Full disclosure: I never go fishing. Which is amusing because my maiden name is actually Fisher. As a word lover, it isn’t lost on me how wonderful an aptronym this would be if I did enjoy fishing, but alas, it is not to be. My grandfathers were both avid fishermen—one loved angling along the bank of a river, and the other spent summer days fishing from his small motorboat with his sons in tow.

One of those sons was my dad, but since he didn’t catch the fishing bug, my growing up years never included stringing worms on hooks and rummaging through an ancient tackle box for lures and bobbers. My friends in college gave me the nickname Fisher of Men, but that was about a different kind of angling and is probably a story for another day.

Once I caught a handsome husband, I found myself on a fishing adventure or two, but I was much happier to sit on the bank, crack open a novel, and admire the wildflowers than dip my line in the water. I’ll happily eat any fish that my husband catches (so long as he cleans and cooks them himself) though I’m generous enough to fry up some potatoes to go with them. (I’m not that persnickety.)

I think that I just can’t get over the gross factor of fishing. Slimy, scaly fish flopping around and gasping for their last breath, mashed worm guts oozing over a barbed hook, and that quintessentially disgusting tackle box that seems to have come from generations past because it’s covered in dirt, grime, fish innards, and rusty lures. Maybe some of the anglers out there are neat nicks and keep their tackle boxes pristine and all of their fishing lines untangled, but I’m having trouble envisioning it.

My husband owned a single creel for the first 22 years of our marriage. Just the one. It had a front pocket for a lidded cup of worms and a few lures, and a large pouch for those floppy fish. I didn’t allow this thing in the house. It smelled of fish water and dead things and was molded into an odd shape from drying out in weird angles. Last winter, a bottle of liquid garden fertilizer spilled on it in the garage and the creel literally rotted to the floor. This gave me the perfect gift idea for my husband’s next birthday: a brand-new tackle box.

And oh, did I have fun shopping for this thing. I don’t know if you’ve looked at brand-new tackle boxes recently (admit it—your tackle boxes are nauseatingly filled with fish muck and tetanus lures), but think about a wonderful organizing caddy that’s squeaky clean. The possibilities are endless for what you could corral in these things. In fact, the minute I brought this new tackle box home and set it on my counter, my children swarmed around it and oohed and ahhed like it was a present for them.

“Oh, what a neat box! Is this for Legos? Please say it’s for Legos!” my daughter begged. (Dear reader, we have so many thousands of Legos and such a glut of compartmentalized containers to keep them in that it’s annoying how often these tiny building blocks remain scattered across the floors of my house so that I step on them constantly. Which is to say: another organizing box for Legos is not going to solve the root problem.)

At the same time, I also purchased a handful of seed packets for the garden and put them in the box temporarily, so my son exclaimed, “It’s a seed organizer!” Which is of course another fabulous idea that my gardening self loves.

But put it to the Internet to invent the most ingenious idea of all: a snack box for when you’re out boating. And not just any snack box, but a snack box with a silly name: THE SNACKLE TACKLE BOX. I dare you to say that out loud and not giggle.

Now, once you throw away your revolting, crusty, corroded tackle box and buy a brand-new hygienic one, just think of all the fun munchies and nibbles you could stow in the little compartments, the fold-out trays, and the tiny drawers.

It’s as charming as a charcuterie board and far more portable. Wouldn’t this be the perfect way to carry food on board your boat? Everything would be contained in one convenient box (with a handle!) and without stray Tupperware or plastic baggies to worry about. And the presentation will be awe-inspiring when you unveil the layers of goodies in the box’s fold-out trays.

You could pack this pretty box with pretzels and pepperoni and provolone. You could cram this thing with crudites — carrots and cucumbers and celery. You could fill it with fresh peppers and fruit and French macarons. Or, you could go hog-wild on the teeter-totter rhymes and stuff your snackle tackle with Fiddle Faddle, Laffy Taffy, and Reese’s Pieces.

Remember to tuck in a handful of gummy worms because no self-respecting boater would carry a tackle box without some sort of wiggly jiggly grub. I definitely prefer the candy kind, though.