Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - A rainy day, making soup

Episode Date: November 19, 2018

Our story tonight is called “A rainy day, making soup” and it’s a story about feeling lit up from the inside when it gets dark and gloomy out. It’s also about a drink of something special, a welcome home kiss, and falling asleep on the sofa while dinner is being made. So get cozy and ready to sleep. This episode mentions alcohol. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook for an extra bit of coziness. Now let me say a bit about how to use this podcast. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story to help you relax and ease your mind into sleep.

The story is simple, and not much happens in it, and that is kind of the idea. Just let your mind follow along with the details of what you hear and the sound of my voice. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you find you're still awake at the end of the second telling, not to worry. That's just fine. You could listen again, or just walk yourself back through any of the details that you remember. And before you know it, you'll be sinking down into deep and restful sleep. This is a kind of brain training,

and the more you do it, the more your sleep will improve. So be patient if you are new to this. Now it's time to switch off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at and settle your body into the most comfortable position that you can find take a slow deep breath in through your nose

and out through your mouth good do that one more time breathe in Good. Do that one more time. Breathe in. And out. Our story tonight is called A Rainy Day, Making Soup. And it's a story about feeling lit up from the inside when it gets dark and gloomy out.

It's also about a drink of something special, a welcome home kiss, and falling asleep on the sofa while dinner is being made. A rainy day. Making soup. I'd been out all day, umbrella open, going from shop to shop, finishing errands and racing through the rain. I'd bumped into an old friend along the way, and we'd stopped into a café for a hot drink. We'd settled into a couple of deep armchairs by a window and watched the rain coming down. It was only the early afternoon,

but the days were getting shorter. The skies were dark and low, and the bustle on the street was picking up as the instinct to nestle into our homes and hibernate was getting stronger. We sipped our cooling drinks and chatted away for a while. I realized that I'd been rushing all day, even though the deadlines I'd set myself were imaginary. I had time

and sitting with my friend tasting the sweet hot chai in my cup reminded me of that. On our way back out into the afternoon we made a date for lunch in a few days and gave each other a long squeeze. I notice my oldest friends, when they wrap me in their arms for a hug, squeeze me fit to break my ribs. None of this leaning in with a light pat on the back stuff.

It felt like a boost, like a spark deep inside me that caught and lit me up with a soft glow. Tucked under my umbrella, back in the rain, I smiled through my last few chores, and soon enough was turning the key in my front door and stepping into the warmth of home. I set down my bags, slipped my umbrella into the stand, and turned to lock the door. As I turned the bolt, I looked out at the rain, watched it running in heavy streams through gutters and downspouts, trailing down the sidewalks and coursing into the streets.

I was home for the night and couldn't be happier about it. I smiled thinking of Mr. Rogers as I slipped out of my raincoat and into an old cardigan and changed my wet shoes for fuzzy slippers. I carried my purchases into the kitchen and set everything out on the counter. I felt that sticky habit of rushing creeping up on me again, and I just stood still a second and took a big breath. You're home, I told myself. You've got the whole evening laid out in front of you.

Relax. Do what you like. Good idea, self, I answered. I looked around my kitchen. I always liked to have a clean slate when I cooked, so I tidied away the few dishes and cups sitting in the sink, wiped down the counters, and lit the candle on my windowsill. Much better, I thought. Now, shall I have a drink of something? I started to fill the kettle for tea, but remembered a bottle of something? I started to fill the kettle for tea, but remembered a bottle of something special

I'd mixed up in the fridge a few days before. I'd seen a recipe for a homemade kind of coffee cordial, made with whiskey and espresso, coconut milk, vanilla, and maple syrup. When I'd blended it up, I'd stirred some into a cup of coffee, which wasn't bad at all. But now I took a rocks glass from my cupboard, added a big ice cube, poured it straight from the fridge, and sipped it. It was creamy and a little sweet, and the whiskey was smooth and had a golden maple flavor.

I let it sit on my tongue for a few moments before swallowing it down and turning back to the counter of groceries. It was the perfect night for a soup, and I set my biggest pot out on the stove. I chopped an onion, some garlic, carrots, and celery, and added them to my pot with a few spoonfuls of olive oil. As they warmed and sizzled in the oil, I opened a can of smoky, crushed tomatoes,

took some veggie broth from my cupboard, and chopped a big bunch of chard into strips. I always start a soup thinking I don't have enough to fill the pot, but end up barely being able to get the lid on. So I tried to exercise a bit of control as I fought the urge to put every vegetable in the fridge into the pot. The night before, I'd been looking through my cupboard and found a paper sack of bright red beans I'd bought at the farmer's market the end of the summer.

