Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Fall Foraging (Encore)

Episode Date: September 26, 2024

Originally Aired: September 24th, 2023 (Season 12, Episode 18) Our story tonight is called Fall Foraging, and it’s a story about the first signs of the changing seasons and foods that go along with them. It’s also about a tart, lemony spice harvested from a plant growing freely along the road, crabapples, and the bounty of autumn when you know where to look. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or follow the link: nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: Eversio Wellness: Chill Now Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book NuStrips: Sleep Strips Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this. Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.

And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. 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 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 bit slower the second time through. If you find that you are still awake at the end of the second telling, not to worry. That's just fine. You can 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. Our story tonight is called Fall Foraging. It's a story about the first signs of the changing season and the foods that go along with it. It's also about a tart, lemony spice harvested from a plant growing freely along the road.

Crab apples and the bounty of autumn, when you know where to look. Okay, it's time to switch off the light. Set down anything you've been looking at and settle your body into the most comfortable position that you can find. Let my voice be like a guardian while you rest. I'll be here. I'll take the next shift. It's safe to let go.

Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in and out. Good. Fall foraging. Do you ever find yourself hurrying a season out of the door,

ushering it along to get to the next one. This is me in the last few weeks of hot weather. For all that I love the long, warm days, the sunshine and green gardens, I get a bit giddy as soon as I start to see corn stalks and tiny squat pumpkins in the farmers market, and the first few leaves turning in the top branches of the maples by the edge of the park. Part of me says to stop and enjoy the days as they come. To not rush past the last days of summer as once the heat goes.

It'll be gone for a good long time. But another part of me can't wait to drink cider, wrapped up in my favorite sweater, and smell the spice in the air from fallen leaves and first frosts. And today, as I'd been driving down a back road outside of town, I'd seen a long line of sumac with bright red leaves standing out among its still green neighbors. I'd smiled right away. The trees were turning. Autumn was coming. This was staghorn sumac, the kind that was safe to touch, safe to harvest. There was also a poisonous variety of sumac.

It grew in marshy places, roots in the mud, and as lonely, solitary shrubs. Whereas its staghorn cousin spread in long lines and clumps of plants. Its underground rhizomes helping to build a colony of electric orange and red bushes. With cones that could be harvested for tea and spice. The cones were covered with fiery red droops. Imagine all those tiny, sweet balloons of juice on a raspberry or blackberry. Now spread each one onto its own twig

and cover them in peach fuzz. And those are droops. And in late summer and early fall, they are ready to be harvested. I'd made tea from them before. The flavor is lovely, sunny and tart. In fact, some call sumac the lemonade tree. But I preferred to process them into a spice I could keep in my pantry all year round.

I kept a handy Swiss Army knife in my glove box for moments, just like this, and pulled my car over on the empty dirt road. I carefully walked into the shrubbery, watching out not to crush things or brush up against any poison ivy that might be winding its way through the other plants. I cut three of the cones with my little knife and started to smuggle them back to the car. If you know what to look for, uncultivated lands, patches of forests,

and riverbanks are full of food. And I had been learning what to look for. I happened to look down the road a bit further and saw what might be a crabapple tree tucked into the bend. I left the sumac cones on my front seat and took my stealthy canvas bag from the trunk. I peeked inside to see a pair of gloves and gardening shears and one dried stem of lilacs left from some gentle thieving in the spring. I always chuckled to myself when I was out on a flower or forageable heist. Honestly, the places I took from were most often public places, just forgotten, untended. And when it came to foraged foods, I only took what I could eat, leaving plenty for the wildlife. I walked down the rutted gravel road till I came to the curve

and hopped over the ditch beside it to inspect the tree. It was indeed a crabapple tree. My grandfather had had one in his yard and harvested the small, green, sometimes pockmarked fruits every autumn. They made excellent applesauce and apple butter. I took three dozen or so of them from the ground

