Firehouse Famine - Part 3

Feasting at the firehouse has meant so many different things throughout my career in the fire service.  In this installment of “Hittin’ the Hot Spot”, I will recall the third of three stories about fighting firehouse famine.  I am sure there are more unique stories about food in the firehouse than there are firehouses, and I encourage you all to comment about some of your favorite memories about the people and procedures that helped feed the folks in your station. 

 

The new Central Fire Station of the TSVFD boasts a full residential kitchen, and occasionally the appliances get used to create entire meals for groups of 2 to 50.  The common gathering consists of about 8 people, career, volunteer and support members alike who pool their funds together and turn a grocery run into a “home-cooked” meal.  In the warmer weather, Grill 85 is often the appliance of choice for cooking up chicken, burgers, and dogs for a main course.  Cooler or rainy weather usually forces the menu to something pasta based, or stovetop/oven cooking. 

For a while, there was a breakfast program that grew into a local gathering of neighboring fire, police, EMS, and family members on Fridays.  The food was both yummy and scary.  Kinda like sausages, you really shouldn’t watch how it is made.  That is all I am going to say about the quality and healthfulness of these delicious meals.  The last time I questioned something this “chef” was a part of it started a snowball of political bullshit that ultimately led to my premature departure from the ranks, but I digress…

The most fascinating meal related occurrence at the 85 House involves ordering take-out.  We are blessed to be in a region that is full of great food choices.  We have multiple steakhouses, sub shops, fast food, pizzerias, restaurants, and Chinese options.  In fact, one of the kitchen drawers contains an organizer of local menus, sorted by category, and a folder full of (mostly expired) coupons for deals.  This leads to the biggest problem… decisions, decisions, and decisions.

I swear, if we were this decisive on the emergency scene, lives and property would be lost.  So many factors go into the decision of WHERE to get food; delivery or pick-up, what we had yesterday or earlier today, how much time do we have, how much money do we have, how hungry are we.  On more than one occasion, I nearly starved to death waiting for the decision to be made; and often resorted to pulling rank and turning the dining democracy into a command decision.  One time, I left, got something to eat on my own, returned, and the menus were still lying on the counter as the crew mulled over their options.  

Once the “where” choice has been made, each individual must choose the “what” from the menu.  Most guys have a favorite dish from each locale and this part goes quickly.  But some people, who shall remain nameless, have commitment issues, and it takes them
f o r e v e r  to decide.  Then there is the challenge of assuring everyone in the place has a chance to get in on the order.  The building is spread out, with lots of places to be isolated.  Usually an announcement over the PA system clears the “orderer” from any erros of omission.  A list gets generated, and someone gets designated to “make the call”.  This is a position of great responsibility, as there are often questions about the orders that this individual must be ballsy enough to answer on behalf of the individual diners.  

Now it is time for financing the mission.  Normally the counter looks like the kitty of a high-stakes poker game as everyone antes-up.  Occasionally there are deals struck like pro sports draft days (can you spot me, and I will pay you later), or payback times (You already owe me from yesterday).  The poor slob gathering the money must keep an accurate account of the money, lest he be chastised throughout the meal.  Of course, NO ONE ever has exact change.  This can benefit the runner if the participants feel generous and “round up”, or cause bewilderment if everyone cheaps-out on the tax or up-charges for extra items.   

Finally the order is placed, the money is compiled, and someone walks in saying, “what are we getting for dinner?”  This is where things get tricky.  If the guy is a douche (every house has a few), we usually tell him a little white lie like, “we already ate”, and so he goes off to get his own meal.  If the meal organizer is feeling generous (or if he thinks the kitty is slightly underfunded) he can often work a deal to let the newcomer get in on the order in exchange for becoming the designated runner.  Late arriving regulars to the process are often invited to participate; “We just ordered food, you want in?”  

"Food's Here!" announced over the station PA brings the sharks to the day room.  These moments are sometimes stressful, as everyone sorts through the bags of goodies, looking for their grub. The runner and caller keep their fingers crossed that the order is complete and accurate, and sigh with relief once everyone has found their food.  Except for that one guy sitting at the counter looking like a lost puppy, everyone is happily munching away.  When did he arrive?  Did we forget to ask him?  

 

No matter what the intent of the participants, someone gets left out, forgotten, ignored, or overlooked.  It is not usually intentional, but it is uncomfortable just the same.  That’s when karma strikes in the form of a dispatch.  “Ha, bitches, now you food will be cold and soggy when we come back!  It serves you right for being so indecisive and thoughtless!”  

