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The weather is finally starting to go into the pseudo-fall stage, where there is a slight decrease in the overwhelming heat of Southern Louisiana. As the temperature starts to mellow out a little, I am getting super excited about food. My overly ambitious plans usually involve soups, stews and casseroles, as well as a ridiculous amount of desserts. Most of the ideas rarely come to fruition thanks to my painfully small 34-by-84-inch kitchen. (Seriously, I measured it.) But in the spirit of full disclosure and to prepare my friends and family for the bake-a-thon ahead, I share this cautionary tale of baking disaster.

Last Christmas, my girlfriends and I made the decision to bake and cook each other gifts instead of exhausting ourselves searching for the perfect gift. As usual, I found several recipes far too elaborate to make in bulk. My original choices sounded so delicious: macaroni and cheese with white cheddar and gruyere, flourless chocolate cake, some fabulous almondy lace cookie filled with chocolate and homemade truffles. My kitchen is by no means equipped for baking of this scale, so I opted for a simple cranberry-pistachio biscotti. Hey, it’s red and green and I’d get to use the KitchenAid mixer my grandma gave me.

I rummaged the pantry and assembled the ingredients on the counter. I noticed my baking powder had been in the cabinet, unopened, for a couple months, but decided it was OK since the expiration date had not passed. I got down to business, and my boyfriend periodically would peek his skeptical head into the kitchen trying to figure out what kind of mess I was making that he may have to take part in cleaning up. “Baby, everything’s fine, I’m just making biscotti for the girls,” was my reply.

But by the time I would finish, he would earn the lifelong right to oversee all baking projects.

I remember chopping pistachios thinking how easy this project would be compared to all the others I had considered. My boyfriend assumed I had everything under control and left to pick up some dinner. That’s when disaster struck. I opened the pop-top of the baking powder and, as if in slow motion, a whoosh came from the can followed by an expansive spray of fine white dust. I was covered. My counter was covered. My stainless steel sink was adrift in snow, faucet and all. My bicarbonate sandstorm wafted over the counter all the way to the carpet and couch on the other side. Five minutes later I was still standing in shock when my boyfriend walked into an episode of “I Love Lucy.” I looked up to a confused face that seemed to say “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.” All I managed to say was, “Did you know that baking powder cans explode?”

Of course, everyone else but me knew that such a thing could happen. Why wasn’t I warned of this when learning to bake as a child? My dad explained it to me: the carbon such and such built up thus and so inside the can, which obviously caused the explosion. Or something. I hated chemistry class. How would I know that? I remember feeling lucky I didn’t wait any longer to open it—who knows how bad the explosion would have been. Can you imagine having to convince EMS that I was NOT prank calling about a baking powder explosion?

Luckily, the biscotti turned out deliciously anyway, and I had a story to tell about why my present was better than everyone else’s.

This weekend, as long as it stays a little breezy, I’ll be making my favorite pumpkin pie with Williams-Sonoma’s pumpkin butter. Presuming my explosive story hasn’t frightened you away from baking for good, run out and buy as many jars of this stuff as you can. I was reminded last year that it is completely fat-free for those of you that are into that sort of thing. All I have to do is mix in a couple extra ingredients and pour it into a pie crust (no baking powder needed!).

I mean, what could go wrong?

Hmmm. Maybe I’ll line the oven with foil just in case.