The farmer had written in pencil across the bag, Scarlet Runner, good for soup. So I'd soaked them overnight in water in my fridge. Now I drained them and rinsed them. I added them with the broth and tomatoes, brought it all up to a boil, and then down to a simmer. As the flavors came together, I mixed up a quick cornbread and baked it off in a cast-iron pan in my oven. I heard a key in the lock and another umbrella joining mine in the stand. That smells amazing,

I heard over stomping feet and the rustle of a raincoat. I smiled and rushed out to the entryway for my kiss. That light inside sparked again, and even in the chill of the anteroom, with a cool nose pressed against mine, I was warm and rosy inside. Dinner in a bit, I said Want a drink? Yes, please I'll have whatever you're having I went back to the kitchen and stirred the soup adding in the greens and turning off the heat

I sliced a couple lemons that I would squeeze in at the last moment. I am a firm believer that every single soup is improved by a squeeze of lemon right before it's eaten. I peeked at the bread, a lovely sweet steam escaping the oven as I did. Fifteen minutes, I guessed, and I could dish it all up. I heard an old movie click on in the living room, and the sound of my sweetheart stretching out on the sofa. I poured a drink and carried it into the living room, set it down on the coffee table. I went back from mine, and stepping back into the room, heard a soft snore. I perched on the arm and

raised my glass to my lips, thinking how good it was to be home together, quiet and relaxed on a dark, rainy night. A rainy day, making soup. I'd been out all day, umbrella open, going from shop to shop, finishing errands, and racing through the rain. I'd bumped into an old friend along the way, and we'd stopped into a cafe for a hot drink. We'd settled into a couple of deep armchairs by a window and watched the rain coming down. It was only the early afternoon, but the days

were getting shorter. The skies were dark and low, and the bustle on the street was picking up as the instinct to nestle into our homes and hibernate was getting stronger. We sipped our cooling drinks and chatted away for a while. I realized I'd been hurrying all day, even though the deadlines I set myself were imaginary. I had time, and sitting with my friend, tasting the sweet hot chai in my cup reminded me of that. On our way back out into the afternoon, we made a date for lunch in a few days and gave each other a long squeeze. I noticed my oldest friends

when they wrapped me in their arms for a hug, squeeze me fit to break my ribs. None of this leaning in with a light pat on the back stuff. It felt like a boost like a spark deep inside that caught and lit me up with a soft glow

tucked under my umbrella back in the rain I smiled through my last few chores, and soon enough was turning the key in my front slipped my umbrella into the stand, and turned to lock the door. As I turned the bolt, I looked out at the rain, watched it running in heavy streams through gutters and downspouts, trailing down the sidewalks and coursing into the street.

I was home for the night and couldn't be happier about it. I smiled, thinking of Mr. Rogers, as I slipped out of my raincoat and into an old cardigan and changed my wet shoes for fuzzy slippers. I carried my purchases into the kitchen and set everything out on the counter. I felt that sticky habit of rushing creeping up on me again, and I stood still a second and took a big breath. You're home, I told myself. You've got the whole evening laid out in front of you. Relax.

Do what you like. Good idea, self, I answered. I looked around my kitchen. I always liked to have a clean slate when I cooked, so I tidied away the few dishes and cups sitting in the sink, wiped down the counters, and lit the candle on my windowsill. Much better, I thought. Now, shall I have a drink of something?

I started to fill the kettle for tea, but remembered a bottle of something special I'd mixed up in the fridge a few days before. I'd seen a recipe for a homemade kind of coffee cordial, made with whiskey, an espresso, coconut milk, vanilla, and maple syrup. When I'd blended it up, I'd stirred some into a cup of coffee, which wasn't bad at all. But now I took a rocks glass from my cupboard, added a big ice cube, poured it straight from the fridge, and sipped it.

It was creamy and a little sweet, and the whiskey was smooth and had a golden maple flavor. I let it sit on my tongue for a few moments before swallowing it down and turning back to the counter of groceries. It was the perfect night for a soup, and I set my biggest pot out on the stove.

I chopped an onion, some garlic, carrots, and celery, and added them to my pot with a few spoonfuls of olive oil. As they warmed and sizzled in the oil, I opened a can of smoky, crushed tomatoes, took some veggie broth from my cupboard, and chopped a big bunch of chard into strips. I always start a soup thinking I don't have enough to fill the pot, but end up barely

able to get the lid on. So I tried to exercise a bit of control as I fought the urge to put every vegetable in the fridge into the pot. The night before, I'd been looking through my cupboard and found a paper sack of bright red beans I'd bought at the farmer's market at the end of the summer. The farmer had written in pencil across the bag, Scarlet Runner, good for soup. So I'd soaked them overnight in water in my fridge. Now I drained and rinsed them,

adding them with the broth, tomatoes, and bringing it up to a boil and back down to a simmer. As the flavors came together, I mixed up a quick cornbread and baked it off in a cast-iron pan in my oven. I heard a key in the lock and another umbrella joining mine in the stand. That smells amazing, I heard over stomping feet and the rustle of a raincoat. I smiled and rushed out to the entryway for my kiss.

That light inside sparked again. And even in the chill of the anteroom, with a cool nose pressed against mine, I was warm and rosy inside. Dinner in a bit, I said. Want a drink? Yes, please. I'll have whatever you're having.

I went back to the kitchen and stirred the soup, adding in the greens and turning off the heat. I sliced a couple lemons that I would squeeze in at the last moment. I am a firm believer that every single soup is improved by a squeeze of lemon right before it's eaten. I peeked at the bread, a lovely sweet steam escaping the oven as I did. Fifteen minutes, I guessed, and I could dish it all up. I heard an old movie click on in the living room, and the sound of my sweetheart stretching out on the sofa.

I poured a drink and carried it into the living room, set it down on the coffee table. I went back for mine. Stepping back into the room, I heard a soft snore. I perched on the arm and raised my glass to my lips, thinking how good it was to be home together, quiet and relaxed on a dark, rainy night. Sweet dreams.