COLUMN: Sense of direction nil, but there’s art in boiling water

I’ve always admired those who can do mechanical and construction-type work, those who can read directions and those who have a sense of direction.
I know nothing about mechanics and tried to take shop when I was in the ninth grade in high school 50 years ago. My father would have none of that and mandated that I take first-year Latin instead. Two weeks into Latin, I knew I was in over my head and dropped it for a world history course.
I’ve never been able to read and understand directions on how to put things together. My mind doesn’t work that way, and it’s acutely frustrating to me.
Equally as frustrating is my sense of direction. It’s nil. I can’t find my way around Florence half the time. And there was the time I went to St. Louis with plans to visit a small town near Springfield, Ill. I left St. Louis, got on the interstate and promptly went 100 miles in the wrong direction before realizing my radar had gone astray.
I think the problem is compounded by having the last name DANA. I’m convinced that the Dana men invented Murphy’s Law. We have forever wooed his daughter, Nevermore, while waltzing the eons away with her to the spaceless strains of “The Blue Danube.”
I have studied the Dana tree from the top to the bottom. And I’m sure the male offspring is blessed with an airtight inheritance that inspires us to live life on the edge.
That is why one of our relatives was discovered frozen in the Alps in the 1990s. He was given the name Ice Man of the Alps.
Ice Man Dana was in real good shape to have been dead for 5,300 years. His teeth were worn from crunching too much ice, and his lungs were blackened from chewing the fat around too many camp fires.
But his Citadel blue tattoos and Strom Thurmond for President button were still intact.
I don’t like to brag, but we were also the inspiration for the characters Obstinate, Pliable and Giant Despair, among others, in Bunyan’s “The Pilgrim’s Progress.”
I specifically mention “The Pilgrim’s Progress” because all of my boys had a titanic struggle with this literary masterpiece when they were coming along. How many times did they say they didn’t understand it, that it had no relevance to the soundbite world and that they were bored to oblivion reading it?
It didn’t even do any good when I told them they were related to some of the characters and that one of the lines especially applied to the Danas: “My grandfather was but a waterman, looking one way, and rowing another.”
But my study of our family history proves the male boneheads have adjusted to the ups and downs of the ages — hence the reason we are hanging around today.
I’ve cooked for the boys off and on for a long time. They have rarely complained and have been very patient with their fossilized Dad’s touchstone jabs at culinary excellence.
Let it be known here and now that I will put my talents up against the best when it comes to boiling water. I cook with gas (no slam on electricity) but the blue flame gets the job done quicker.
There is a definite art to boiling water. And with the male Dana heritage hanging on my every move, I feel compelled to master this torrid task.
I won’t give away any coveted family recipes, but I will say one of the secrets is to not let the water splash into the pot because splashing mangles its molecules.
Also, use an old pot with intermittent rust spots because the water tends to stick to a new pot, especially one of those coated boys.
It’s preferable to use a pot with no handles. This makes cooking water more challenging.
It also teaches the Danas how to handle a gas flame because once the hand is seared, the men learn to use pot holders.
But more on the science of searing water later.
Got to stop to order two giant pizzas since I need to practice a lot more before having the world partake of my wondrous dish: Potlicking Parboiled Dewdrops Divine.