and last week’s Cinnamon Toast Crunch Coffee Cake, cereal reviewing rarely requires this much effort from me. See, half the fun of reviewing cereal is that you’ve just gotta pour a bowl, pour some milk, and dig in. Take some pictures, and then there’s only one dish to clean. But now you’re telling me I have to soak ‘n’ soap ‘n’ scrub a big mixing bowl, a whisk, a measuring cup or two, a frying pan, a plate, and a fork? Maaaan, it really harshens my vibe when I have to elevate myself from “total lazy layabout” to “lowest-bar functioning person.”

But for you, dear readers, I will clear that ankle-high bar. Just let me take a seat on it first and rest my eyes for a moment…

Yeah yeah, I know, I should’ve buttered them before scattering loose oats all o’er.

First off, Lucky Charms is really pushing it by calling this a “kit,” considering there are only two things inside: the just-add-water-or-milk-but-you’re-crazy-if-you-don’t-pick-milk pancake mix and a packet of plain Lucky Charms cereal (not marshmallows only, not the miniaturized version from LC Oatmeal: just the cereal straight-up). And here I expected any given “kit” to at least contain a couple trading cards and a mini plastic kazoo.

I jest, but the classification of this kit is more interesting to me than the finished product: simply put, little shreds of marbit shrapnel in the dry mix and loose cereal pieces do not a satisfying pancake make. What I mean is that, since all this kit does is add itty-marbitty bits to the batter, the final cooked pancakes just taste like plain ol’ boxed pancakes, albeit with a little extra sweetness. The subtle contrasting crunch of the cereal bits on top is nice, but it isn’t enough to infuse any actual hearty Lucky Charms oat-iness, so the ‘cakes feel a bit bland and vacuous compared to my expectations (which were nurtured by the magnificent oatmeally Lucky Charms Ice Cream).

And you know what that means: desperate times call for degenerate measures.

I’ll admit: I have no grand delusions about Lucky Charms Pancakes and Mrs. Butterworth’s Fruity Pebbles Syrup forming a delectable duo. I just want to watch the world churn, and besides, my pancakes already weren’t pretty, so why not toe the line between abomination and art form?

Though I will say, after sneaking a sip of this sinister sauce, I’ll say this review’s on borrowed time: I think I’ve only got 30–50 minutes before this drowsy Pebblesquil of a swill knocks me off my feet.

You know how sometimes something super bland and something super rich come together to make something truly magic?

Well that didn’t happen here. Nope, not even close. Not only is this tie-dyed slop not an art form, but it scarcely has form, either. Let alone function. Mrs. B’s Fruity Pebbles Syrup is noxious. It’s pestilent. It’s fetid and foul and frankly, pretty icky. The base note of Fruity Pebbles cereal is there, but it’s buried thick beneath a sickly gelatinous layer of tangy chemical corn syrup. It stains countertops and rankles tongues and soils pancakes with its atomic potency and I do not recommend it to anyone and may God have mercy on my soul.

So there you have it: my Lucky Charms Marshmallow Pancake Kit experience turned out pretty dreadful, likely because of my conscious decision to make it so dreadful. But even without the Devil’s Crimson Compote here, the LC Pancakes are only alright at best, and would certainly be palatable with butter or maple syrup, with or without whipped cream, but even then they would be nothing particular memorable.

If nothing else, I’ll surely never forget this meal now, right?

The Bowl: Lucky Charms Marshmallow Pancake Kit

The Breakdown: Slightly sweeter pancakes, way too sweet syrup: if you’re gonna dirty some dishes, you might as well just make buttermilk flapjacks from scratch, and stick with a simpler syrup.

The Bottom Line: 4 years taken off my life out of 10