Every household is run by a strict, sometimes arbitrary canon of bylaws and conventions. My family's was no different. When I was a child, my parents regulated certain commodities with the same vigilance that governments apply to alcohol, tobacco and firearms. Television was one example. We weren't allowed to eat dinner in front of the TV set (the only exceptions: the annual broadcasts of The Wizard of Oz and The Sound of Music).

Another controlled substance was soda. According to my parents' rules, carbonated beverages could only be consumed on the weekends. Daily ingestion, we were warned, would lead to cavities and turn a child into the "Yuckmouth" of Saturday cartoon lore. So, when Saturday evening rolled around, the choice of soda was never to be taken lightly. My sister and I always split a can--we firmly believed that one person would never, ever be able to finish one all by herself. Out of our three available soda options, I much preferred cream soda. 7-Up was too bland, just perked-up sugar water. And Coke was too sickly-sweet. Besides, every kid in the grammar-school loop knew that a penny left in a cola bottle would disintegrate in a week--the mind reeled imagining what the noxious fluid could do to your teeth.

My cream soda of choice was the Grand Union supermarket brand. I even liked the cans; they bore the logo of an insouciant-looking penguin holding a glass on a tray. Wendy would pour it--she was older and had steadier hands than me, even before the sugar --into white plastic coffee cups that my parents had carried off their last Eastern Airlines flight. As I ate my rice, meat and vegetables with chopsticks, I picked up my cup with my left hand and took quiet, little sips. I loved everything about cream soda: the caramel color, the sweet vanilla flavor, the bubbles that winked at me and disappeared.