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It was Monday in Redford. Baked Potato Night. I had been home for almost two hours when the beeping of my oven echoed through the house. The potatoes were ready.

I opened the oven door, fork in hand. Those potatoes sure looked good. As was standard operating procedure, I poked each potato with a fork both to remove the potato from the oven as well as verify the potato was completely baked. All was going well. I had five potatoes on the plate, each hissing happily, when I went for the sixth and final potato.

The tuber gave no warning, no hints of its next action. When the tines of the fork sliced through the skin, the steaming starch within exploded throughout the oven. In my shock, I made an ugly noise.

As the duty officer, it was my responsibility both to document the incident as well as clean-up the detritus of wasted carbohydrates. Since the next-of-kin witnessed the incident, I took their statements as I consoled each of them with a pat of butter.

Sometimes this job takes a lot out of man.