The answer is something specific, personal, instantly familiar. For some, it's the first bite of a sun-warmed tomato, still dusty from the garden. For others, it's the sticky sweetness of a peach dripping down a chin, or the sharp tang of lemonade made with real lemons and too much sugar.

Summer taste lives in the grill's smoke clinging to corn husks, in the brine of oysters swallowed cold at a picnic table, in the herbal perfume of basil torn into a bowl of pasta. It is the taste of time slowed down, measured in melting ice cream cones and the wait for watermelon to chill.

These flavors are not universal. They are built from childhood memories, regional harvests, and the particular heat of a specific July. They are the flavors we chase all year, the ones that define the season more than any calendar date.