Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Heavy Snow at the Cabin

Episode Date: November 28, 2022

Our story tonight is called Heavy Snow at the Cabin and it’s a story about a morning spent watching the winter arrive. It’s also about taking your time to make something delicious, woodsmoke rising from chimneys and the contagious simple joy of dogs.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 create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Our website is just, well, really pretty. I think you should go in the morning, not now. But it feels like a little door into the world of Nothing Much. You slip through and see beautiful illustrations.

You can also buy merch, sign copies of my book, and listen to special versions of our Halloween stories that Bob has spooked up. It's all at NothingMuchHappens.com. of our Halloween stories that Bob has spooked up. It's all at nothingmuchappens.com. I have a story to tell you. And this story exists to give you a calm, happy place to rest your mind. It's like a nest to settle your fluttering self into. And here's how it works. I'll read our story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. You just follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple details of the story.

It's like a lullaby for your mind. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could revisit any detail you can remember in your mind. Often, that'll be enough to help drop you right back into sleep. Or you can just listen again. We're creating some habits here, and habit building takes a bit of practice. So have some patience if you're new to this.

Now, it's time to close everything up. Turn off your light. Snuggle your body down into your favorite sleeping position. Pull the blanket up over your shoulder and tuck your pillow in just the way you like it. Today was what it was. And for good or for bad, you don't have to do it again. Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Nice. Let's do that one more time. Breathe in and sigh.

Good. Our story tonight is called Heavy Snow at the Cabin. And it's a story about a morning spent watching the winter arrive. It's also about taking your time to make something delicious. Wood smoke rising from the chimney. And the contagious, simple joy of dogs. Heavy snow at the cabin. The prediction had been for a foot at least. It had started overnight,

and when I crept out this morning to stick a wooden ruler into the snow beside the bird feeder. It showed ten inches fallen already. I was giddy as I came back in and knocked the snow off my boots. It doesn't matter how many snowy winters you've lived through. That first big snow of the year was always magical. The view from the window showed an even layer of snow spread over the meadow, with a few bumps and breaks along the way,

where a tree stump stuck up out of the flat landscape, or a stubborn young oak still holding his leaves, gathered snow in the branches while bare grass clung around the base. Beyond that, the land sloped away and then rose up again further on, and I could see our neighbors' houses on the mountainside, wood smoke rising from their chimneys, and above and around all of it was a slow cascade of sparkling flakes that made me grin each time I looked out.

Our dog, who'd rushed out with me into the yard and then pretended not to hear me calling for him to come back in, was still out, chasing through the snow. He was built for it, with fuzzy fur that kept him warm, and a drive to explore and run. His long, shaggy, black-and-white body flew across the yard, and I watched him dive into a snowbank and lunge his chest down into the flakes.

He rolled and kicked through it like he'd never experienced anything so wonderful. That was part of the wisdom of dogs. They never got numb to joy. Every day was exciting, every meal delicious, every nap satisfying. It made me want to go out and play with him, but first, breakfast. Breakfast for all of us. I cracked open the door to the outside and poured a fresh scoop of food into his bowl and watched his ears prick up at the familiar clatter. He sprang to his feet and rushed in, wagging and tip-tapping on the wood floors. Luckily, these old planks had seen their fair share of snowy paw prints over the years, and were sort of too marked up to show anything new.

A lot of things in the cabin were that way, old enough, off-center enough to be charming and familiar and used without fear of damage. The sound of my dog happily crunching through his kibble brought me back to breakfast. We'd stocked up the fridge and pantry in expectation of possibly being snowed in for a few days. And looking again out the window,

it seemed more likely by the moment. I could still hear a soft snore coming from the bed up in the loft. And figured I may as well take my time and make a nice meal. That was the cabin effect. It slowed us down. We weren't rushing out the door here. We could linger and enjoy. I thought about what sounded good, even laid a hand on my belly and closed my eyes to ask my body what it was craving. Mmm, something sweet. Oh, and something savory, maybe even spicy.

I had an idea. Pancakes, obviously, are excellent waffles, even better but what did I never make because I didn't feel I had the time crepes and we had blueberries we'd picked ourselves in the freezer I thought of a pretty plate and we had blueberries we'd picked ourselves in the freezer. I thought of a pretty plate of lacy crepes and blueberry compote,

dusted with powdered sugar, and started taking flour and vanilla from the pantry. While I was in there, I grabbed a bag of yellow potatoes. We had some ripe avocados and chilies and tomatoes. I could roast up those potatoes until they were absolutely crispy and golden all over and serve them in tortillas with a side or, who are we kidding here, a nice big bowl of guacamole. It sounded satisfying and fun and snowfall inspired. So I set to work. I ground coffee beans and set the pot to drip.

I turned on a local radio station so I could listen to the weather report and found they were playing an old Christmas album that I loved. I peeled potatoes. I sifted flour. I stopped often to sip coffee. When a sudden gust of wind sent snow rising up and twisting into little whirlwinds in the yard. And I felt a cold blast coming down the chimney. I poured a second cup, the favorite cup, and carried it up into the loft. I set it down on the bedside table

as the snoring shifted to slow breathing and then to a soft, startled wakefulness. I brushed hair out of eyes, leant down, left a kiss on a cheek hmm yes, I giggled and whispered

breakfast is coming but we need firewood drink your coffee. Climbing back down the stairs, I could see out to where I'd left the ruler early this it had completely disappeared. So that was a foot already. I went back to chopping and stirring. The blueberries were thickening in the pot.

