The other night, my dinner exploded.
“Hmm,” I’m thinking, as I quaff tea at that satisfyingly ‘just cool enough to quaff’ temperature, “It’s about time I was taking my jacket spuds out, they’ll be about done.” At which point a dull ‘crumpf’ resonated from the kitchen. I opened the oven door to find potato shrapnel showering gently.
Drat. How does that happen? I pricked the skins and everything.