and low-hanging branches, knowing more would fall to feed the deer as they ripened. I was tucking them into my bag when I noticed a patch of sunflowers growing in a bit of open meadow beyond the tree. Oh, I thought, sun chokes. I inched over to them, sliding on my gloves and pulling back a bit of soil at their roots. Sure enough, there were many meals worth of tubers there under the surface. They

were lovely. I cooked them like I might potatoes. In fact, my favorite way was to parboil them till they began to soften, then drain them and toss them in a well-oiled roasting pan, and using the bottom of a mug or glass, smashed them down a bit. Then I'd drizzle a bit more oil on top, and salt and pepper, garlic and herbs, and slide it all into the oven to get crispy and brown and delicious. I started to use the tips of my shears to loosen the dirt, but remembered that these tubers, also called Jerusalem artichokes, tasted even better after a few frosts. So I made a mental note.

At the bend in the road, past the crabapple tree, in a month or so, to come back. Maybe to bring a trowel to make harvest a little easier. I stood up and looked around to see if there was anything else that might want to find its way into my bag before I headed home. There were still dandelion greens growing everywhere.

They'd last till the first hard frost. And I spotted some juniper berries, though their flavor wasn't much to my liking. I noticed wild violets that I sometimes made into a syrup to soothe a sore throat, and mushrooms growing at the base of an oak tree that I was pretty sure were hen of the woods. I had a friend, a mushroom expert.

Maybe I'd bring him along when I came back for the sunchokes, and he could tell me for sure. At home, I strung the cones up with a long piece of kitchen twine to dry. When they had, I'd pluck the droops from the twigs and mill them in my spice grinder, then press it all through a fine sieve until I had a few precious tablespoons of bright red powder. Its tartness went wherever lemon might, mixed into drinks, seasoning roasted vegetables, sprinkled onto sweet potato fries,

and most deliciously added to fattoush salad with toasted pita and cucumbers and tomatoes. It would be a few days, though, till they were dry enough to process. So I turned to the apples, tipping them into the sink and rinsing them under cool water. Making applesauce couldn't be easier, and it was one of the first things I learned to make

with my grandmother every fall. As I pared and quartered the apples, I remembered watching her hands do the same. They were sure and steady, having made those movements thousand times before. I set a heavy-bottomed pot on the stove and filled it with the apples, a couple long strips of lemon peel, a bit of sugar and lemon juice, and a good spoonful of cinnamon.

They'd simmer away for a while, making the whole house smell of autumn flavors. Maybe a new season needs to be nudged a bit, to be encouraged to come along. Well, here I was, doing my bit. Fall foraging Do you ever find yourself hurrying a season out of the door, ushering it along to get to the next one?

This is me in the last few weeks of hot weather. For all that I love the long, warm days, the sunshine and green gardens, I get a bit giddy as soon as I start to see corn stalks and tiny squat pumpkins in the farmer's market, and the first few leaves turning in the top branches of the maples by the edge of the park. Part of me says to stop and enjoy the days as they come. To not rush past the last days of summer. As once the heat goes, it'll be gone for a good long time.

But another part of me can't wait to drink cider wrapped up in my favorite sweater and smell the spice in the air from fallen leaves and first frosts. And today, as I'd been driving down a back road outside of town, I'd seen a long line of sumac with bright red leaves standing out among its still green neighbors.

I'd smiled right away. The trees were turning. Autumn was coming. This was staghorn sumac, the kind that was safe to touch, safe to harvest. There was also a poisonous variety of sumac. It grew in marshy places,

roots in the mud, and as lonely, solitary shrubs. Whereas its staghorn cousin spread in long lines and clumps of plants, its underground rhizomes helping to build a colony of electric orange and red bushes with cones that could be harvested for tea and spice. The cones were covered with fiery red droops. Imagine all those tiny, sweet balloons of juice on a raspberry or blackberry bush. Now spread each one onto its own twig and cover them in peach fuzz and those are droops and in late summer and early fall

