My kids once got into not the food coloring but the fabric paint. Whichever child it was never got caught. But nothing I could do could clean the green (Lorelei would be so proud) fingerpainted smears off the front of the white bathroom cabinet.
I threw all the tubes out after that–I didn’t ever use the stuff anyway and it clearly wasn’t worth the hazard to my house. Replacing that cabinet when we remodeled was simply the only way we found to clean up that mess that worked.
So. One of Sam’s first-grade friends was moving away and gave her a box of stuff including, you guessed it, a tube of fabric paint. In bright red.  I said no, and tossed it straight in the trash.
The trashmen somehow dropped it out of there while going about their job. I found this out when I pulled into my driveway later that day, and–picture this. With my deafness. Inside my car. With the motor still on. And the windows up. I HEARD that four ounce tube explode when the tire hit it!
Bright red, and splattered in tiny droplets all across the front of the house; Jackson Pollack would be so proud.
I was wearing a brand new outfit I very much liked. Oh well. I ran into the house at top speed for a wet towel, knowing I didn’t have time to change, and then scrubbed as fast as I could, hoping hard not to have to have my entire house repainted.
My outfit was toast. Paint from the towel had swiped onto it, Cat-in-the-Hat style, but that was small potatoes to the could-have-beens. One last drop was left on the house, dried hard before I could get to it, but it was tiny. There were a few red spots on the otherwise-berryless male holly bush.
I got off easy that time.
(Suddenly thinking, as the daughter of a modern art dealer, gee, I could set off a whole artistic trend with this post, couldn’t I?)