Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Friendsgiving, Again
Episode Date: November 21, 2022Our story tonight is called Friendsgiving, Again and it’s a story about a growing tradition and the new people and places folded into it with each year. It’s also about rosemary trees, a Christmas... village laid out on a piano lid, and a big old building made merry for the holiday.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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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 with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim.
If you enjoy these bedtime stories,
I think you will find so much pleasure from my book,
also called Nothing Much Happens.
Readers have reached out to say that,
besides its beautiful illustrations,
never heard on the podcast stories and recipes,
it feels like a protective talisman
when it sits on their bedside table.
It makes them feel safe,
just knowing it's there.
Buy it from your favorite bookseller,
or get an autographed copy,
wrapped up by my own two hands,
at my website, nothingmuchappens.com.
Now, let me say a little about how this podcast works.
Your mind needs a place to rest.
Without one, it's likely to wander and keep you up.
The story is like a soft spot with just enough going on to keep your mind in place.
And just a few moments of stillness in your mind will be enough to tip you into sleep.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.
If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again,
or just think your way back through any of the details that you can remember.
Often that's enough to settle your mind back into its nest,
and you'll go right back to sleep.
All of this is a kind of brain training,
and the more you do it, the more reliable it will become.
Now, it's time to switch off the light and set down anything you've been looking at.
Get your body as comfortable as possible. I know I'm just a stranger on the internet. But I hope you can feel how genuinely I care.
Let go now.
I'll take the next watch.
You can rest.
Take a slow, deep breath in through the nose.
And let it out through your mouth.
Again, in and out.
Good.
Our story tonight is called Friendsgiving Again.
And it's a story about a growing tradition and the new people and places that get folded into it with each year.
It's also about rosemary trees,
a Christmas village laid out on a piano lid, and a big old building made merry for the holiday.
Friendsgiving, again.
It was hard to believe that this tradition was only a couple of years old.
In a year when all the usual plans had had to be changed,
we'd found ourselves, my old friend and I,
out in our backyards, chatting over the fence, trying
to come up with some enthusiasm for the season.
I think it had been my idea.
No, maybe, maybe it was his.
But we decided that that Thanksgiving, we'd break all the rules.
We'd cook different dishes.
We'd invite friends who were near.
And raise a toast to those dear but far away and let it all be okay that it didn't look like other years had.
And we'd found something in that new way of celebrating
that we hadn't foreseen.
That it would have its own joys, and that there were so many other people in the same boat looking for a place to come ashore.
The first year, we had our Friendsgiving dinner at his house.
It had been such a fun afternoon.
Our houses sat back to back, and there was a gate in the fence between our yards, so we could cross back and forth easily. It let us steal from each other's gardens
and meet for coffee on our porches.
And through that gate,
I had carried my grandmother's china,
carefully stacked in a deep box.
We'd set his long dining room table
for the five or six folks we'd rounded up.
His Thanksgiving nachos
and my wild rice and mushroom soup
had been big hits.
And before I'd even served the sweet potato pie,
we were already making plans for the next year.
You know who might like to come, someone said.
You know what recipe I might try, said someone else.
Quickly, it became clear
that we would need a larger venue
for our second Friendsgiving.
The owner of the diner downtown
had graciously let us take over the joint for the day.
And we'd had fun cooking on the grill and laying out plate
settings at the booths. But this year, we were thinking even bigger. Through the grapevine, we'd sent out a message asking for suggestions.
It had hit the jackpot.
Right in the heart of downtown, near where the village tree was put up and decorated each year,
there was an old building with narrow plank wood floors and tall arched windows.
It was the first city hall before they'd moved over to the old bank building on the edge of the park.
It had since become a sort of community center. They had exercise classes on Tuesday
evenings. The garden club held their perennial sale on the front lawn each spring. And when a bad storm had caused some pipes to freeze
over at the village theater,
they'd shuffled the set dressings and a few spotlights over here
and performed to an eager audience in folding chairs.
And we'd need those chairs.
When my neighbor and I had signed up to reserve the space,
they'd shown us the collapsible tables
stacked neatly in the storage room.
