New York City this week has been an inferno. We're used to warm summers — 85? Not a problem. 95? Bring it on! — but today the mercury hit 103, and we just may have found our limit. Waves of heat rise from the asphalt, the wind-filled subway stations are like convection ovens, and you could certainly fry an egg on the sidewalk — if you could handle the idea of consuming cooked food, that is. Today is a day for not moving: when summer bombards you with its brutality, fight back by sprawling in front of a fan in your loosest shirt and little else, a popsicle in one hand and a tall glass of Back Porch Tea in the other.