We asked a dozen residents what tourists overlook, and their answers said a lot about who we are.

The first Saturday in March, the volunteer fire department on Route 9 opens its bay doors at 6 a.m. and starts cooking. By 7, there's a line out to the parking lot. By 10:30, it's over. In between, roughly 600 people will come through for pancakes, sausage, scrambled eggs, and coffee that's been described — affectionately — as "strong enough to strip paint."

This is the department's biggest fundraiser of the year, and it's been running for so long that nobody's entirely sure when it started. The current chief, a soft-spoken man named Ray Kowalski, thinks it's been going since the 1970s. The oldest guy on the crew, a retired electrician named Walt, says he remembers helping at one when he was in high school, which would put it closer to 1968.

What everyone agrees on is that the breakfast is a logistical operation, and it runs on a level of coordination that would make a restaurant manager weep with envy.

The System

Here's how it works. The night before, a crew of six sets up the bay: folding tables, chairs borrowed from the church hall, and a griddle line along the back wall that runs on propane. There are three griddles, each about four feet wide. One is for plain pancakes, one is for blueberry, and one is for whatever experimental batch somebody decides to make around 9 a.m., usually involving chocolate chips.

The batter is mixed in five-gallon buckets. The recipe is written on an index card taped inside a cabinet door, and it's been scaled up so many times that the measurements are in units like "one scoop" and "half a jug." Nobody measures anything precisely. It doesn't matter. The pancakes are consistently good.

The line moves fast because of a system the crew calls "the relay." One person takes orders at the door. Two people plate. Two people run plates to tables. One person refills coffee. One person works the door, taking money and pointing people toward the line. Everyone has a job, and nobody switches jobs unless somebody needs a break.

Ray said the system evolved over decades of trial and error. "We used to have people just kind of wander around helping," he said. "It was chaos. Now everybody knows where they're supposed to be."

Why People Keep Coming Back

The breakfast isn't just about pancakes. It's the one morning a year when you're guaranteed to run into people you haven't seen since last year's breakfast. Tables get pushed together. Conversations run long. Kids run between the trucks parked outside. Somebody always brings a dog.

The money raised goes toward equipment the department can't cover through the town budget — new turnout gear, hose replacements, a thermal imaging camera a few years back. Ray said last year's breakfast brought in enough to replace two sets of gear, which is more than they'd expected.

If you've never been, here's the advice the crew gives: come early, bring cash, and don't be shy about asking for extra sausage. They always make more than they think they'll need, and they'd rather send it home with somebody than throw it out.

The next breakfast is the first Saturday in March, 7 a.m. to 10:30. Parking is in the lot across the street. The line looks long. It moves fast.