That's right, mis amiguitos... it's that time of year again. When pick-up trucks spilleth over with the pink-fleshed fruit from that siesta-loving land of the Aztecs, Agave and rodents of unusual size. Qué? you say? It's summer! And with it comes one of my favourite things in the entire world - aguas frescas.
I once spent a summer alone in Mexico City on a fellowship to study pre-Columbian fertility goddesses (true story). Previous to those fated weeks, I had a passing relationship with the street cuisine of our kissing primos down south. After all, I grew up in a city where, not a block from my neighbourhood, the street signs, billboards, store names and voices floating in the air morphed from English to Spanglish to Mexican Spanish at an astonishing speed. I often squirreled away enough cash for a champurrado and tamale in the morning, a paleta in the afternoon and maybe some elotes if I was feeling particularly fiscally wanton with my meager savings. Lord was it tasty.