col'drank
what'll we do, baby, without us?
When my mom was pregnant with me, she’d eat whole bags of oranges. People worried I’d come out with a navel on my head. Luckily that didn’t happen, but now that I’m on this side of the womb, I love oranges and generally try to keep some in my refrigerator at all times.*
The day before Mama went into labor with me, she had Krystals (It’s actually Krystal but we’re Black and southern so we add an-s. I only recently realized that Nordstrom does not have an -s on it. Seems wrong). Anyway, Mama had Krystals chili, a couple of burgers, and some sweet tea. This was back when they’d give you an enema before delivery, so Mama ended up apologizing left and right for subjecting the hospital staff to what was coming out of her. To this day, every time I go home, I ask Mama to stop so I can get me some Krystals.
The reason Mama had sweet tea with her Krystals, instead of a Coke, was because it made her nauseous during her pregnancies, but once those babies were out, she got back on the sauce. I was born in the late 70s and Coca Cola had a chokehold on marketing, especially in the south. In several of the commercials that aired while my younger brother and I were toddling around, someone would take a long pull from a glistening Coke bottle, then sigh in refreshed relief and delight. Mama would give us a sip of her Coke and encourage us to go “ahhhh” like the commercials.
Thus began my love of col’dranks.
Coca Cola’s hold on the south is so strong that most of us refer to any sweetened carbonated beverage as a Coke. “What kinda coke do you want?” “Gimme a Sprite.” “And I’ll take grape.”
In certain parts of Louisiana and Texas, you’ll hear “cold drink,” or as we say it “col’drank.” I’m pretty sure that’s because the vending machines of old would say COLD DRINKS on them. I went to college in New Orleans, but we also said col’drank in Nashville, and if I were to say that anywhere else in the south, they’d know exactly what I mean. One time in New York, I told a midwestern colleague I’d given up col’dranks for Lent, and he asked me if that meant I was only drink tea and coffee, as in hot drinks.
I love Coke. Coke Classic, the beverage, that is. The way some of y’all are about coffee, that’s me and my col’drank. In high school, my breakfast used to be a Coke and a Snickers out of the vending machines. If I didn’t have enough for both, the Coke would win out. In high school, you could eat just about anything, and your body would be like “cool, I guess.” If I were to drink only a Coke for breakfast now, I’d be a shaky, bloated, stomach-gurgling mess.
When I went to college and had daily access to soda fountains in the cafeteria, it was a problem. Two big ass cups at lunch. A can between classes. Two big ass cups at dinner. And if I had any other meal at a restaurant off campus- Coke, please.
Glass Coke is better than plastic bottle Coke and canned Coke will do. Mexican Coke is fine, but the carbonation is flatter than I prefer. McDonald’s has the best fast food Coke. Wendy’s and Burger King are neck and neck for the worst. Movie theatre Coke is usually pretty solid but if you catch it when they’ve just put in fresh syrup and cleaned the nozzles… baybeh.
Fuck diet Coke and fuck Coke Zero. Two years ago, a grocery delivery gave me a 6-pack of Coke Zero by mistake. There are 4 bottles still in my refrigerator. I didn’t want to waste them by throwing them out, so I gave one to a guest for his Jack and Coke, and I recently choked down half a bottle after a panic attack. Even my bad nerves were like “you are really trying to kill us with this shit,” and so I had to pour the other half down the sink.
When I first moved to New York, I could not believe how un-cold the col’dranks were. It was insultingly tepid. I figured the store owners put refrigerators on the most cost-effective, barely food-safe setting they can to save on utility bills. If I need to drink it immediately upon purchase, I always buy a cup of ice. How are y’all living like this? Over the years, I have perfected how I want to consume my col’drank. If it’s already cold, I put it in the freezer for 12-13 minutes. If it’s room temperature, 20-25 minutes. That’s right when it starts to freeze so there’s a little slush happening but not like a Coke Icee (also a solid movie theater selection. Do they still have Icees at the movies?) The top part of the liquid has started to firm up and stick to the bottle. A little col’drank crust. That’s when it’s perfect.
Take a deep pull. Feel it burn your throat. You are alive.
Aging is a wonderful, beautiful thing. A true privilege. And sometimes it means you cannot continue to follow the diet of your teen years. Hello, IBS. What’s up, Constipation? Oh! Today, it’s Diarrhea. Well, would you like to join Bloat? Cool. I see Pre-Diabetes is around the corner, too. I hate all of your guts, just like you seem to hate mine. And wow. Hypertension. I didn’t know you and Peri-Menopause were together. I see.
And so, I’ve been changing my diet. Less junk food and delivery. Less sodium. More salads, more home cooking… and fewer col’dranks. I allow them on the weekend. One on Friday. One on Saturday. And one on Sunday. And I can only drink them at the end of the day, as a reward for completing whatever task I give myself or after my evening smoke. It has been… difficult. I honestly don’t know if I can put into words how good the burn is. It is erotic. But last Saturday, I noticed I kept having to put my bottle in the freezer because I was taking so long to drink it that it was getting room temperature. Today, I looked in the fridge to figure out lunch, and there was my Sunday Coke, still sitting there. I got very excited to see it then I realized, “oh shit. Am I weaning myself off the sauce?!”
This is major. I think it helps that I’m not denying myself flat out by saying I can never again have a col’drank. That always activates my desire to gorge myself or justify why I shouldn’t deny myself pleasure in this cruel, cruel world. But if I give myself permission to go easy on myself– it doesn’t have to be all or nothing (like my love! Ow!)– I think I’ll be alright.
The burn lets me know I’m alive, but the room I give myself to grow and change is what’s keeping me that way.
please don’t offer me any health or food advice.
Speaking of addictions, I am addicted to survival and independence, so I still need a job. Things are very not good right now! I can write. I can host podcasts. I can be chatty about sex and desire and romance novels and pop culture things (not reality tv though). I can talk mildly pretty if you need me to read your book. Any leads, you can email me at howdy@nicholeperkins.com.
It’s Women’s History Month. All eight episodes of my new podcast The Godmother are out now. It’s about Eunice Hunton Carter, one of New York state’s first Black female prosecutors who was key in taking down Lucky Luciano, who’s considered the godfather of modern mafia. Thank you to everyone at iHeart and Novel Podcasts.
The e-version of my memoir Sometimes I Trip on How Happy We Could Be is on sale for $3.99 the entire month of March.
Here’s my bookshop.
You Get What You Pay For by Morgan Parker
James by Percival Everett
Truly, Madly, Deeply by Alexandria Bellefleur
Hozier’s Unheard EP is wrecking my life.
My birthday is April 7, and I like treats.
As a spring baby (and seasonal depression sufferer), I’m usually pretty excited about this time of year, especially as April and my birthday approaches, but I feel weird and scared. The astro girlies (gender neutral) are saying the next few weeks will be super intense— maybe in a bad way?— and I just need the universe to give me a fucking break.
I hope everything is groovy with you. As always, thank you for being here.
P: paypal.me/NicholePerkins
V: https://venmo.com/u/nicholeTN
C: https://cash.app/$womanTN
*If you indulge in The Devil’s Lettuce, I highly recommend putting some oranges in the refrigerator, and when the munchies hit, cracking one of those babies open and letting the cool sweet citrus goodness take you to another place.