Yesterday, I made coffee for my father-in-law-and-pastor—a noble and worthy achievement. In the process, the stove produced such acrid smoke that we had to open all the doors. My wife complained bitterly about my incompetence to all and sundry.
Today, I discovered from the Pig why the stove was smoking: previously, a certain wife of mine had dropped an egg onto it. “It leaped.”
She is currently hiding under her desk, with a chair between herself and the outside world—namely me.