I was very nearly maimed tonight by a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup. Part of me knew what kind of danger I was in when I saw the can bulging both at the top and the bottom. It easily spun in place on the counter top. This entertained me like the naïve child that I am; then I reached for the pull-tab on the easy-open lid.
I might as well have been pulling the pin on a grenade. The explosion was instantaneous. My ears rung. The spray of cream blinded me. I found myself turning in circles beside the refrigerator in shock, the tab still looped around my index finger, which stung sharply and which I stared at for several moments waiting for the red to flow.
The percussion had barely died down and I was already cursing myself for how careless I had been. How many times had my mom warned me about—wait a minute: …wearing clean underwear…strange men in vans…running around the house with a Que-tip sticking out of my ear…Nope, not once did she warn me about a can of soup exploding in my face.
For the rest of my life I will cringe when opening soup. I better sign off now; I still have to wipe down the ceiling.
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Okay, something odd is happening this week with me and food containers. I was at a pub tonight and was going to put ketchup on my fries, and as I opened the bottle of ketchup, it exploded; not with the violence of the soup can, but enough to get ketchup all over my shirt and the table.
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