It was the day my grandmother exploded. And yet, surprisingly, it was not the explosion itself, nor even the way her liver hit the ceiling and stuck, hanging over the mashed potatoes like the sword of Damocles, leaking blood like pan drippings from a rare rump roast, that made the day memorable to me. Nor was it the fact that all of the potatoes got eaten anyway (more as a tribute to grandma, who had prepared them, than as a testament to their flavor, which was a bit more salty and coppery than usual), for when a person's last act on this Earth (previous to exploding) is the mashing of potatoes, it would be, we all agreed, highly ungracious not to empty the bowl and give a hearty belch.
No, what made the day memorable occurred several hours earlier when Mrs. V. offered me a bite of the mini bundt cake she bought at Galliano's bakery, which was so delicious I immediately sent her back out in a driving rainstorm to purchase four more of the delicacies, and consumed them all during my afternoon break. Delicious.
--Evil Editor (First sentence: Iain M. Banks, The Crow Road)