Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Back To The Bakery

Episode Date: July 12, 2021

Our story tonight is called Back to the Bakery and it’s a story about the early morning preparations made in the kitchen before the Village of Nothing Much wakes. It’s also about a kitty with a crooked tail, hot donuts set out on a tray, and a summer pick-me-up made with love. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodes  Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Season 8 of Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. If you love the world of nothing much, I invite you to seek out my beautifully illustrated book. It's full of favorite stories, recipes, guided meditations, and tips for self-care.

It's available in many formats all over the world. You can learn more and join our ad-free and bonus stories feed at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, every episode is someone's first, so let me say a little about how this works. Your mind needs a track to run on. Without one, it's likely to run away from you and keep you up all night. The story is that track, and just by listening, you'll shift your mind onto it. It'll take you someplace simple and relaxing. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, you can get right back on track

just by thinking your way through any part of the story that you can remember. This is brain training, and it will get easier and faster the longer you practice it. Now, let's settle in. Turn off the light.

Set down anything you're carrying. Even better, you can hand it to me. I'll keep watch for the night. You can let go. Get comfortable and take a deep breath in through the nose and sigh from the mouth. One more. In and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Back to the Bakery, and it's a story

about the early morning preparations made in the kitchen before the village of nothing much wakes. It's also about a kitty with a crooked tail, hot donuts set out on the tray, and a summer pick-me-up made with love. Back to the bakery. In the kitchen behind the wall of bread baskets, where we slot fresh baguettes and ciabattas and pyramids of rolls into place each morning, there is a long, flowery workbench and a row of deep ovens

that start heating before the village is awake there is a long row of aprons on hooks open shelves with dozens of mixing bowls tall pitchers full of every kind and shape of spatula and mixing spoon and dusting wand, and a broad, cool slab of marble to roll pastries on. Over the years, I'd learned how to time the proving and chilling so that a lot of prep work

happens in the afternoons and less while I'm still rubbing the sleep from my eyes at the crack of dawn. Still, I am an early riser. Either by nature, perhaps I was a baker down deep in my jeans, or at this point purely from habit, and never mind unlocking the door while most of the village slept. Today had been no different.

A cool, quiet morning, as I'd walked through the back alley just before dawn. I recognized the kitty with the crooked tail who was often stretched out in the front window of the tea shop, sitting now on a crate behind the bookstore. I think he got his breakfast there most days. And though I called out in a low voice to him, he didn't stop his morning ablutions to so much as look at me.

I laughed, thinking of that old Nan Porter line, that if cats could talk, they wouldn't. I found my key on the ring and jiggled it into the old lock, until it turned and stepped into the kitchen. I had a routine. Coffee first. Luckily, the me from the day before had been looking out for the me of this morning. So the drip machine was ready. Fresh grounds in the basket, and the reservoir filled with water, waiting to become something

even more vital. I pushed the button and tied on my apron and went hunting for my favorite cup while the pot perked companionably on the counter. When my cup was full, I pulled up on a stool by the register with a pad of paper and a sturdy black marker to make my morning punch list. It was a Friday. I was nearly sure, and I pulled my calendar closer to confirm. Yes, Friday.

So we'd need plenty of bagels and muffins for the breakfast crowd, as they bustled in before work. I had trays of bagels in the fridge, formed and risen, ready to be pulled out, and when they'd reached room temperature, briefly poached before being slid into the oven. I'd make some with sesame seeds, some with a crust of crunchy salt, and some with swirls of cinnamon and raisins baked inside.

The muffins I could mix with my eyes closed. The fresh strawberries had run out the week before, but now we had blueberries from a farm outside of town. And I thought they'd go perfectly with the candied yuzu zest and ginger syrup I had in the pantry. I always made a tray of lemon poppy seed. They were classics and the go-to for lots of morning regulars. In a few more weeks, the cases of zucchini

would start showing up and I'd be making loaves and muffin tins full of the sweet, dense bread they lent themselves to so well. I check my shelves for the dark chocolate chunks I like to fold in with the fruit itself would come a few precious boxes of the flowers, which we'd dip in batter and fry off, wrapping them in wax paper and handing them out for afternoon

snacks. Oh, I'd gotten distracted, thinking of zucchini. I tapped my marker on the pad. What came after muffins? Bread. Always bread. Sourdough and pumpernickel and soft, sweet wheat baguettes and ciabatta

that made such good toasted sandwiches and the rolls people bought to go with their salads at lunch and a good lot of pastries as well and the rolls people bought to go with their salads at lunch. And a good lot of pastries as well, some filled with jam and others with warm chocolate. When I'd taken over this place from the previous owner, a man whose baking had inspired me for years. He'd encouraged me to push our customers toward new flavors and textures.