Such a vibrant, beautiful color. And I added a squeeze of lemon juice to balance all the sweetness. On the radio, the music stopped, and I turned the dial higher to hear if there was news. Stay home, they advised, and I raised my cup in a promise. Snow would continue through the day, and another six to eight inches were expected. The mountain roads would be the last to be cleared, so the announcer said, Stay safe up there, folks, and take care of your neighbors. I smiled as he went on to tell about a spaghetti dinner fundraiser

coming up in the next week on the Winter Greens Market happening in the parking lot of the hardware store for the next two weekends. When the music came back on, I thought about the suggestion to take care of neighbors. And while I had no intention of getting in a car today, I did want to go for a long walk,

and I had another bag of those blueberries in the freezer. Maybe scones? We could walk them over to our neighbor's house, drop them off, and make sure they had everything they needed. I was taking the potatoes out of the oven and warming my crepe pan when I heard slow footsteps on the stairs and a sleepy voice humming along to the music.

Snow us in, I thought. We don't mind a bit. Heavy snow at the cabin. The prediction had been, for a foot at least, it had started over the night, and when I crept out this morning to stick a wooden ruler into the snow beside the bird feeder. It showed ten inches fallen already.

I was giddy as I came back in and knocked the snow off my boots. It doesn't matter how many snowy winters you've lived through. That first big snow of the year is always magical. The view from the window showed an even stump stuck up out of the flat landscape, or a stubborn young oak still holding its leaves, gathered snow in its branches, while bare grass clung around the base. Beyond that, the land sloped away and rose up again further on,

and I could see our neighbors' houses on the mountainside wood smoke rising from their chimneys and above and around all of it was a slow cascade of sparkling flakes that made me grin each time I looked

out. who'd rushed out with me into the yard and then pretended not to hear me calling for him to come back in, was still out, chasing through the snow. He was built for it, with fuzzy fur that kept him warm and a drive to explore and run. His long, shaggy, black-and-white body flew across the yard. And I watched him dive into a snowbank

and lunge his chest down into the flakes. He rolled and kicked through it like he'd never experienced anything so wonderful. That was part of the wisdom of dogs. They never got numb to joy. Every day was exciting. Every meal delicious. Every nap satisfying. It made me want to go out and play with him. But first, breakfast. Breakfast for all of us. I cracked the door to the outside and poured a fresh scoop of food into his bowl and watched

his ears prick up at the familiar clatter. He sprang to his feet and rushed in, wagging and tip-tapping on the wood floors. Luckily, these old planks had seen their fair share of snowy paw prints over the years. And we're sort of too marked up to show anything new. A lot of things in the cabin were that way. Old enough. Off-center enough, to be charming and familiar and used without fear of damage. The sound of my dog happily crunching through his kibble

brought me back to breakfast. We'd stocked up the fridge and pantry, in expectation of possibly being snowed in for a few days. And looking again out the window, it seemed more likely by the moment. I could still hear a soft snore coming from the bed up in the loft. And figured I may as well take my time and make a nice meal. That was the cabin effect.

It slowed us down. We weren't rushing out the door here. We could linger and enjoy. I thought about what sounded good. Even laid a hand on my belly and closed my eyes for a moment to ask my body what it was craving. Something sweet. Oh, and something savory. Maybe even spicy. I had an idea. pancakes, obviously, are excellent waffles, even better

but what did I never make because I didn't feel I had the time crepes and we had blueberries we'd picked ourselves in the freezer. I thought of a pretty plate of lacy crepes and blueberry compote, dusted with powdered sugar, and started taking flour and vanilla from the pantry.

While I was in there, I grabbed a bag of yellow potatoes. We had some ripe avocados and chilies and tomatoes. I could roast up those potatoes until they were absolutely crispy and golden all over. And serve them in tortillas with a side, or who are we kidding here, a nice big bowl of guacamole. It sounded satisfying and fun and snowfall inspired. So I set to work. I ground coffee beans

and set the pot to drip. I turned on a local radio station so I could listen to the weather report and found they were playing an old Christmas album that I loved. I peeled potatoes, sifted flour.

I stopped often to sip coffee. When a sudden gust of wind sent snow rising up and twisting into little whirlwinds in the yard. When I felt a cold blast coming down the chimney. I poured a second cup, the favorite cup. I carried it up into the loft

and set it down on the bedside table. As the snoring shifted to slow breathing and then to a soft, startled wakefulness. I brushed hair out of eyes, let down, and left a kiss on a cheek. Hmm. Yes, I giggled and whispered, breakfast is coming, but we need firewood. Drink your coffee. Climbing back down the stairs, I could see out to where I'd left the ruler early this morning. It had completely disappeared, so I went back to chopping and stirring.

The blueberries were thickening in the pot. Such a vibrant, beautiful color. and I added a squeeze of lemon juice to balance all the sweetness. On the radio, the music stopped, and I turned the dial higher to hear if there was news. Stay home, they advised, and I raised my cup in promise. Snow would continue through the day, and another six to eight inches were expected.

The mountain roads would be the last to be cleared, so the announcer said. Stay safe up there, folks, and take care of your neighbors. I smiled as he went on to tell about a spaghetti dinner fundraiser coming up in the next week. And the winter greens market happening in the parking lot of the hardware store for the next two weekends. When the music came back on, I thought about the suggestion to take care of neighbors. And while I had no intention of getting into a car today, I did want to go for a long walk. When I had another bag of those blueberries in the freezer, maybe freezer. Maybe scones? We could walk them over to our neighbor's house, drop them off, and make sure they had everything they needed. I was taking the potatoes out of the oven and warming my crepe pan

when I heard slow footsteps on the stairs and a sleepy voice humming along to the music. Snow us in, I thought. We don't mind a bit. Sweet dreams.