I sat horrified after chugging what looked like ordinary milk (which I had been craving like a crack fiend for about a week now) and gasped as intense heat burned my ribcage. Had this been some type of practical joke? The woman who handed me the glass seemed pleasant enough. She worked on my grandfather’s farm and even though I was only three at the time, I sensed that Colombia (South America, not South Carolina) was different in more ways than the milk. Straight from the cow and boiled for pasteurization, this new twist on my favorite drink opened the hatch to an unexplored dimension. I was disgusted, but also intrigued.
Columbia didn't have "modern" milk, but they did have the best chicken I ever ate. Coco- Rico’s was the name of the small hut (also the name of the stray dog that lingered outside for scraps) that dripped with distinct rotisserie scents of seasoned flesh and crisp skin, whose juices seeped so deep into my being that I can still conjure the taste on my tongue today. Soda came in a bottle (made with sugar, not corn syrup) and my only job was to sit back and drink it all in…
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