"Smells incredible in here," Miller called out as the chicken came out of the oven, golden and bubbling.
"Wait until you taste it," Izzy said, and there was pride in her voice that made my chest warm.
The mac and cheese was the real showstopper — bacon and panko breadcrumbs on top, three different cheeses, and a hint of mustard powder that made it complex without beingfancy. When I pulled the pan from the oven, the silence was reverent.
"My God," Thompson breathed. "That's not mac and cheese. That's art."
"It's comfort food," I corrected. "Just done right."
We loaded the table with serving dishes, and for a moment, everyone just stood there looking at the spread. It wasn't just the quantity — though there was plenty — it was the care that was obvious in every dish. This wasn't institutional cooking or fast food. This was the kind of meal you made when you wanted to show people they mattered.
"Alright," Izzy said, "let's eat before it gets cold."
The first bite was met with the kind of silence that every cook hopes for — the complete, focused attention of people discovering something unexpectedly wonderful. Then the compliments started, overlapping and enthusiastic.
"This is incredible."
"How did you get the chicken so tender?"
"The mac and cheese is better than my grandmother's, and I'm Italian."
"Can you move in here?"
I found myself relaxing into the rhythm of their conversation, the easy way they included me without making a big deal of it. They asked about my work, but in the way people do when they're genuinely interested, not just being polite. I told them about the ER, about what it was like working nights.
"So you see all the weird stuff," Rodriguez said. "Give us your best 'there's no way that's real' story from this week."
I thought for a moment, then grinned. "Patient came in last week convinced he was allergic to vitamin D. Not lactose intolerant — allergic to the actual vitamin. He'd been avoiding sunlight for six months because he read on some conspiracy website that vitamin D was a government plot to control people's minds."
Thompson nearly choked on his beer. "You're kidding."
"Scout's honor. Took three different doctors and a nutritionist to convince him that vitamin D deficiency was going to cause more problems than mind control."
"What is it with people and conspiracy theories?" Martinez asked. "We had a guy last month who was convinced his house fire was started by government satellites."
"Turned out he'd been hoarding fireworks in his basement," Miller added. "But sure, satellites."
The conversation flowed easily from there — work stories, station gossip, good-natured arguments about sports teams. They included me naturally, asking follow-up questions, building on my comments. The engine versus truck rivalry emerged in the form of playful insults about intellectual capacity and job importance, and I found myself following the rhythm of it, understanding that the constant ribbing was actually a form of affection.
"The thing about truckies," Thompson explained to me with mock seriousness, "is that they think breaking windows makes them elite. We're over here doing the actual work — you know, putting water on fire — and they're playing with ladders and feeling superior."
"Says the guy whose idea of technical skill is pointing a hose," Miller shot back. "We're creating ventilation opportunities and performing complex search patterns while you're standing around getting wet."
"Complex search patterns," Thompson repeated. "Is that what we're calling 'wandering around lost in the smoke' now?"
I laughed, raising my hands in mock surrender. "As an outsider, I'm staying neutral in this particular war."
"Smart man," Sophia said. "I've been watching this argument for years. Neither side has won yet."
The food kept disappearing — not just polite portions, but genuine appreciation, with guys going back for seconds and thirds. Thompson declared the mac and cheese "life-changing." Martinez asked for the recipe, claiming his motherwould want to add it to her repertoire. Even Miller, who struck me as the type who didn't give compliments easily, admitted it was "restaurant quality."
"I don't know why we don't do this more often," Rodriguez said, loading his plate with a third helping of chicken. "This is incredible. Really,whydon't we cook like this more often?"
The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Just as the words left his mouth, the station alarm erupted in a cacophony of tones and static, cutting through the comfortable conversation like a blade.
"Engine 18, Truck 12, Battalion 3, respond to a working structure fire at 1247 Cedar Street. Reports of heavy smoke showing, possible entrapment."
“Oh, right.That’swhy.”