He told me that when we started, no one wanted anything other than white bread, birthday cakes, and a chess pie on Sunday. It took time, he said. But soon his rye and pumpernickel were best sellers. His pretzels and sesame cookies became parts of traditions for lots of people in the village. No one even contemplated getting through New Year's without a box of his flaky cardamom buns. It had been the same for me and the pastries. No one bought any for the first month. They didn't know how to eat them, when and with what. But slowly I found myself wrapping more and more in bakery paper,

passing them across the counter to watch customers take immediate bites, not wanting to waste a moment of their still warm, flaky deliciousness. And nowadays, they were sold out by 10 a.m. I'd just started to sneak pistachio into the mix. We'd see how that went. I stood up and refilled my coffee and went into the kitchen.

I washed my hands and started pulling trays out of the fridge and heating the ovens. There was an ancient radio, old enough to have a tape deck, but still working, propped up on the shelf over the sink, and I reached up on tiptoes to twist the knob. When I was younger, this station had played the newest music, music that came out on the tapes that would probably still work in the deck. The kind that every now and then had to be rewound into their cases with a

carefully angled pencil. But as the years went by, the playlists had stayed the same. Now I guessed these were oldies. I didn't mind. I liked knowing the words, the drum beats, and the spots where the bridge flowed into the chorus. Soon the bagels were coming out, the muffins and bread loaves going in. I was a few minutes away from flipping the sign on the front door,

and my morning helpers would be here in a minute, tying on their aprons and pouring their own cups of coffee to keep close to their stations. Each morning, we filled a few orders for local cafes and diners, and I set about laying out their trays. tacked up on the board above my station, with each spot's order, though they rarely changed when I knew them by heart. As I set out the sliced sandwich bread and bagels, my first assistant of the morning appeared behind me with a tray of hot donuts. Time always got away from me

in the mornings and I blessed my staff for paying attention to the clock and added the donuts to the tray. I was about to wrap up the last order, the one for the diner kitty-corner from our front door. When I remembered something special I'd made the day before. I often slipped a little treat into this order. The waitress who came to fetch it each morning was a friend, and the best test taster we had.

It had been a week of hot, sunny days, and I'd had tiramisu on my mind, served chilled with plenty of espresso-soaked ladyfingers and a dusting of cocoa powder on top. It was the perfect summer boost. In fact, its name meant pick-me-up. I took a tray of it from the freezer and used my sharp chef's knife to cut out a perfect square. It was frozen hard, so the layers showed perfectly along the sides, and I knew a moment of baker's pride

as I slid the square into a paper container, which I folded closed and took my marker to write across the top. Let sit for ten minutes, then have the perfect summer breakfast. A dash and a scribbled heart, and I popped it onto the tray with a rest. I heard the bell over the front door ring.

Another day at the bakery had begun. Back to the bakery. In the kitchen, behind the wall of bread baskets, where we slot fresh baguettes and ciabatas and pyramids of rolls into place each morning. There is a long flowery workbench and a row of deep ovens that start heating before the village is awake. There's a long line of aprons on hooks, open shelves with dozens of mixing bowls, tall pitchers full of every kind and shape of spatula and mixing spoon

and dusting wand, and a broad, cool slab of marble to roll pastries on. Over the years, I'd learned how to time the proving and chilling, so that a lot of prep happens in the afternoon, unless while I am still rubbing the sleep from my eyes at the crack of dawn. Still, I am an early riser, either by nature perhaps I was a baker down deep in my genes or at this point purely from habit

and never mind unlocking the door while most of the village slept. Today had been no different. A cool, quiet morning as I'd walked through the back alley just before dawn. I recognized the kitty with the crooked tail, who often stretched out in the front window of the tea shop, sitting now on a crate behind the bookstore. I think he got his breakfast there most days.

And though I called out in a low voice to him. He didn't stop his morning ablutions to so much as look at me. I laughed, thinking of that old Nan Porter line that if cats could talk, they wouldn't. I found my key on the ring and jiggled it into the old lock until it turned and stepped into the kitchen. I had a routine, coffee first.

Luckily, the me from the day before had been looking out for the me from the day before had been looking out for the me of this morning. So the drip machine was ready fresh grounds in the basket and the reservoir filled with water waiting to become and the reservoir filled with water, waiting to become something even more vital. I pushed the button and tied on my apron

and went hunting for my favorite cup while the pot perked companionably on the counter. When my cup was full, I pulled up on a stool by the register with a pad of paper and a sturdy black marker to make my morning punch list. It was a Friday. I was nearly sure.

