The period from the 1950s through the early 1960s was the era of artificial foods and scientific progress. Flush with a faith in technology and the wonders of high-fructose corn syrup, the recipes in cookbooks were filled with gelatin and powdered mixes.

Obvious Cold War (and domestic arms race) implications aside, there are a variety of explanations for our sudden love of powders and ring molds, including one that suggests it may have been a way of displaying middle-class status — if you couldn’t afford a refrigerator, your O wouldn’t Jell.

We manifest this in different ways now. For a dinner party two years ago, I made a mold of tomato aspic: gelatinized tomato soup you could slice like a cake. A recipe from a 1963 cookbook, it was actually fairly good but terrifying to chew, and no one could get past the fact that organic produce is much more palate-pleasing than lime-tuna-gelatin casserole ever was.

Just as the eras of scientific progressivism were shaped by the failures of previous generations, our current race for organics and “natural” foods can be seen as rejecting the mid-20th century culture of artificiality for La Jarrita the idea of artisanship.

I can almost unqualifiedly say that this rebellion was an improvement for cocktails. The introduction of commercial sour mix was largely disastrous for drinking, and the rise of the craft bartender (with Dale Degroff’s use of fresh citrus juice at the Rainbow Room) kicked off a wave of innovation that we’re reaping the benefits of today (just look at Rachel Maddow’s enthusiasm for the Pegu Club, a New York bar that lets you customize your drink with tiny bottles of bitters.)

But we’ve lost things as well. The solid, one-note flavors of these strange new foods were captivating and, combined with other ingredients, can make for fascinating results — like La Jarrita, a drink I based around mango-flavored Jarritos soda (found easily at any Mexican grocery.)

La Jarrita

1 1/2 oz light rum

4 dashes Angostura bitters

1 oz fresh lime juice

Jarritos mango soda

2 sprigs cilantro

1/4 oz simple syrup (optional)

First, pour the rum into a tall, narrow glass and add the bitters and lime juice. Arrange the cilantro in the glass, add ice, and pour in the Jarritos. Stirring shouldn’t be necessary; the carbonation will do that for you. If the drink is too harsh (as my standard mixing rum, Bacardi Superior, can be), add a dash or two of simple syrup to sweeten it.

It’s a more delicious mix than I had expected: The bitters add complexity to the bright soda flavors, the juice balances soda and rum, and the cilantro adds a hint of spicy bitterness in the aftertaste. Between you, me and Google Translate, I’m fairly sure “La Jarrita” actually means “the pitcher,” but please just let me know if this is all some vast trick to discredit my naming abilities.