Group clean-up usually goes very quickly, then there is nothing left to do but wait for Mr. Softee to bring us cold, sweet desserts!

 

Firehouse Famine - Part 2

Feasting at the firehouse has meant so many different things throughout my career in the fire service.  In the next few installments of “Hittin’ the Hot Spot”, I will recall some of my favorite stories about fighting firehouse famine.  Before you get too excited, these stories are not going to provide you with any new recipes, rather the manner in which the food was acquired and devoured.  I am sure there are more unique stories about food in the firehouse than there are firehouses, and I encourage you all to comment about some of your favorite memories about the people and procedures that helped feed the folks in your station.  

I have so many memories from the beautiful gray stone firehouse at 2265 Noble Street.  It was in this station where my fire service career began as a junior brigade member in 1980, and the memories mounted until the apparatus was moved into the new central fire station of the TSVFD some 25 years later.  As I sit here recalling the food situation at that station, I keep stumbling over great memories of the people and events that make up the greatest portion of my fire service experiences.  I have two documents open at the moment; this blog post and a list of stories to tell from the old West Lawn Fire Company.

Several companies come to mind that helped shape the cuisine at old station 5, 65, 85-2.  The most dominant ones were Chet Irwin’s, West Lawn Beverage, Clover Farms, Mays Sandwich Shop, Domino’s and Schwan’s.  Irwin’s Meats was a distributor located right across the street from the borough building that housed the fire station.  Even before I was a member, I knew that any special occasion at the hosey would have a spread that included Berks hot dogs (boxes of 50, boiled in beer, of course), New Yorker sharp cheese (sold in 5 pound blocks and often cubed in my kitchen), and hippy ring bologna from Chet’s.  The Irwins were past members who continued to support the fire company, and giving them our business was not only convenient, but the right thing to do to promote home town support.

West Lawn Beverage has been doing business for as long as I can remember, and it was a no brainer to give   From cases of beer and soda (in returnable bottles) to quarters and halves for fund-raisers zone meetings and special events, and even the peanuts and pretzels that were always on hand for the munching, “Boogie” Derr’s was always there.  Even when we phased out bottles and went to aluminum cans, WLB Co. was one of the few places where we could take our giant bags of crushed cans and sell them for scrap!  Cha-ching.
them our business as well.

Clover Farms certainly made the list of suppliers of the food chain.  Their highly addictive ICY TEA, both in regular and “unleaded” was a staple for cold refreshments, shuffleboard and pool table wagers, and for simply spreading good cheer by “buying a round” for anyone hanging around the day room.  From the little cardboard cartons, to the larger portioned cartons, to the plastic bottles, the contents of those drink containers is surely what kept the late night crew awake into the wee hours of the morning.  After chugging the deliciousness, you then had the unwritten responsibility of creativity with the waste.  Some popular activities included folding then stomping the cardboard containers to see how loud you could make them pop, and shooting from three point range into the trash can carefully tucked into the corner of the wall and the refrigerator to allow for bank shots!  If there was a downside to the Clover Farms deliveries, it was being the first one in the station on delivery day, and having to heft the four to six cases we bought every three days up the steps and then stack them all with Tetris-like skills in the fridge.  

Of course, no one could ever forget the great service we got from Denton and Bill from Mays Sandwich Shop.  Bill was a long time active firefighter who always supported the department even after he was no longer an “active” firefighter.  First there was the party catering.  Many of us could easily recite the spread that Bill would put together for our collection days, holiday parties, fundraisers and events; from the red-beet eggs, to the rolled up meats, macaroni salad to the super potent onions.  All we had to do is give Bill a number, date and time, and the food was ready to be picked up and put on the tab.  

Probably the greatest benefit we got from Mays’ is when they began to provide the food for Goodman Vending.  We became beneficiaries of their constantly refreshed stock of pre-packaged, individually wrapped, frozen and fresh sandwiches.  We enjoyed everything from cheeseburgers, to chicken patties on a roll, to Fiesta subs, and of course the fresh ham and Italians on KAISER rolls.  Those who know why I capitalized Kaiser most likely said it out loud in a high pitch voice or at least gave out a little chuckle.  I recall on more than one occasion eating Mays food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner while hangin’ at the hose house.  All these treats were sold on the honor system, with a very slim profit margin.  I am proud to say that for all those years, the contents of “box” always managed to pay the bills.  

