She offered to cook me dinner, which should have tipped me off from the start. I do most of the cooking, so this was a rare occurrence indeed. As the meal was coming together, I was in the kitchen helping out, which generally consists of me saying, "That's not how I would do it." (I never said she didn't have a good motive.) She pulled the meatloaf from the oven, sat it on the stovetop and asked me to stir the risotto simmering on the back burner. I started to lean over the meatloaf when I realized there wasn't a spoon in the pot. Just as I turned to the sink to grab one, the meatloaf and its glass dish exploded sending sizzling hot ground meat, boiling tomato sauce, and shards of glass into the space my face has just occupied. It would have been a painful, yet poetic, way to go.