they are ready to be harvested I'd made tea from them before. The flavor is lovely, sunny and tart. In fact, some call sumac the lemonade tree. But I preferred to process them into a spice I could keep in my pantry all year round. I kept a handy Swiss Army knife in my glove box for moments just like this and pulled my car over on the empty dirt road. I carefully walked into the shrubbery,

watching out not to crush things or brush up against any poison ivy that might be winding its way through the other plants. I cut three of the cones with my little knife and started to smuggle them back to the car. If you know what to look for, uncultivated lands, patches of forests, and riverbanks, they're full of food. And I had been learning what to look for. I happened to look down the road a bit further and saw what might be a crabapple tree tucked into the bend. I left the sumac cones on my front seat and took my stealthy canvas bag from the trunk.

I peeked inside to see a pair of gloves and gardening shears and one dried stem of lilac left from some gentle thieving in the spring. I always chuckled to myself when I was out on a flower or forageable heist. Honestly, the places I took from were most often public places, just forgotten, Untended. And when it came to foraged foods, I only took what I could eat and left plenty for the wildlife.

I walked down the rutted gravel road till I came to the curve and hopped over the ditch beside it to inspect the tree. It was indeed a crabapple tree. My grandfather had one in his yard and harvested the small, green, sometimes pockmarked fruits every autumn.

They made excellent applesauce and apple butter. I took three dozen or so of them from the ground and low hanging branches, knowing more would fall to feed the deer as they ripened. when I noticed a patch of sunflowers growing in a bit of open meadow beyond the tree. Oh, I thought, sun chokes. I inched over to them, sliding on my gloves and pulling back a bit of soil at their roots. Sure enough, there were many meals' worth of tubers there, under the surface. They were lovely.

I cooked them like I might potatoes. In fact, my favorite way was to parboil them till they began to soften, and then drain them and toss them into a well-oiled roasting pan and use the bottom of a mug or glass to smash them down a bit. Then drizzle a bit more oil on top, and salt and pepper, garlic and herbs, and slide it all into the oven to get crispy and brown and delicious. I started to use the tips of my shears to loosen the dirt, but remembered that these tubers, also called Jerusalem artichokes, tasted even better after a few frosts.

So I made a mental note. At the bend in the road, past the crabapple tree, in the month or so, to come back, maybe to bring a trowel, to make harvest a little easier. I stood up and looked around to see if there was anything else that might want to find its way into my bag before I headed home.

There were still dandelion greens growing everywhere. They'd last till the first hard frost, and I spotted some juniper berries, though their flavor wasn't much to my liking. I noticed wild violets that I sometimes made into a syrup to soothe a sore throat, and mushrooms growing at the base of an oak tree that I was pretty sure were hen of the woods. I had a friend, a mushroom expert. Maybe I'd bring him along when I came back for the sunchokes, when he could tell me for sure. At home, I strung the cones up

with a long piece of kitchen twine to dry. When they had, I'd pluck the droops from the twigs and mill them in my spice grinder. Then press it all through a fine sieve until I had a few precious tablespoons of bright red powder. Its tartness went wherever lemon might,

mixed into drinks, seasoning roasted vegetables, sprinkled onto sweet potato fries, and most deliciously added to fattoush salad with toasted pita and cucumbers and tomatoes. It would be a few days, though, till they were dry enough to process. So I turned to the apples, tipping them into the sink

and rinsing them under cool water. Making applesauce couldn't be easier, and it was one of the first things I learned to make with my grandmother every fall. As I pared and quartered the apples, I remembered watching her hands do the same. They were sure and steady, having made these movements a thousand times before. I set a heavy-bottomed pot on the stove and filled it with the apples, a couple long strips of lemon peel, a bit of sugar and lemon juice, and a good spoonful of cinnamon. They'd simmer away for a while, making the whole house smell of autumn flavors.

Maybe a new season needs to be nudged a bit, to be encouraged to come along. Well, here I was, doing my bit. Sweet dreams.