The Crying Game

To become a firefighter, I obtained my EMT certification, attended a fire academy, read and studied, worked for a private ambulance company, gave my weekends and nights as a volunteer. I took every opportunity to test for positions in the fire service, hoping, all the while, to be hired by the very department that ultimately gave me my job. After being hired, 10 weeks at the state fire academy, and almost as much time spent studying and drilling on the hated day shift, I received an assignment "in company", actually getting to work on a fire engine. After the usual: "What did you do before?", "Where are you from?", "How old are you?", came the question, "Do you know how to cook?"

"Actually... ", I measured my words, hoping for both humble and competent, " I do."

A long time ago, during high school and college, I worked in a Mexican restaurant. It was an ideal job for this young man. I started out washing dishes, but expressed an interest in cooking, and was soon working in the kitchen, feeding a hundred tables a night. I learned about cooking and cuisine, with an ancillary education in sex, drugs, and rock and roll from the college students with whom I worked. My first serious girlfriend was a cocktail waitress from the bar, a journalism student, 8 years my senior. The week I turned 21, I started pulling pitchers of beer every Tuesday night, in a basement banquet room, for a rowdy college crowd. My culinary education was just beginning,with tutorials in sauces and soups, and I learned early that if you want to make salsa you have to cut onions.

Onions are an essential ingredient, and a salsa without them is a bland melange, no matter the heat. Chopping, dicing, or mincing industrial quantities of onions can be unpleasant. A single batch of "Super Hot" salsa, copiously ladled onto our plates of nachos, required 25 chopped onions. I would often make a double batch to stay ahead of our appetizer-hungry customers. I remember crying real tears, unable to focus on the cutting board, eyes burning, going home reeking of Allium. It was, needless to say, hard duty, and I tried all the folk remedies for the irritation caused by syn-propanethial-S-oxide, the chemical ruining my vision. I'm here to tell you that a piece of bread in your mouth does nothing to allay the discomfort, and keeping your cutting board and knife wet is just plain dangerous.

The only way to really minimize the agony of cutting up the cheap yellow onions was to be fast, efficiently rendering the papery globes into a finished product. Technique is crucial, but equally important is a razor-sharp knife. The sharp blade goes where you will it, and doesn't crush the aromatic flesh. Gordon, the owner's son, and main prep chef, kept a such a keen blade that it would fall through an onion on it's weight alone. I probably developed an immunity to the chemical, but I also became very good at dissecting an onion.

In French cuisine a chef is judged by the number of pleats in his toque, the floppy hat on his head, each fold representing mastery of a different way to prepare an egg. I've come to judge a cook's skill by his ability to disassemble the onion. In the firehouse, we cook something at least once every shift, and, picky eaters aside, onions are ubiquitous in our kitchens. In less time than it takes to describe the process, I remove the ends, bisect the vegetable vertically, and peel back the two halves, removing the skin. Laying it on the flat, I start at a cut end of the onion, making vertical slices of appropriate thickness. Rotating ninety degrees, I make more vertical cuts, tipping the uncut mass to finish at the thick side. Repeat, and you have several cups of prepared onion. This method is the product of the thousands of onions which have surrendered at my hand.

Most of the knives in the firehouse kitchen were nice tools once - on the day they were first used - but apathy and neglect rapidly render them blunt, nicked, and dangerous. Some are actually professional-quality, German steel, full-tang construction, now hospicing in a drawer, awaiting the futile sharpening and resurrection.. Totally worthless are the serrated "never needs sharpening" knives that arrive complete, in a laminated knife block, from discount or department stores. Since working in restaurants, so many years ago, I have amassed a small collection of miscellaneous chef's knives, parers, slicers, and French chef's knives, of which, there are two in my duffel bag every time I go to work. I hone them as Gordon did his, and I pull them out whenever dinner requires extended vegetable preparation. Using a keen blade is a pleasure easily worth the added weight in my bag.

I am not particularly gifted with a creative flair for cooking, but I can follow a recipe. Tell me what you want, and you will have it, and enjoy it. So, I am called Chef, and my brothers underestimate their own culinary abilities and talents. And, I can slay the onion.

Chicken Soul For The Soup

Firefighting epitomizes the ideal of the do-anything McGyver. At any moment, the tones could sound, signifying an emergency for the City's citizens. Regardless of the nature of the call, the City's citizens pay us, and expect us, to solve their problems. Fires, vehicle accidents, strokes, cuts, scrapes, and bruises fall into the category of the expected and well-rehearsed crisis. I'd be lying if I said that every call is a bona-fide emergency, and many aren't. But to the person that dials 911, it seems that way at the time. When a bad situation lands outside the box, problem solving and creativity save the day.

