Yesterday, I decided to make baked potatoes as part of the family dinner. Small, Yukon gold potatoes, large enough to give that great carb fullness in your stomach, small enough to feel comfortable eating two in one sitting.

One hour and 40 minutes later, when the rest of dinner was ready on the backyard grill, I stuck my hand in the oven to gather the golden nuggets. A few seconds later, I was hit with exploding spuds. Bits of potato covered my clothes, glasses (thank goodness that years of poor eyesight ensures a form of safety goggles during my waking hours), and oddly enough, based on a stinging sensation, my throat. There was a splattering of spuds on the floor and in the oven. The laws of physics take no prisoners, objects both living and inanimate subject to the same oven-hot trajectories.

My husband and kids ran into the kitchen, not sure what had caused me to squeal in such a high pitch. My husband looked at me, at a loss of words except for this: "It’s in your hair." It was the equivalent of saying in the aftermath of a tornado, "The petunia plants are a bit torn." For all I knew, there could be a red gaping hole in my throat. Help! I may never be able to speak again! Okay, drama aside, I was much better after a shower. My husband finished preparing dinner and I got to thinking how the exploding spud could be a metaphor in life. Instead of making lemonade from lemons, I’m making mashed potatoes out of over-cooked spuds.

What’s the hot potato that’s ready to explode in your life? And what will you deal with first in the cleanup, when the mess is everywhere?