They each picked up a cooler, and I went to the chief’s office. I knocked and poked my head in when he told me to enter. He was drowning in paperwork, no doubt some of it the beginning of reports from today’s fire.
“Sir, my friends have bought dinner in. Can you announce it over the speaker in a few minutes?”
“Of course. Please tell them thank you.”
“I will, sir.”
When I walked into the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks for the second time that day. Carina had already spread out a feast, and Jacques and Rusty were placing more tubs on the countertop.
At the sound of the announcement, I kicked into gear, pulling out plates and cutlery.
Carina waited until the room was full of firefighters, then smiled and said loud enough that everyone could hear, “I hope you like all this. All the recipes are typical Aussie food. The only thing that’s missing is the Bunnings snag.”
Before I could figure out what that meant, she gestured to the dishes behind her and, pointing to each one, described what they were, “Chunky beef and gravy meat pies, sausage rolls, chicken parmi—parmigiana—roasted leg of lamb and veg, plain cheeseburger sliders, sliders with beetroot and egg, bacon and garlic potato bake, damper, and for dessert, I have ANZAC biscuits and scones with jam and cream.”
“On behalf of everyone here, thank you,” Chief Cabello said. “It all looks delicious and smells even better.”
“My pleasure.” She smiled and flicked her gaze to me, her smile softening. Then she clapped her hands together and added, “Dig in, everyone.”
I’d never seen a group of men and women line up so quickly. My station mates filled their plates, and with every serving taken, Carina smiled wider. She insisted on Jacques, Rusty, and me sitting down to eat while she floated around the room, refilling plates and giggling at jokes. It was loud and happy, and warmth filled my chest.
And y’all, it was not from the hideous abomination that was canned beetroot on a burger giving me indigestion. What the fuck were those Aussies thinking? I’d often seen Carina opening a can and taking a piece, staining her fingers pink along with her lips and tongue, but I’d never tasted it. I was going to go back to never tasting it again.
It was God-fucking-awful.
I watched as Jacques laughed with my station mates, talking like the old friends they were. Rusty was as quiet as I was, watching everyone and flicking his gaze away as soon as he made eye contact with someone. He’d come a long way in the years I’d known him, but this was too big a crowd for him to be comfortable with, despite ours being one of the smaller stations around.
Every time I stood up, Carina rushed over, asking what I wanted so she could refill it. She hadn’t sat down for a moment, but she was eating, picking at a sausage roll and a buttered piece of damper. It wasn’t enough, but I’d noticed that of late, she often snacked on smaller amounts throughout the day rather than three square meals. Where she used to eat cherry tomatoes like candy, she’d stopped, swapping basically everything acidic with dry crackers. Something was off, but she’d waved away our concerns saying that it was the change in foods she was eating that was giving her heartburn.
As the evening wore on and an hour turned into two, I could see her flagging. The food was almost all gone, demolished by hungry firefighters. But no one was moving, waiting on dessert.
“Sit. Down,” I ordered when I saw her stifle a yawn after offering a top up of the potato bake.
“It’s all good.” She waved me off, put down the tray, and I caught her wrists.
“No, it ain’t,” I retorted. I gestured with a tilt of my head. “Sit in my seat and let me make you a cup of tea. Jacques, Rusty, where’s dessert?”
Jacques reached into a cooler and pulled out the biggest containers yet, and Rusty took out jars of jelly and a covered bowl of whipped cream. They took off the lids, and the smell of warm cookies and sugar filled the room. I hummed. Dayum. I needed to try those.
Carina took the lids before I could stop her and said, “Those are ANZAC biscuits. They’re the soft version, but I can cook crunchy ones too if that’s what you like. The wives of our diggers sent these bickies to them overseas during World War I.”
The rookie reached for one and bit into it. “That’s a good cookie.”
“Nope.” Carina shook her head. “They’re biscuits. Yes, they’re known here as cookies, but by law they need to be called ANZAC biscuits. Long story, but you can’t sell ANZAC cookies, only biscuits.”
“Huh.” Chief nodded and pointed to what looked like biscuits. “What were those?”
“They’re scones. Kind of like a sweet version of your biscuits. You eat them with jam—jelly—and whipped cream.”
Carina reached in and took a half of one out, then taught us all how strawberry jelly was the best with it and it needed to go on first. Then she added a dollop of cream twice the size of what I would have thought to put on the biscuit—scone.
“It’s really important you have lots of cream.” She gestured to the bowl. “I don’t want to have to eat all of that later.”
I passed her the cup of tea made just how she liked it. Except for the milk—we only had half and half.
Jacques sat down and tapped his lap. Carina waved him off, but Jacques insisted, his voice quiet but firm. “Get over here so Travis can sit down again.”
“Oh shit, sorry, Trav.” She stood up and looked for an empty chair, but Jacques pulled her straight onto his lap. No one was watching our exchange, everyone already having dug into the scones and cookies, but Carina’s cheeks flushed a pretty pink.