Domino’s Pizza was a staple at this station as well.  I can’t remember how many times someone had to hang out the second floor window to tell the pizza guy that someone would “be right down” with the cash.  Everyone enjoying the pie would chip in, and the drivers learned that we were pretty good tippers.  Sadly, however, our fondness for Dominoes ended abruptly after a rather disturbing fire call at one of the driver’s houses.  Some swore off pizza altogether after that call, it was really THAT disgusting. 

My final tip of the hat goes to the Schwan’s Man.  While we had the food part covered through Mays, it was the Schwan’s man that provided the desert.  The best part of the SCHWAN’S GUY (said in a voice similar to “Kaiser Roll”) was that he carried the stuff up the steps.  There was nothing better that getting to the station to discover that there was a fresh batch of Schwan’s ice cream in the freezer.  His delivery schedule was so important that a fire prevention visit was once cut short to make sure we could be restocked.  Hey, priorities, right?   

There was no day room quite like the one at the West Lawn Station.  It was spacious, entertaining, and delicious. 

Firehouse Famine - Part 1

Feasting at the firehouse has meant so many different things throughout my career in the fire service.  In the next few installments of “Hittin’ the Hot Spot”, I will recall some of my favorite stories about fighting firehouse famine.  Before you get too excited, these stories are not going to provide you with any new recipes, rather the manner in which the food was acquired and devoured.  I am sure there are more unique stories about food in the firehouse than there are firehouses, and I encourage you all to comment about some of your favorite memories about the people and procedures that helped feed the folks in your station.  

My first stories come from 7507 Baltimore Blvd. in College Park, Maryland.  PGFD Station 12 was my home away from home for 2 ½ years while I attended the University of Maryland.  It was a unique situation for several reasons.  First and foremost, it was a fire station.  There was a career staff on duty during the day from Monday – Friday, but the house was staffed by volunteers the rest of the time.  However, within those vollies were 12 people who actually lived at the fire station in what was called the “Sackroom”.  

Although the Sackroom itself was our little oasis away from all the normal activity of the station, we all shared one kitchen on the main floor.  Every live-in had a portion of a shelf in one of the three refrigerators, and one overhead cabinet.  Although we trusted each other, you wrote your name on everything if you actually wanted to have it there when you were ready to eat it.  Fortunately, there were alliances and partnerships that permitted sharing, but only if you had something of equal value to share.  I remember mass quantities of fish sticks, spaghetti & meatballs, mac & cheese, and P. B. & J’s coming out of that kitchen; at least until grillin’ season.  I never knew how many things could be grilled.  I also realized that I wasn’t the only wacker who enjoyed pretending a good grease fire on the grill was like a mini structure fire.  Nothing wrong with multi-tasking food prep with fire attach practical exercises, right?  I only recall one instance where gear and SCBA was actually deployed, but the squirt bottle got a good workout.

The town had the usual college town temptations as well.  I was particularly fond of Hungry Herman’s steak, egg and cheese hoagie, the Bagel Place’s breakfast sandwiches, and of course, the Domino’s Pizza joint, which was within eyesight of the apparatus ramp if you felt like peering through binoculars and watching your pizza get made.  There was one delivery guy who drove a convertible Jeep who worked every minute that store was open, 7 days a week.  He knew every corner of the campus and town, and never walked.  He even ran the stairs, elevators took too long.  I remember him telling me that he made $90,000 a year, and based on his hustle, I believe him.  I briefly considered a career path adjustment. 

Probably my greatest memory of all was the evening meals during work shifts.  During the summer and over holiday breaks in the college calendar, the fire department would hire three or four vollies to staff the station after the career staff went off duty.  Since most of the active members were college students, the house would get might lonely when everyone went home for the holidays.  It was a pretty good deal, and the selection was usually a competition.  Hang at the fire station AND get paid?  Sign me up!

The shift started at 3:00 p.m., and we had three important tasks to complete at the start of each shift: equipment checks, spot cleaning tasks, and meal planning, but not always in that order.  We would decide on the menu and post it on the chalkboard in the dayroom with a sign-up deadline time.  By 3:30, we could expect phone calls from members trying to decide what they wanted to do for dinner.  If our menu sounded good, they signed up.   

With the afternoon tasks completed, the duty crew would check the sign-up list, and do an impromptu first-due target hazard familiarization of a local grocery store.  Since we were running hot, we always tried to keep the store visit as brief as possible.  Dividing the shopping list (usually by tearing it into portions) made the trip go very quickly.  Back at the station, the preparations and calculations began.  Barring any interruptions by the communication center, our timing was usually spot-on, and we collected cash (usually between 4 and 7 dollars, depending on the menu).