A firefighter's apprenticeship consists of, in part, getting to know your available resources, such that a solution can be cobbled together when the time comes. Many of our bread and butter strategies, the ones we practice, the ones we pull out in time of need, were once somebody's hare-brained idea.

Take, for instance, the drop-bag evolution. Once upon a time, probably early in the business of fighting fire, a man had a better idea. Suppose there's fire on the third or fourth floor, stairwells deep inside the building, and no standpipe. Rather than making entry with a charged hoseline, the pipeman and officer pull a couple of sections of hose and a nozzle from the hosebed of the engine. A satchel of tools and a bag containing rope are retrieved from a compartment. Pipeman and officer enter the building, finding their way to the best floor from which to attack the fire. A window is busted out, or, better yet, opened, and the bag is dropped to the ground, rope spooling out, as it falls. Meanwhile, at the engine, the driver has pulled some hose and attached it to a discharge port at the pump. The end of the hose is secured to the rope, and the pipeman hauls it up and connects it to the now-assembled hoseline. A signal is given, and the hose stiffens with fire-quenching water pressure. No dragging of hoselines through the structure, no unnecessary hose, with its attendant complexity and friction loss, no bullshit. Quick, easy, and direct.

When I attended my volunteer academy, I faked my way through a myriad of situations, relying on my heft and experiences to guide me, until muscle memories were formed, until I understood the why of it. Throwing ladders wasn't too hard, but smaller folks wrestled to get the get them upright and placed properly. I could start the power equipment, and dismantle a chainsaw. My background in science and chemistry served me well in my studies of hazardous materials and fire science. And I knew my way around a kitchen.

In the firehouse, we live together, a family united in a common cause. We have our quarrels, our triumphs, our history. Every meal is a ritual coming-together, whether it's over bacon and eggs, tuna salad, or fresh-caught wild salmon. As a volunteer, canned chili con carne and instant cornbread lost its allure quickly, and I'd shoulder my way into the cramped kitchen and gently take charge of preparing dinner. Through high school and college I worked in restaurants, working my way up from dishwasher to cook. Later, I would entertain, leafing through cookbooks, assembling elaborate feasts for friends and family, with an emphasis on Italian and French country cuisine. I enjoy cooking, and in the firehouse, the skills and techniques from my previous culinary endeavors play well.

In my department, in a station with more than one crew, dinner duty rotates every shift. The inspired or simply helpful will pitch in, and other crews will, if possible, cover calls for the guys in the kitchen. Everyone has their own specialties and talents, and we have a lot of collective cooking experience. Dinners range from coupon-clipping serendipity to full-blown gourmet. Regardless of the chosen menu, everyone pays their fair share, and happily. When time, ingredients, and the budget line up, our shift dinners can be the best meals of our week. Occasionally, though, the day is full of calls and/or training, and shopping and preparation for dinner is forgotten. It's always good to have a few go-to ideas for dinner under your hat when dinnertime is looming. Fast food is always an option, but I prefer the economy and comfort of the home-cooked firehouse meal.

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40 Minute Chicken Noodle Soup With Dumplings.

(serves 5 firefighters)

Ingredients

-1 grocery store roasted chicken

-4 carrots

-1 huge onion

-1 bunch celery

-olive or canola oil as needed

-1 package egg noodles

-1 14 oz can of beans (kidney, garbanzo, whatever)

-1 can mushrooms (tell the picky eaters to suck it up)

-salt and black pepper to taste

-rosemary, sage, bay leaf to taste

optional -canned chicken stock or bullion cubes (with a reduction in salt)

-sour cream

For dumplings:
-5 cups baking mix, like Bisquick
-1-1/2 cup milk
-copious black pepper

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-Recruit some kitchen help and wash your hands.
-Pick meat from chicken, reserving diced meat in a bowl. Skin and bones go into the stock pot.
-Chop onion, toss skin and ends into stock pot.
-Dice 3 carrots, tossing ends and 4th into stock pot.
-Slice 4 celery stalks, tossing ends and a couple stalks into stock pot.

On burner number 1:
-Cover contents of stock pot with water, heat over high heat until boiling
-Season with pepper, bay leaf, other spices of choice. Reserve salt until soup is assembled.
-Maintain rolling boil, uncovered, for 20 minutes.

On burner number 2:
-heat a large pot of water, to boiling, for egg noodles. Cook per instructions. Reserve.

