Carolyn watched as the men in her family roasted a fat pig over an open fire.  Although these roasts were an autumn tradition, this year something bothered her.  She stared at the animal impaled on the spit with a red apple stuck in its mouth.  Its skin crackled and sizzled, as fat dripped into the flames.   She ran her hand over her rounded belly, feeling her baby kick.

The men stood around the open fire talking sports and cursing politicians.  Her father took a swig from a liter bottle of coke, shook what was left, and sprayed it over the pig’s body.  The brown liquid bubbled and burned.  “Tenderizes,” he said to Newell, Carolyn’s husband.  “Sweetens the meat.”  Her brothers added more soda.

“You might want to squirt some Carolyn’s way,” Newell said, laughing with his mouth wide open and showing how few teeth he had left.  “She sure could use some tenderizin’ her own self.”  To show he meant no harm, he wrapped a fleshy arm around her shoulders.

The men laughed as she wriggled free.

“That’s a fine looking pig,” Newell said, walking away and slapping the animal’s butt.  Taking out his pocket knife, he cut a slice of skin, shook it like a rattle to cool it off, and stuffed it into his mouth.  “Oo-ee, that’s some good eats.”  Wiping the grease on his overalls, he gave the spit a turn.  Flames shot up as if hell had sprung a leak.

When the men declared the pig fit to eat, the women carried out huge pots of mashed potatoes and gravy, black eyed peas and steaming greens.  Carolyn went back for a platter of biscuits.

When she returned, the men were already sampling slices of meat.  “I do believe this is the best pig I ever et,” Newell declared.  “Must be the Coke Cola.”

Her father beamed with pride.  “Hey, sweetheart,” he said to his daughter.  “You want the apple?”