Three years ago this week, I took up residence in a
hospital in northern Arizona which asked what I wanted to eat for each of my
three daily meals. On every single menu sheet I selected, “nutrition.”
Actually, that was a write-in and I found out quickly that they did not accept
off-menu suggestions.
I ordered their version of a Thanksgiving
meal once, and I emphasize here once, during my nine-day stay. I was
served a gray piece of boiled turkey. Boiled. It actually turned to powder when I cut into it. I’m not even exaggerating here. The next evening, I asked
for a grilled cheese sandwich. The word “grilled” was part of their description
but when it arrived all alone in an oversized styrofoam container, the tiny
white bread triangles, sans butter or fat or grill marks of any kind, had come
apart to reveal a piece of microwaved cheese food product masquerading as nourishment.
I was not fooled. I was not filled.
And that was the night I ordered takeout to be brought
in to my hospital room. Because typically one does not go to a hospital to die
of starvation. One goes there to get well. Someone ought to mention that to the
kitchen staff. It should come as a surprise to no one, especially hospitals, that our bodies require actual food for survival and recovery, and if it tastes good, we'll be more likely to eat it.
Of the handful of restaurants that worked with my
DoorDash app, only Firehouse Subs was reliable, which is why every single day for
a week and a half I ordered a hot sandwich from them. I’d lost fifteen pounds while
I was sick at home. I was starving, and while the hospital considered food optional, Firehouse Subs was more than happy to feed my fever. No one questioned why a
patient like me had to resort to outside food for sustenance. Perhaps because
no one else ate at the hospital either.
And I got well. I came down off that mountain, back to
the land of the living, and to this day I am privileged to be a huge fan of
Firehouse Subs. I plan to order a Hook and Ladder from them in about fifteen
minutes, give or take how long it takes me to get dressed. Hospitals let you
eat in your pajamas, but there’s a tiny little bit of a dress code when you go
out in public at my age.
Here’s the thing about this sandwich shop. There is a
heart connection for me, as well as a hunger connection. Not only did they feed me while I
was hospitalized, they also support first responders who save lives everywhere
everyday across the country. Every time I spend money there, I have the option
to donate a little extra which helps with the purchase of equipment for first responders
in my community. Tax money, as we all know, doesn’t spread as far as
politicians tell us it will. To date, Firehouse Subs Public Safety Foundation
has donated eighty-one million dollars to hometown heroes in all fifty states
and Puerto Rico. That’s a lot of bread.
I am the widow of a firefighter who spent thirty-eight
years of his life saving the lives of people, both literally and through the
education of firefighters and citizens alike, in Florida and also Arizona. Our
children grew up climbing on firetrucks and hanging out in fire stations. When
I walk into this sandwich shop with its fire department décor and themed
sandwich choices, I feel at home. So, how ironic is it that this same restaurant
once saved my life?
Keeping it real, there is only one thing I’ve ever
complained about when it comes to my Hook and Ladder Sandwich. I despise
pickles. Pickles offend me. I can smell one at twenty paces and if any pickle
juice from a donated pickle puddles beside my food, I will soak it up with a
napkin and discard both the culprit and its evidence. Firehouse Subs, as well
as most of America, sees pickles differently than I do, and include one free
pickle spear with every sandwich.
This is a problem.
Finally last week after several online and in-person
orders where even my receipt specifies that I am anti-pickle and yet often I still
wind up with the soggy, booger-green ex-cucumber atop my sandwich, I politely mentioned
it. To the manager. Who knows my face, knows my sandwich, works hard to train
her young staff, and gave me that day’s order free just for the inconvenience caused
by my pickle phobia.
See? This, too, is why I support Firehouse Subs. They
save local lives with their determination to financially support firefighters.
They save me from making my own lunch. They care about making the customer
happy even when they themselves have had a bad day (which she had.) They saved
my life in the mountains. And they've saved a few unwanted pickles from dying a tragic
death in the trash.
Firehouse Subs. Do yourself a favor, order a sandwich,
support a firefighter.