And I pulled my calendar closer to confirm. Yes, Friday. So we'd need plenty of bagels and muffins for the breakfast crowd as they bustled in before work. I had trays of bagels in the fridge, formed and risen, ready to be pulled out. And when they reached room temperature, briefly poached before being slid into the oven. I'd made some with sesame seeds, some with a crust of crunchy salt, and some with swirls of cinnamon and raisins baked inside. the muffins I could mix with my eyes closed

the fresh strawberries had run out the week before but now we had blueberries from a farm outside of town and I thought they'd go perfectly We had blueberries from a farm outside of town, and I thought they'd go perfectly with the candied yuzu zest and ginger syrup I had in the pantry. I always made a tray of lemon poppy seed. They were classics and the go-to for lots of morning regulars. In a few more weeks, the cases of zucchini would start showing up, and I'd be making loaves and muffin tins full of the sweet, dense bread they lent themselves to so well. I'd check my shelves for the dark chocolate chunks

I liked to fold in with the grated zucchini. Along with the fruit itself would come a few precious boxes of the flowers, which we'd dip in batter and fry off, wrapping them in wax paper and handing them out for afternoon snacks. I'd gotten distracted, thinking of zucchini. I tapped my marker on the pad. What came after muffins? Bread. Always bread.

Sourdough. And pumpernickel. And soft, sweet wheat, baguettes and ciabatta that made such good toasted sandwiches and the rolls people bought to go with their salads at lunch,

and a good lot of pastries as well, some filled with jam and others with warm chocolate. When I'd taken over this place from the previous owner, a man whose baking had inspired me for years. He'd encouraged me to push our customers toward new flavors and textures. He'd told me that when he started, no one wanted anything other than white bread, his rye and pumpernickel were best sellers. His pretzels and sesame cookies became parts of traditions for lots of people in the village. No one even contemplated getting through New Year's

without a box of his flaky cardamom buns. It had been the same for me and the pastries. No one bought any for the first month. They didn't know how to eat them, when and with what. But slowly, I found myself wrapping more and more in bakery paper

and passing them across the counter to watch customers take immediate bites, not wanting to waste a moment of their still warm, flaky deliciousness. And nowadays, they were always sold out by 10 a.m. I just started to sneak pistachio into the mix, and we'd see how that went. I stood up and refilled my coffee and went into the kitchen. I washed my hands

and started pulling trays out of the fridge and heating the ovens. There was an ancient radio, old enough to have a tape deck in it, but still working, propped up on the shelf over the sink. And I reached up on tiptoes to twist the knob. When I was younger, this station had played the newest music. Music that came out on the tapes that would probably still work in the deck. The kind that every now and then had to be rewound into their cases with a carefully angled pencil.

But as the years went by, the playlists had stayed the same. Now, I guessed, these were oldies. I didn't mind. I liked knowing the words. The drumbeats and the spots where the bridge flowed into the chorus. Soon, the bagels were coming out, the muffins and bread loaves going in.

I was a few minutes away from flipping the sign on the front door. And my morning helpers would be here in a minute, tying on their aprons and pouring their own cups of coffee to keep close to their stations. Each morning, we filled a few orders for local cafes and diners, and I set about laying out their trays. I had scraps of paper tacked up on the board above my station

with each spot's order, though they rarely changed, and I knew them all by heart. As I set out the sliced sandwich bread and bagels, my first assistant of the morning appeared behind me with a tray of hot donuts. Time always got away from me in the mornings, and I blessed my staff for paying attention to the clock. And added the donuts to the tray. I was about to wrap up the last order. The one for the diner kitty corner from our front door when I remembered something special

I'd made the night before I often slipped a little treat into this order. The waitress who came to fetch it each morning was a friend and the best test taster we had. It had been a week of hot, sunny days, and I'd had tiramisu on my mind. Served chilled with plenty of espresso-soaked ladyfingers and a dusting of cocoa powder on top. It was the perfect summer boost. In fact, its name meant pick-me-up.

I took a tray of it from the freezer and used my sharp chef's knife to cut out a perfect square. It was frozen hard, so the layers showed perfectly along the sides. And I knew a moment of baker's pride as I slid the square into a paper container, which I folded closed and took out my marker to write across the top let sit for ten minutes then have the perfect summer breakfast a dash and a scribbled heart

And I popped it onto the tray with the rest I heard the bell over the door ring Another day at the bakery had begun. Sweet dreams.