Agua fresca means fresh water, but the name undersells what this drink truly is. In Mexican markets, you'll find glass barrel dispensers called vitrioleros lined up in rows, each glowing with a different color: hibiscus red, tamarind brown, horchata cream, and this particular shade of sunset pink. Watermelon agua fresca is summer made drinkable.

The technique could not be simpler, which is precisely why most people get it wrong. They add too much sugar, masking the fruit. They blend too long, incorporating air that turns the drink foamy and pale. They skip the straining, leaving pulp that separates unappealingly. Do it right and you'll have a drink so refreshing, so honest in its simplicity, that you'll wonder why you ever reached for anything else on a hot afternoon.

I first tasted proper agua fresca in Oaxaca, served from an enormous glass jar by a woman who had been making it the same way for forty years. She used no recipe. She tasted as she went, adding lime until the watermelon sang, adding water until the consistency felt right in the mouth. That is how you should approach this drink. The measurements I give you are guidelines. Your watermelon, your limes, your afternoon will be different from mine.