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I despise Proust for no other reason than the fact that every time someone eats an old favorite dinner or dessert, they quote Proust and his Madeleines about conjuring up their childhood.
Nevertheless, I have found myself in the last few months buying fizzy drinks different from the Coke I usually fueled myself with in the late afternoon.
I am buying grape, orange, black cherry sodas for some inexplicable reason. Having grown up in New England, I have always had a soft spot for Birch Beer, a concoction that everyone I have met from England, Germany, or west of Connecticut despise.
Yet, I find myself revisiting the Nehi sodas that Radar in M*A*S*H frequently longed for, but I can now find in my gourmet supermarket today way out West.
I grew up taking my fifteen cent weekly allowance and going to the corner market for a soda and Twinkies. Heaven on Earth.
I admit to feeling atavistic when I drink a bottle of grape soda, but ya know, it tastes really good. It tastes like grape soda and reminds me why I liked it at eight years old.
America was wonderful then. It has a lot wonderful about it still. I wish I had a grandson I could share a grape soda with. That would be heaven again.