The massive oak table is a work of art, hewn from a Vermont forest, carved and painted by hands that can trace the curve of a piece of wood as skillfully as they can hoist a hose. A firefighters' table, crafted by firemen for their brothers, donated years ago to the Broadway firehouse at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 48th Street. In the center is a painted skyline of New York _ the old skyline, the one dominated by two gleaming towers. Superimposed on the skyline are the bright lights of Broadway, along with the firehouse motto: Never Missed a Performance. Fifteen men from this firehouse were lost when the towers of the World Trade Center collapsed on Sept. 11. Their memorial cards are strewn across the table, along with coffee cups and soda cans and crumbs of everyday life. The kitchen is a cluttered, homey place where the coffee is always strong, a pot of hot sauce is always bubbling, and smells of grilled steak and fried onions mingle with cries of ``Hey Joe, season with reason this time!'' ``The Pride of Midtown'' they are called, these men from Battalion 9 who work at one of the busiest firehouses in Manhattan, possibly the world. They answer about 14,000 calls a year _ racing out on Ladder 4 and Engine 54 to theaters and hotels and restaurants, to factories in the garment district, to the high-rise apartments of stars. And when they're done, and they roll back into the midtown firehouse, dusty and tired, this kitchen is where they unwind. Here, when the intercom booms ``chow time, chow time,'' they tumble in for lunch and dinner. If they're lucky, and someone brings eggs, they might cook up a giant breakfast, too. Around this table, every Thanksgiving, they serve turkey for family and friends. And lately, around this table, they gather after funerals to pour out their souls. ``Thanksgiving?'' mutters firefighter Bob Jackson as though questioning the meaning of the holiday itself. ``What do we have to give thanks for this year?'' How can they give thanks without the big round smile of Al Feinberg, filling the kitchen with his presence, joking about how lucky the firehouse is to have a good Jewish firefighter to run the place at the holidays. Many of the guys -- Irish and Italian Catholics -- had never been to a synagogue before they went to Feinberg's memorial. ``Al was so good in the kitchen,'' chuckles firefighter Chris Balducci. ``And by good in the kitchen, I don't mean he was a good cook.'' Chief Ed Geraghty was good in the kitchen too, although he tried to stay out of it at least once a year. Every Thanksgiving, he would book the entire Geraghty clan, including his wife, Mary, and boys, Connor, James and Colin, into the Milford Plaza Hotel. They'd spend the night on the town. And then, early Thanksgiving morning, they'd bundle up and head off to the parade. ``Ed Geraghty was such a good guy,'' says firefighter James Cooney. He sighs. ``They were ALL good guys.'' Mikey Brennan, the brawny, street-smart Irish kid with the pierced tongue, always ready with a joke and a yarn. Mike Haub, so proud of his German heritage that if he had his way at Thanksgiving he'd forget about the turkey and whip up his specialty for the entire firehouse: smoked pork chops smothered in sauerkraut. Sammy Oitice, always boasting about the latest success of the roller-hockey league he started in his hometown of Peekskill, N.Y. Big Lenny ``Rags'' Ragaglia, who'd clear his plate and lumber out of the kitchen after dinner. ``Goin' toes up,'' he'd say, as he headed to his bunk, and they'd all laugh. And David Wooley, a captain. ``Leather lungs,'' they called him. He could find a pocket of air in a piece of wood. Their photographs plaster the firehouse walls. Their presence lingers in all sorts of ways. In Danny Callaghan's spare fire coat still hanging on a rack at the back of the station. On the white roster board, untouched since Sept. 11, that lists the duties of the guys on call that day. Normally, the board gets cleaned with every new shift. But no one can wipe out the names of men who will never return. In the memories that sneak up suddenly, bringing bursts of anger, and tears. Paul Gill doodling in his sketchbook. Chris Santora, the wide-eyed rookie. Carl Asaro playing the piccolo. The newly hired ``probies'' listen to the tales. They try to fit in quietly, and the old-timers try to make them welcome. But there are times the probies feel they have traded places with ghosts. And yet, traditions endure, if only for the families. And so, this Thanksgiving, as they do every year, the families of Battalion 9 and Ladder Co. 4 and Engine Co. 54 will gather at a church hall on Times Square to watch the Macy's Parade. Afterward, they'll all troop back to the kitchen for coffee and cake. The crowd will probably be bigger this year. And the cakes will probably be more spectacular: The gourmet restaurants from ``restaurant row'' are outdoing each other donating apple strudels and black raspberry tortes and other gastronomic delicacies that rarely find their way into the firehouse. Other goodies pour in, too: free golf trips to Atlanta and Florida, tickets to Rangers hockey games and to concerts at Madison Square Garden. The firefighters feel guilty about accepting such gifts. They even feel guilty about laughing sometimes. Only one body from Battalion 9 has been recovered from Ground Zero. ``I guess we would all feel a little more thankful,'' says Chief Charlie Williams, ``if we could first bury our dead.'' And yet, outside the firehouse, even 10 weeks after the attacks, throngs of people gather daily to give thanks. They carry flowers and flags and teddy bears and messages from all over the world. They sign books of condolences. And they wait patiently, sometimes in the wind and the rain, until they spot a firefighter _ any firefighter _ so they can shake his hand and say, ``Thank you.'' At night, the widows come to visit, and so do the stars. John Travolta taught dance moves in the kitchen a few weeks ago. Muhammad Ali donated a signed set of boxing gloves. Liz Taylor swanned in with hugs. And Vincent Pastore, who played Salvatore ``Big Pussy'' Bonpensiero on the TV show ``The Sopranos'' mugged for photographs with Joe Ceravolo, the firefighter cook with the penchant for hot sauces -- the one the guys call ``Pussy.'' Around the table firefighters laugh at the photos. And they reminisce about Thanksgivings past. The year the chef on duty forgot to defrost the turkey, and they all raced around Broadway trying to find a cooked one. The year they were so busy that a relief squad from Harlem took over the kitchen. When they finally rolled back to the firehouse, exhausted and hungry and covered in soot, they could hardly believe their eyes. The table was laid out like a magazine cover: tablecloth and candles, turkey and ham. And every trimming you could imagine. ``We had it as good as The Waldorf that year,'' chuckles Billy Dunigan. He pauses. ``This year, I guess we'll just try to get through the day.'' On the stairway leading up to the locker rooms and bunks, a huge board charts the Fire Department's upcoming funerals and memorial services. There is one every day through Dec. 1. What can you say, asks Chief Joseph Nardone as he wrestles with the eulogy for Danny Callaghan, just before Thanksgiving. ``How do you find words that comfort and connect?'' Nardone has tried. He has borrowed from Shakespeare. He has quoted from a piece written by a fire chief a century ago. Nothing seemed enough. And then Nardone discovered Thornton Wilder's novel, ``The Bridge of San Luis Rey,'' _ a simple tale of five people who die when a bridge collapses, and of the monk who sets out to find meaning in the accident. Why those people, the monk wonders, much as Nardone himself has wondered since Sept. 11. Why not me? The monk concludes there is no meaning in such random death. Life and death are determined by chance. In that conclusion, Nardone finds insight and inspiration. And so, this Thanksgiving, as he sits in the firehouse kitchen, and prepares yet another eulogy, this is what the chief will tell his grieving brothers. That the bridge between life and death is love. That while there is no meaning in the deaths of Danny Callaghan and all the others who perished on Sept. 11, there is a deep, enduring meaning in the way they lived. And in the way they are loved. This Thanksgiving, the chief will tell them, they should be thankful for that meaning and that love.