It’s a Friday during Lent, the traditional time for chaos and a curse or two in the cramped kitchen of Columbia Fire Company No. 1. Fire tones are beeping out on the handheld radios but the chief says they’ll “drop the pasta and run” if it’s a local call. People are shouting out “right behind you” or “scallops marinara” and a former football coach is dead serious when he says “kill the phone” cause it won’t stop ringing with takeout orders.
Suddenly, the man yelling for “Dylan” to hurry with the appetizers is yelling something unprintable because he stabbed himself cutting a baked potato. Everyone in the kitchen, it seems, is related: uncles, dads, nephews, and cousins. If you tossed a fish stick back there it would land on someone named Goffredo or Martino.