How to roll them out
without gouging the old wood floors.
And had been firm about making sure
the kitchen was left as clean as we found it.
Could we use the piano we'd spotted
rolled into the back corner?
Sure.
They were community resources.
And we were the community.
Just be neighborly and put things back where we found them.
Fair enough, we agreed and this morning
along with a few helpers
we'd set up
and I loved setting up for this meal
when you have a fancy dinner party
you might worry about
putting the fork in the right spot. Does it go to the left
or the right of the spoon? Oh, and the blade of the butter knife. Be sure to turn it away from
the plate. Do the napkins match? Are the flowers fresh?
But for this party, we made fun the priority instead of being proper.
We laid the tables with bowls and plates of all shapes and sizes.
China teacups.
And old glasses with cartoon characters on them that had come with fast food meals forty years before.
We twisted streamers together to drape over the tables in happy colors, and stuck a few gold stars to the undersides of plates.
Those who found them after dinner would win a prize.
We laid out chafing dishes and electric plate warmers, a jumbled mix of serving spoons,
and spare salt and pepper,
hot sauce, soy sauce, and olive oil.
We pulled out the piano
and draped a white fuzzy cloth over its top
and set out a Christmas village that possibly had a few
leftover Halloween ghosts mixed in, I think also an Easter bunny.
We'd bought a handful of rosemary trees and pretty pots.
They would be the prizes awarded to our lucky diners. We set them out like
centerpieces. Rooms like this have a certain smell to them. The oil soap that is used to
clean the floors. A tiny bit of dust from the tables that had been in storage,
the papery scent of decades of lesson plans and recital programs,
and now the fresh rosemary that I ran my fingers through
to wake it up as I centered it on the table.
When the room was festive and finished, we all headed home to get dressed and
gather the dishes we planned to share.
Some people would come fashionably turned out with shiny shoes and sleek neckties tied in Windsor knots.
Some would come dressed for comfort in loose clothes and cozy sweaters.
Others wore jingle bells and silly holiday sweaters. And I was fairly sure we'd have at least one Santa Claus
to help us kick off the season.
It was another joy of Friendsgiving.
There was no should,
no way to foul up the holiday or do it wrong.
It was all just for fun and for being together.
I'd made trays of focaccia bread,
my wild rice soup,
and a pate of olives and red onion
and toasted pine nuts
that was a bit spicy,
but kept folks coming back for another bite and another after that.
I packed it all into the car and rounded the corner in my neighborhood
to pick up my partner in planning.
He would assemble his famous nachos and the community center ovens,
so we packed his sheet pans and fixings and got into the car.
One trip back into the house for the chestnuts we may or may not attempt to roast
while the dessert table was being readied,
and we were off.
It would be a long night, new and old friends,
a meal to remember for months to come,
someone at the piano singing old love songs and Christmas carols,
and a team effort to wash the dishes at the end of it all.
Traditions can start whenever you like
change how you decide
new meanings born when you create them
friends giving again
it was hard to believe that this tradition was only a couple of years old.
In a year when all the usual plans had had to be changed,
we found ourselves, my old friend and I, out in our backyards,
chatting over the fence, trying to come up with some enthusiasm for the season. I think it had been my idea.
Or no, maybe it was his.
But we decided that that Thanksgiving,
we'd break all the rules.
We'd cook different dishes.
We'd invite the friends who were near
and raise a toast to those dear but far away.
And let it all be okay
that it didn't look like other years had. and let it all be okay,
that it didn't look like other years had.
And we'd found something in that way of celebrating that we hadn't foreseen,
that it would have its own new joys,
and that there were many people in the same boat
looking for a place to come ashore.
The first year, we'd had our Friendsgiving dinner at his house.
It had been such a fun afternoon.
Our houses sat back to back and had a gate in the fence between our yards,
so we could cross back and forth easily. It let us eat from each other's gardens and meet for coffee on our porches. And through that gate I had carried my grandmother's china,
carefully stacked in a deep box.
We'd set his long dining room table for the five or six folks we'd rounded up.
His Thanksgiving nachos and my wild rice and mushroom soup had been big hits.
