When I was growing up on the Gulf Coast, I spent summer afternoons perched directly in front of an oscillating floor fan, craving nothing but a whiff of a breeze to break through the heat-fog, or maybe an icy glass of my mom’s limeade. We all hated to cook on those triple-digit days, when languishing was preferable to laboring. Usually, someone would pick up a bucket of perfect fried chicken from Publix, or slice a watermelon to eat over white rice. (Did anyone else grow up eating watermelon and rice on scorching days?)