I wish I could say I was exaggerating this for dramatic effect, but… well, okay, I am, but not by much. I had a piece of cake shoveled onto my tray once and I stood there and watched it… melt. Pooling into a bubbly, gooey chocolate blob right there. Wow.

I will admit, I am one of those naughty people who will mix up a batch of cake batter and just chow down. I have been duly warned about the evils of raw egg and the like, and when I was young I didn’t care, because I was young and I was bulletproof; then I got older and realized that the cake mix actually doesn’t need the egg, the recipe just calls for it so you feel like you have participated meaningfully in the cooking experience. So you can safely eliminate it and keep on going– because I’m a problem solver, see?

But those were cake batters that I made. By my own hand. I was playing with my own fire, you know, and I was willing to take those risks. A half-goopy cake batter made by some stranger? No way. Just… no.

So, I’ll find myself all the way in Iraq dodging bullets and rockets and car bombs, but at some point, my self-preservation instincts have got to kick in. I found my line in the sand.