Contrary to what one of my readers thinks, this post is not about the time a huge explosion woke a group of drunken Vikings and Saxons in a hall near Buncefield, and neither is it about the friend of mine who went off to university, had to fend for themselves in the kitchen for the first time in their lives and blew up their microwave by cooking an unopened tin of steak and kidney pudding in it.
Oh no, this is another tale entirely.

Kaboom

Quite a lot of moons ago I was working as a cook in a retirement home for the elderly. As I love cooking, I loved the job, and everyday would set about making all sorts of casseroles, puddings, and cakes for the residents.
As Christmas drew near, plans for the festivities were made and it was my job to make the mince pies, plum pudding and Christmas cake.
I rifled through my recipes and settled on a luxurious one which called for a plethora of mixed fruits, nuts, spices, syrup, alcohol, and black treacle.
I made out a list of the required ingredients, and went through the pantry to see what I had to hand before shopping for the remainder.
In a far corner of the pantry I found a tin of black treacle. It was rather dusty and as I wiped it clean I saw that the best before date was for the previous year. I told the matron (who was in charge of all costs at the home) that I had the treacle but that it was out of date. Her reply was that black treacle didn't 'go off', so I should use the tin and not to worry, but save some pennies.
The day came to make the cake, and I gathered all the makings and set them on the work space in readiness.
I got out the largest mixing bowl and began to stir and blend the ingredients. All was going well until I got to the black treacle.
Once again I voiced my concerns about the 'best before' date to the matron, and once again was assured that it would be fine. After all, what could go wrong with the stuff?
We were soon to find out what could go wrong with it.
I got the tin and tried to prise the lid off with a spoon.
No luck, it was stuck firm and wouldn't budge, although I managed to bend the spoon.
I searched about the staff room, found a sturdy screwdriver and set about the job once more, this time watched by the matron and a few of the nurses who wondered why the cook needed a screwdriver to make a cake.
Slowly but surely I began to prise the edges of the lid up.
It was hard going as the tin was well and truly sealed, but then suddenly,




KABOOM!
The bloody thing exploded, blowing the lid straight up into my face catching me on the bridge of the nose before hitting the ceiling, then hurtling into the next room where it rolled around on its edge for a moment before finally settling in a far corner.
There was a stunned silence save for the ringing of ears as the staff stood in shock, and I stood in shock and black treacle.
My face was covered in the gunk. There was a huge black splat of the stuff on the ceiling, and a sticky trail traced the lid's journey into the next room.
I learnt two things that day. The first was to trust my instincts about 'best before dates' instead of listening to the advice of others, the second, that it takes about eight shampoos before half a tin of black treacle will come out of your hair.
I did however earn myself a place in the accident book which was 'Misty, bruised on nose by exploding tin of treacle'.
I bet that no-one else can claim the same.