I remember occasionally having leftovers, but not very often.  Either we were good planners or great eaters.  Clean-up was always as smooth as the preparation.  Everyone who ate helped clean up… it was the unwritten rule.  With great teamwork, we could have everything cleaned up and put away in less than 10 minutes.  Only then could we do dessert! 

Blood, Sweat, and Tears (Part 2 of 2)

… I approached the car from the front, as I was always taught to do.  The intent is to get the patients attention without causing them any surprise that would cause them to jump or turn their head.  Things were already not going like the book says it should; all I could see from the front of the car was a wall of torn metal.  The bumper was about waist high, and the remains of the hood were pushed back over the windshield opening.  Even on my tiptoes, I could not get a glimpse of my patient, so I made my way around to the driver’s-side window.  The intrusion had deformed the car tremendously, but I could see that he was still sitting straight forward, with the steering wheel against his face.  I noticed no signs of life, but realized that the opposite side of the car had not caved in as far and my best access would be from the passenger’s side door.  I tried the handle, but knew by looking at the creases behind the hinge that this door would not be opening any time soon.  My visual assessment through the window was not pretty, but I did see that his eyes were open and moving around in bewilderment, like a newborn examining the world for the first time.  I found a place to perch my supplies and managed to wiggle my ass through the window opening.   Yes, I was a bit more svelte and agile in my younger years.  I introduced myself, and began methodically running through my trauma assessment checklist.  

      

This poor guy was in bad shape.  The impact of the collision left his frail body entombed in plastic and metal.  The four-inch gash on his forehead was spilling blood down his face, and the only extremity he had free was his right arm. Other than a few cuts on his hand, his arm seemed fine.  He alternated between wiping his eyes of the crimson river that kept blinding him, and trying to push the dash and steering wheel from in front of him.  I threw a trauma dressing and “kling” snugly on his head to plug that leak, and helped him wipe his eyes and face.  I was honestly thinking about making him as comfortable as possible…there was little else I could do at the moment.  I engaged him in some small talk to distract him, as well as assess his mental state.  He clearly had no idea where he was, who I was, or what had happened.  I tried my best to explain the answers he sought, while I assessed his situation.  I was looking at the dash, floorboards, steering column and door that had him pinned in to see what we would need to free him, and he was looking at the same things trying to understand what they were.  I remember being able to touch the radiator cap, it was that close to me.  No doubt that directly behind the flooring was the hot engine block pressing tightly against his legs. In the steamy atmosphere, I could smell the coppery taste of his blood, the sweetness of the antifreeze, the stench of burned motor oil.  The five or ten minutes I spent with George in our demolished little “world” seemed like a life-time.  I learned that he was 70 years old, worked on the railroad his entire life, and was only a few weeks from retirement.  

As I was clearing debris to create some wiggle room, he spotted a lunch kettle of the floor and asked me if that was his!  I remember it was a well-worn, dark gray plastic hinged-top Thermos brand lunch pail.  I remember because he asked me to look inside of it.  Not sure what he was after, I obliged his request and gave him a verbal inventory of what was inside.  This is also when I discovered his name was George; it was in red Dymo label on the front of his lunch pail.  Once we determined he had already eaten, he immediately made the connection that he must have been on his way home from work.  “My wife will be worried”, he sadly whispered to me, as a wilting frown fell from his face.  “I have never been late coming home from work in 48 years.”  He didn’t say much more after that, and I was at a loss for words myself.  I kept talking, but I may never know if he kept listening.

I watched as his color drained, and his eyelids grew heavier.  His breathing became shallow and more labored, despite the oxygen I was pumping through the non-rebreather mask.  I heard determined voices surrounding the car, and the familiar clunking of wood cribbing as the rescue squad started stabilizing the car.  Before long, I felt the door behind me shifting from the strength of the Hurst spreaders.  “Hang in there, George; we will have you out of here in no time!”  There was no response…  “George?”  Still nothing ...  Even his right hand that was gripping me a few short minutes ago was limp and listless.  

I remember a simultaneous sense of frustration and relief, as I gave up my position for a medic that had arrived to take over patient care.  By now there were responders everywhere, so I grabbed the opportunity to catch a breath and take in the scene from a wider perspective.  I immediately began my self-critique and mental debriefing.  The adrenaline kept me from crying, at least until I got home later that afternoon.  As I left the car, I told George I would see him later, but I knew that was a lie.  I hope he forgives me…