[dropcap]P[/dropcap]eanuts in Coca-Cola. Fifteen years ago, I’d never heard of such a thing. Not ever. I credit Jim Martin, my father-in-law, for showing me how it was done.

The first time I saw him do it was at a Martin family reunion several years ago.

See, once in a blue moon, the Martins throw a herculean Baptist barbecue, with all the fixings. Potato salad, baked beans, and lots of tomato aspic.

Everything except beer.

Millions of family members attend, even a few elders dating back to Enoch Martin – the youngest son of Adam and Eve Martin. My wife’s relatives all have similar names too. It can be confusing.

There’s a Mary, a Katherine, and a Mary-Catherine. A handful of Bens, fourteen Jims and Jameses, some Johns, a couple Roberts, and a John Robert. There’s a Les and a Lester, a few Phillips, and thirty-seven women named Flossie.

But only one Blake.

My father-in-law pulled a Coca-Cola from the cooler, then loaded it with salted peanuts and took a sip.

“Brother Jim,” I asked. “What are you doing?”

He looked at his older sister Katherine. They both giggled at me.

“Ain’t you never heard of peanuts in Coke boy?”

I shook my head.

“Here, try mine.” Jim handed me his Coke.

I took a swig.

I spit the Coke out of my mouth. “Gross!”

“What, you don’t like it?” He grinned.

“Real mature Brother Jim.” I wiped my mouth and glared at him. “You spit your potato salad back into this Coke.”