On burner number 3:
-Place cut vegetables in large skillet with oil. Saute until onions and carrots soft. Add diced chicken meat, and brown lightly. Reserve.

Meanwhile:
-Gently combine Bisquick, milk, and pepper, think fluffy thoughts.
Variation: add 1-1/2 cup cooked rice of choice, in lieu of dumplings.

After 20 minutes of boiling stock:
-Strain contents of stock pot in preferred manner, maintaining lookout for errant pieces of chicken. Discard solids (called raft in the restaurant world).
-Add sauteed vegetables and chicken to stock.
-Add the drained beans and mushrooms.
-Add the drained noodles.
-Add water, chicken stock, or bullion if desired.
-Adjust seasonings, Salt to taste.
-Gently spoon dumpling mix onto top of soup, covering. Simmer, uncovered, for 10 minutes, cover and continue simmering 10 more minutes.

Soup's on! Garnish with a dollop of sour cream. Serve with a simple side salad, with ice cream for dessert. Don't burn your tongue! Enjoy, considering modifications to make this your soup.

Gag Order

"Engine 42, Aid call, red: 58 year old male, choking, unable to speak." We dropped what we were doing and sprinted to the engine. We arrived on scene in less than a minute.

It's difficult to predict what will make you uncomfortable. Everyone has their own triggers. Hurt or abused kids are an obvious source of discomfort. Thermal injuries (burns), too. I know a guy who hates to see hangings. Suicides, in general don't bother him, not even self-inflicted gunshot wounds, but "swingers" creep him out.

Personally, I almost lost it on that aid call that evening. The patient lived with his family just around the corner from the fire station. We'd never been there before, but the whole family suffered from a hereditary disorder of the nervous system. No one there was younger than 50 and as they aged, the disease slowly robbed them of coordination and dignity. Our patient was progressing in his illness to the point where he had great difficulty swallowing. We were informed that he had been eating a pork chop and a piece was apparently lodged in his airway.

Preparing dinner is a sport in the firehouse. In my department, we take turns cooking, and we have some very accomplished chefs. We buy all our own food, and someone working overtime contributes more to the fund. Several OT's might contribute more than $100. We eat pretty well. Because disaster could strike at any time, we eat pretty fast, too.

He was still breathing, and stood in the center of the room swaying. Long strings of saliva dangled and spun from his lip. He was gagging and heaving with every breath. He considered us through watering eyes. Wretched sounds came from throat. I took a set of vitals: BP, pulse, respirations, level of consciousness, all unremarkable.

There are two primary requirements for our firehouse cooking: Lots and cheap. If it tastes good, that's alright too. But if you make a stinker dinner, you will hear about it forever. I'll briefly mention "hot dog spaghetti", as an example. If I remember, it wasn't cheap either. You know who you are; sorry, pal.

When a person is choking on something, the basic protocol is wait for things to get either better or worse. The patient clears their airway, or they pass out from oxygen deprivation. If they pass out, they're at risk of cardiac failure, and that means CPR. The chest compressions during CPR might dislodge the blockage, and things get better quickly. But if they can still breathe, it becomes a waiting game.

We have one large station that houses 12 firefighters: four crews and our battalion chief. The meals prepared there can be epic. Find a good price on meat at Safeway, for instance, and the combined buying power of the large station can make for an elaborate meal. It also helps to have a lot of manpower in the kitchen when we're drilling and running calls all day.

Three firefighters, captain, driver, pipeman, stood in the room. Our patient continued to sway back and forth. Rain pissed sideways against the windows, but the house was a stronghold of sauna-like heat against the winter murk. Did I mentions the gagging sounds? The copious drool?

My captain, NJ, disappeared into an adjoining room. Our driver turned to look away from the patient. I was alone with a gagging, wretching man and my overstuffed stomach. I tried to forget about all the salad, bread, steak, potatoes, and ice cream that was churning in my gullet. Perspiration beaded on my scalp, running into my eye.
Ever experience a sympathy puke? Like when you see someone hurl and suddenly you join the party? Six times my pharyngoesophageal sphincter, the flapper at the top of my stomach, spasmed. Six times I fought the rising gorge, acid burning my throat, the taste of vomit in my mouth. Torture. I looked for an exit, weighing liability issues of patient abandonment in my head.
With one last agonizing heave my patient hurked up the chunk of pork chop. It landed on the carpet with a wet plop. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry about that."
"Don't be sorry," I said. "I'm glad it's finally out. I'm really glad you're better."

"Anyone in the mood for popcorn?"