My physician never misses an opportunity to warn me away from fast-food outlets, telling me to prepare light, healthy meals in my own cozy kitchen whenever possible.

On its face, this sounds like good advice. And, hey, it's coming from a guy who went to medical school and stuff.

When choosing between preparing fresh, healthy entrees at home or going out for a double Whopper with an extra shot of grease, however, I've begun to think the latter course of action may be considerably safer in the short term.

I was pondering this paradox not long ago while seated on my kitchen floor in a puddle of tomato sauce.

Perhaps I should explain.

(Sure, why not?).

Trouble started one otherwise unremarkable evening when I found myself with some time on my hands after a long-anticipated interview failed to materialize.

What to do, what to do? I could have heeded the siren song of a combination gas station and Long John Silver's restaurant off Interstate 80, but even as I began to turn my car toward the deep-fried fish emporium, the specter of my harried physician began haunting my thoughts, muttering about clogged arteries and the skyrocketing costs of XXL sweatsuits in today's dismal economy.

Wracked by guilt - as well as hunger - I reluctantly turned homeward, where I sort of followed my doctor's instructions: Home cooking, but reheated three-day-old spaghetti instead of, say, fresh spinach saut\éed in a light, lemon-garlic marinade.

Hey, a man's got to know his limitations ...

This all might have gone rather well if I hadn't gotten all finicky and reached for a napkin to wipe up a quite harmless bit of spaghetti sauce that had spilled onto the kitchen counter.

The napkin slipped out of my grasp and drifted floorward. Just as agile as any 220-pound ballerina you might encounter, I bent and lunged for the napkin, only to have the tail of my Royal Chicano Air Force T-shirt snag the handle of the spaghetti pot, causing it to flip into the air toward my rapidly descending head. Although there was no avoiding it, I tried to turn out of the way, thereby slamming my left knee into an open cabinet door, which sent me crashing to the kitchen floor next to the runaway napkin and a growing pool of congealed spaghetti sauce.

Needless to say, I'm rethinking my doctor's heartfelt advice.

After all, nothing like this ever seems to happen when I visit a fast food restaurant. And even if it did, I wouldn't be the one who had to mop it up.

If a half-dozen Big Macs inexplicably explode while I'm a patronizing McDonald's, I need only pick up my order and drive away. Never once has a red-faced restaurant employee marched up to me with a mop and said "Hey, you with the quarter-pounder order - get back in the kitchen and clean up that mess!"

Considering my most recent home cooking experience, I think I'll try to placate my well-intentioned physician with a couple of take-out salad receipts the next time I visit his office.

Salads are, after all, perceived as relatively healthy, and considerably less expensive than a full body cast.