My Dame’s Rocket launched last night. As the full moon’s soft glow swept across the garden, I watched its purple peddles spread wide. She was finally awake. Good. My patience was at its end. Immediately I snatched it up, plucked the pedals, and crushed them in my hands. I cackled. Running into the shed, I tossed the dead flower into the steaming black cauldron; its contents bubbling and hissing as they melted. And then something unexpected happened. It exploded. My dark concoction blasted in every direction. I was covered. I was bummed. That was supposed to be my dinner. Dame’s Rocket butternut squash stew. Chic Fil A, it is, then.