There's a Reason I Don't Cook

DINNER'S READY!!!
I may write a cooking column, but that doesn't mean I have any culinary talent.
You know, there really is a reason I don't cook. I used to think it was just because I am a lazy bum, but now, I have realized, it goes back much farther than that. It goes clear back to when I was a child and dinosaurs roamed the Earth.
First and foremost, I love eating out. That, too, goes back to when I was a kid. We didn't eat out very often, but every once in a while, my daddy would go to a little hole-in-the-wall burger joint to pick up hamburgers and french fries. The entire building was about the size of a bedroom (and not the bedrooms on trading spaces or extreme makeover; normal sized bedrooms.) There was a little sign on the cash register that read, "Stop throwing your cigarette butts on the floor. Our cockroaches are dying of cancer!" By the time you got home, the bags were all soaked with grease. Man, were those the best hamburgers and fries or what?
Plus, eating at home meant eating my mom's meatloaf, and that was not a pretty sight. My mom would come out with the meatloaf in a clear pyrex loaf pan. The meat would be floating in three inches of its own grease and the bottom was ALWAYS black. Somehow, despite floating in three inches of its own fluids, the meatloaf was still dry as a bone and the bottom was crispy. You tried to hurry and eat because as you ate, the meatloaf cooled, turning the liquid into coagulated shortening-looking stuff and your appetite went away as you tried to put the coated meat into your mouth. And don't even get me started on round steak! My parents were some kind of meat club and apparently a cow is made up of 90% round steak. For every other cut of beef, we had like 16 round steaks. I hate round steak.
Now, however, I have no one to blame but myself. I used to cook rather frequently when my kids were young and living at home. Now, I find I only do myself injury when I try to cook. I was REHEATING a meal (that's right, not even actually cooking), when I burned myself on the heating element of the oven. Now, I am sporting a scar to remind me not to attempt cooking for a good long while. Sadly, I didn't heed the reminder last weekend when we went to the cabin. My mom and sister were working outside and I was inside assembling the chili we were going to have for dinner that night. My mom had brought some homegrown peppers to add to the chili and I cut them up, took the seeds out and diced them, dropping them expertly into the chili. I washed my hands and went about my business.
A little later, my eyeball itched and I rubbed it. OH MY GOD!!! Now I am BLIND! I run to the bathroom with my one good eye open and scrub my hands twice more, with two different kinds of soap. I wash all around my eye and my face. I rinse my face and wipe the water out of my eyes. AAAGHH!! Now I am blind in both eyes and my entire face is on fire. I blindly stumble out of the bathroom and call for my sister and mom to help. "SISTER!" "MOTHER!" Nothing. I continue stumbling spastically towards the front door, arms out in front of me, waving them wildly. Again I yell, "SISTER!" She finally replies disgustedly, "WHAT?" She did come to help and sweetly scrubbed my face with a baby wash cloth and flushed my eyeballs. Finally, I was able to open my eyes to slits and bleary-eyed, I smiled my gratitude.
I ain't cooking next time.