By Anne Gagliano
I’ve lived with a firefighter for nearly 30 years now, and this is one thing I’ve learned: When attending an event conceived of and planned by firefighters, we wives must be aware of certain risks.
Risk #1: You will be unaware of the details surrounding this event up to and even during the occasion. You will literally have no clue what you’re getting into, so be prepared for just about anything. Firefighters live on the edge, they live large, and they live dangerously. So when planning something as innocuous as a get-together, they can’t be bothered with such trivial details as dates, times, and what to bring, let alone what to wear. “Vague” is enough for them.
Risk #2: You can or will be stretched out of your comfort zone. Because of Risk #1, you might walk right into situations you are not prepared for, and this can be shocking, even life-altering. Firefighters have very broad ranges of interest, so anything goes at their parties. But with risk comes reward. Know this: You may be stretched, you may be shocked, but you will have fun. Firefighter events never cease to amaze, surprise, and entertain; with these risks in mind, as the wife of a firefighter, I always approach their events calmly but warily.
As is typical of my firefighter, I was informed that such an event was happening Saturday, on Thursday night, over the phone from the firehouse. I had heard that it was coming but really had no clue when. It was Sausage Fest 2014, and it was to be hosted by Lt. Leroy Sisley, who was a B-shifter on Ladder 5 at my husband Mike’s station, and Leroy’s very brave and sporting wife Lynda, who also works for Seattle Fire in the IT Department. Okay, so I have ONE day to prepare. But again, nearly 30 years of this; I roll with it. What do we bring?—I dared to ask. Don’t worry, he assures me, I’ll take care of it.
The next morning, Friday morning, Mike arrives home and I hear a very loud thud that echoes through the house as if he’d dropped a bowling ball. Again, I’m used to the unusual, and I barely react as I see a 20-pound pork butt slapped unceremoniously onto my kitchen counter. Next to the pork butt is a five-pound tube of ground turkey. I raise my eyebrows in an unasked question. “The turkey’s for you,” is all I get. How in the world are the two of us going to eat 25 pounds of meat? And what exactly IS a pork butt? What are we actually going to do with all of this raw meat at Sausage Fest anyway? But I didn’t bother to ask, for Mike probably had no clue either. He was simply told to show up with some meat, preferably pork butt, and that was enough for him. I did ask what time, and he replied, “Any time after 8:00 a.m.” There you go. Since it was cold enough to snow, I decided to dress warmly and forgo the jewelry. (I’m so glad I did, because it was cold and we did get our hands dirty.)
I had been under the false impression that Sausage Fest was all about sampling different, already prepared sausage. Silly me; the ordinary is never what firefighters have in mind. It was now apparent from the raw meat on my counter that more was in store. Fearing that such an event would be too barbaric for me and assuming it would be very poorly planned and chaotic, I hinted that perhaps he should attend this one alone. But Mike assured me that other wives would be there, so I decided to live dangerously and give it a try–calm, but wary.
We head out Saturday afternoon after loading our very big box of meat into the car. I, feeling clever, throw in a bunch of zipper-lock bags (enough to share if need be), as I am assuming no one will have thought of this “detail.” We are, after all, dealing with fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants firefighters, and I believe I’ll need something to haul my sausage home in. It’s now cold enough to snow, which it does a bit, and I’m hoping Sausage Fest will be mostly indoors.
As we turn on to the Sisley’s street, I see parked cars that stretch down around the corner and out of sight. Their house is the only visible house—except for a small park. “Is this all for Sausage Fest?” I ask Mike with surprise. “Yeah,” he casually responds. “They’re expecting between 100 and 150 people.” I’m incredulous; this is a much bigger deal than I thought. How could they possibly accommodate so many in their home? We decided to drive up the very steep driveway (as it happened to be empty at that moment) to unload our awkwardly heavy box of meat in the snowy cold. As I step out of the car, someone cries out a warning: “Be careful! It’s very slippery from the pork fat!” I begin to slip as soon as my foot touches the ground but grab the car door just in time. I can actually see a thin river of slime running down the pavement. I am now both horrified and intrigued by this strange sight as I carefully make my way up the hill to Sausage Fest 2014.
The first thing I see is tents, two big tents (a staple for rain-prone Seattle gatherings) outside the garage, under which are BBQs, propane heaters, and a six-foot dancing sausage. Yes, I said a dancing sausage; Leroy Sisley is decked out in an actual sausage costume, complete with bun and mustard. He’s wearing Seattle Fire shorts, bunker boots, and nylons; the nylons truly complete the disturbing ensemble. He runs up to me and grabs me in a warm, spongy costume embrace. He then grabs Mike and does the same.
“Welcome,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re here (as if we weren’t but two of 150 guests). Sign in over here …” and with this he begins to direct us on how to get started. I glance to the left of the garage and see some sort of trough or washing station next to a hose; on the ground all around the trough are meat droppings—most of which are pork—and realize that this is the source of the pork slime river. These folks mean business!
We “sign in” at the aforementioned table (because Leroy wants to know how many people and how much meat entered his home that day) and notice a donation can. Firefighters simply cannot gather without raising funds to help a worthy cause; they are philanthropists by nature. In this case, it is for the incredibly awesome Seattle Fire Bagpipers, as they have to do all that they do for the department out-of-pocket.
I now have a full view of the garage. This is no thrown-together haphazard gathering as I was expecting. Up till now I’d been secretly hoping that we would simply hand our raw meat to someone and that they would hand us back prepared sausage when we left. But I see now that this was not to be; all around the garage were neatly lined tables filled with various machines at which stood firefighters and their spouses, turning raw meat into sausage. Oh boy, here we go—what had my firefighter gotten me into this time?
I will continue with the rest of this sausage saga in my next column.
Anne Gagliano has been married to Captain Mike Gagliano of the Seattle (WA) Fire Department for 29 years. She and her husband lecture together on building and maintaining a strong marriage.
