While stirring the rich, amber gravy with a wooden spoon, my knuckle inadvertently scrapes across the inner pot, fiercely hot, forcing an involuntary drop of the spoon as blistered knuckle jerks toward open mouth, followed closely by a large splash of magma ragù (from the dropped spoon, remember?), exploding from the pot up to my chin and cheek, forcing a blind stumble backward as I swat like a man chased by a swarm of bees, knocking over pasta colander (full of steaming, soft noodles), bottle of chianti, and wine glass filled with said chianti.