As part of our training in fort hood, we fielded various day to day issues that may come up during our deployment. Some of these issues included IEDs, attacks on the base, protests, and working through contract disputes with local contractors. Other issues were more mundane, like this email SSG Klaver eloquently handled:
I know this was a while ago but i thought it needed to be posted
From: Eggers (Tenant)
Sent: Monday, March 28, 20112:00 PM
To: 26 YB Eggers
Subject: DFAC complaint
BSG,
Has the price of bread and eggs gone up? I was just wondering because that is the only reason I could come up with for the chow hall not having French toast in the morning? Obviously, a LOT of soldiers want French toast for breakfast, so why would they quit having it? If soldiers had the option to eat breakfast where ever they want and if the chow hall profits were based on the number of soldiers that eat there, they would seriously lose money on this decision. I think it is a shame that when a soldier in a war zone gets a little something that reminds him of home and gives him a little bit of pleasure, and someone with no concern for the soldier just yanks it away from him.
CW2 Henderson
2/234 IN
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From: 26 YB Eggers
Sent: Monday, March 28, 2011 4:30 PM
To: Eggers (Tenant)
Subject: RE: NTMA: DFAC complaint
I can’t thank you enough for bringing this matter to our attention. I would be derelict in my duties to uphold the value of integrity if I did not admit that it has been far too long since I have thought of French toast. As I read your e-mail, I was reminded of my youth, specifically my earliest recollections, and how the smell of French toast would waft through the early morning air and wake me with a gentle nudge as if to say “hello”. I would swing my feet out of the Raggedy Ann and Andy blanket and crinkle my toes in the deep shag rug as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. All the while the French toast beckoned.
I would slip on my Garanimals and a clean pair of socks (though between us they hardly ever matched!) and start my journey down the hallway. I could see the early morning haze as the sun burned its way through the window panes and the smell of syrup seemed to dance like succulent ballerina on the warming sun’s rays. Oh it was delightful!
I would bound down the stairs and use that last balustrade to swing around toward the kitchen door, inevitably my mismatched socks would slip on that last hardwood stair but, seriously, I didn’t care! French toast, French toast, French toast! Was all I could think! Then there it was the last barrier between me and the luscious French toast. No six panel door would be strong enough to hold me back! I WOULD NOT BE DENIED!!
I crashed through the door and blurted out “FRENCH TOAST!! YES, YES, GOD IN HEAVEN, YES!” and before me I saw her, my nanny Ramelda. The whisked eggs glistening off her spatula, the reflection from the pure (imitation) maple syrup, the pillowy bread slices lying atop each other. She was a breakfast goddess and this kitchen, beneath her in every sense, was her kingdom.
I seemed to float into my chair and like a synchronized Swiss watch the plate of French toast seemed to appear before me. The slices were bronzed and yellow with patches of soft brown like flower patches in a field. Atop the mound of heaven was a large pat of butter that was melting as if it were giving its life so slowly for the benefit of all. I reached to my right and, without having to look, wrapped my small fingers around the warm Aunt Jemima figurine bottle of faux maple syrup.
To this day I swear the cap eased off itself and I smile every time I think of how the syrup was always ready at the edge of the spout. It flowed across the French toast, skimming the dying butter, and reached for every edge of my plate. It was art, in its purest form, to watch. The symphony of interaction still brings a tear to my eye.
So, Chief Henderson, do I understand the impact of this? You bet I do! Chief… you bet I do…
But we don’t have any more French toast here so I suppose it sucks for you. Have a great day.
SSG Klaver