Before I'd even served the sweet potato pie, we were already making plans for the next year.
You know who else might like to come?
Someone said.
You know what recipe I might try?
Said someone else.
Quickly, it became clear that we would need a larger venue for our second Friendsgiving.
The owner of the diner downtown had graciously let us take over the joint for the diner downtown,
had graciously let us take over the joint for the day.
And we'd had fun cooking on the grill and laying out place settings at his booths.
But this year, we were thinking even bigger.
We'd sent out a message through the grapevine,
asking for suggestions,
and had hit the jackpot.
Right in the heart of downtown, near where the village tree was put up and
decorated each year, there was an old building with narrow plank wood floors and tall arched windows.
It was the old city hall, before they moved over to the bank building on the edge of the park.
It had since become a sort of community center.
They had exercise classes on Tuesday evenings.
The garden club held their perennial sale on the front lawn each spring.
And when a bad storm had caused some pipes to freeze over at the village theater,
they'd shuffled the set dressings and a few spotlights over here, and performed to an eager audience in folding chairs.
And we would need those chairs.
When my neighbor and I had signed up to reserve the space,
they'd shown us the collapsible tables
stacked neatly in the storage room.
How to roll them out without gouging the old wood floors.
And had been firm about making sure the kitchen was left as clean as we found it. Could we use the piano we'd spotted, rolled
into the back corner? Sure. They were community resources. And we were the community.
Just be neighborly, they said,
and put things back where you find them.
Fair enough, we agreed.
And this morning, along with a few helpers, we'd set up, and I loved setting up for this meal.
When you have a fancy dinner party, you might worry about putting the fork in the right spot. Does it go to the left or the right of the spoon? Oh? Are the flowers fresh?
But for this party, we made fun the priority instead of being proper.
We laid the tables with bowls and plates of all shapes and sizes.
China teacups,
and old glasses with cartoon characters on them
that had come with fast food meals forty years before.
We twisted streamers together to drape over the tables in happy colors
and stuck a few gold stars to the undersides of plates.
Those who found them after dinner would win a prize.
We laid out chafing dishes and electric plate warmers,
a jumbled mix of serving spoons and spare salt and pepper,
hot sauce, soy sauce, and olive oil.
We pulled out the piano and draped a white fuzzy cloth over its top
and set out a Christmas village
that possibly had a few leftover Halloween ghosts mixed in.
I think also an Easter bunny.
We'd bought a handful of rosemary trees in pretty pots.
They would be the prizes awarded to our lucky diners.
And set them out like centerpieces.
Rooms like this have a certain smell to them.
The oil soap that is used to clean the floors.
A tiny bit of dust from the tables that had been in storage.
The papery scent of decades of lesson plans and recital programs.
And now the fresh rosemary that I ran my fingers through to wake up as I centered it on the table.
When the room was festive and finished,
we all headed home to get dressed
and gather the dishes we planned to share.
Some people came fashionably turned out,
with shiny shoes and sleek neckties tied into Windsor knots.
Some came dressed for comfort in loose clothes and cozy sweaters.
Others wore jingle bells and silly holiday sweaters. And I was fairly sure we'd have at least one Santa Claus
to help us kick off the season.
It was another joy of Friendsgiving
that there was no should, no way to foul up the holiday or do it wrong.
It was all just for fun and for being together.
I'd made trays of focaccia bread, my wild rice soup,
and a pate of olives with red onion and toasted pine nuts.
That was a bit spicy, but kept folks coming back for another bite,
and another after that.
I packed it all into the car and rounded the corner in my neighborhood
to pick up my partner in planning.
He would assemble his famous nachos in the community center ovens.
So he packed his sheet pans and fixings and got in the car.
One trip back into the house for the chestnuts,
we may or may not attempt to roast
while the dessert table was being readied,
and we were off.
It would be a long night,
new and old friends,
a meal to remember for months to come,
someone at the piano singing old love songs and Christmas carols,
and a team effort to wash the dishes at the end of it.
Traditions can start whenever you like.
Change how you decide.
New meanings born when you create them.
Sweet dreams.