Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - In The Bakery (Encore)

Episode Date: April 11, 2024

Originally Aired: April 7th, 2019 (Season 3 Episode 6) Our story tonight is called “In the Bakery” and it’s a story about a weekend morning among bagels and breads. It’s also about old cookbooks full of notes, being proud of what you do, and a secret ingredient handed down from baker to baker. 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 below: https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.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. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Let me say something about how to use this podcast. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's a simple story without much action, but full of relaxing detail. The story is like a nest, and we're enticing your fluttering mind to settle down

into it. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of thumb in general, when you're trying to fall asleep. Don't worry. Relax. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story, and walk yourself back through the details that you can remember, especially any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body to wind down,

and the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit of patience at the beginning, and if you find yourself awake again later in the night, use the story again to go right back to sleep. Our story tonight is called In the Bakery, and it's a story about a weekend morning among bagels and bread. It's also about old cookbooks full of notes, being proud of what you do, and a secret ingredient handed down from baker to baker. Now it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you've been working on

or looking at. Take some time to snuggle yourself down into your preferred sleeping position. Make all the adjustments you need to to feel your body relaxing into your bed. We're creating a cue for your body and brain, and the signal is, it's time for sleep. Now, let's take a deep breath in through the nose, and a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good. Do that one more time. In and out. Good. In the bakery. I stood inside the front window of the shop and looked up and down the street for a few moments. Morning light was cutting through the lines of the buildings

and a few of the storefront windows were lit up. The neon sign in the diner on the corner flickered and glowed steadily on. I knew they'd be down in a few minutes for their order of bagels, pastries, and loaves of fresh sliced bread that they'd soon be toasting for the day's first customers. I dusted off my flowery fingers on my apron and flipped our sign from closed to open,

unlocked the heavy oak door, and stepped back behind the counter. Our cases were full of just-baked muffins, rolls, and loaves. Our coffee was brewed, and I had a hot cup poured for myself, tucked behind the register. We were ready. Saturday mornings were my favorite at the bakery. During the week, customers rushed in and out, eager to get their breakfast and their coffee and get to work. We had hectic rushes and stagnant slow times.

But on the weekends, all of us, bakers and customers alike, were more relaxed. People lingered over coffee, turned the pages of newspapers slowly, and took the time to really enjoy the jelly donuts and the wedges of coffee cake that we loved to make each day. The bell over the door rang, and I looked up to see the familiar face of a waitress

from the diner. Her spring coat pulled over her apron, hands ready to receive the tray of goods we had wrapped up and ready. In a hurry, I asked her. No, it's Saturday, she said with a wave of her hand. We've only got a couple regulars who pour their own coffee anyway. We smiled. Well, try this then. I passed her over a slice of still-warm biscotti in a wax paper wrap.

I'm trying new recipes, and I need an opinion I can trust. She took it gratefully, and I poured her a quick cup of coffee to go with it. It's orange and pistachio, and you might want to dunk it, I said, sliding the cup across the counter. I don't trust people who don't dunk, she observed. This is why I'm asking your opinion, I said, tapping my finger to my nose. She held the slice up close to her nose and smelled. She looked at it all over, and I saw her taking in the ratio of pistachio pieces to ribbons of orange zest. Sometimes when I hand someone a sample and ask them for feedback, they gobble it down in two bites and say, it's great, and move on, which is not very helpful. This woman knew what she was about.

She had a bite without dunking first, chewed slowly, then thoughtfully dipped it into her coffee and took a second bite. She looked up at me, ran her tongue over her teeth, nodding slowly. I think the orange should be a bit stronger. But the bake is right on.

It's crispy and a pleasure to dunk, but if you want to eat it as it is, it's not going to break your teeth like some biscotti will. I'd say it's a winner. Pleased down to my clogs, as any baker is when something she makes is properly appreciated, I slid the coffee thermos back onto its warmer

and went to fetch the order she'd come in for. I handed it over to her. She thanked me for the treat, and we said, See you tomorrow, and she headed back to her customers. For the next few hours, we had a steady stream of patrons. Some were regulars, whose orders we knew by heart. And some were new faces, who stood staring at the cases,

biting their lips, and asking for recommendations. We brewed pots and pots of coffee, packed dozens of doughnuts into paper boxes tied with string, handed over plate after plate of muffins and scones and toasted bagels. We handed out soft, salty pretzels wrapped in wax paper.

We sliced loaves and wrapped them up for afternoon sandwiches. We put pies into boxes and piped names onto birthday cakes We wiped crumbs from the counter and the tables And started to deliver the sad news That this or that had sold out for the day As the day moved on and the bell rang less and less

I pulled out a few of my favorite cookbooks from the shelf in the office and poured a fresh cup of coffee. I sat up at the counter where the spring sun was shining and flipped through the pages of a book that was older than I was, with pages stained and creased and filled with handwritten notes. It was a gift from the baker who'd first opened this shop, who I'd bought it from when he retired. A kind man with a quiet voice and flour in his eyebrows.

I remembered coming in for my daily bread and one day taking a bite of something and saying to him that I could always tell his bakes from any others, but he seemed to have a sort of signature flavor. He'd smiled and leaned his elbows on the counter, and turning his head side to side to make sure his secret wouldn't be heard by anyone else, he whispered, Graham Flower. We'd been friends from that day,

and I came to work for him soon after. Looking through his book of recipes made my stomach grumble, and I stepped behind the counter and took a baguette from the shelf. I sliced off a good long bit and slid it open. I had a bottle of olive oil, green and fruity, the kind that catches you in the back of the throat, and I drizzled it all over the bread. In the fridge I found some artichoke hearts and a jar of capers, and in the pantry a container

of soft, sun-dried tomatoes. I layered them all over the oiled bread, cracked black pepper on top, and took my plate back to the sunny spot at the counter. My bread was delicious, and I proudly enjoyed every bite as I flipped through more biscotti recipes. I took the pen from my pocket and added a note. More orange flavor. Maybe add marmalade? My next plan was for hazelnut and chocolate biscotti,

and something for spring, strawberry and rhubarb. I carried my cup back to the window where I'd stood that morning before flipping the sign. I looked up and down the street. Saturdays were my favorite. In the bakery. I stood inside the front window of the shop

and looked up and down the street for a few moments. Morning light was cutting through the lines of the buildings, and a few of the storefront windows were lit up. The neon sign in the diner on the corner flickered and glowed steadily on. I knew they'd be down in a few minutes for their order of bagels, pastries, and loaves of fresh sliced bread that they'd soon be toasting for the day's first customers. I dusted off my flowery fingers on my apron and flipped our sign from closed to open, unlocked the heavy oak door and stepped back behind the counter.

Our cases were full of just-baked muffins, rolls, and loaves. Our coffee was brewed, and I had a hot cup poured for myself tucked behind the register. We were ready. Saturday mornings were my favorite at the bakery. During the week, customers rushed in and out, eager to get their breakfast and their coffee and get to work. We had hectic rushes

and stagnant slow times. But on the weekends, all of us, bakers and customers alike, were more relaxed. People lingered over coffee, turned the pages of newspapers slowly, and took their time to really enjoy the jelly donuts and wedges of coffee cake that we love to make each day. The bell over the door rang,

and I looked up to see the familiar face of a waitress from the diner. Her spring coat pulled over her apron. Hands ready to receive the tray of goods we had wrapped up and ready. In a hurry, I asked her. No. It's Saturday, she said with a wave of her hand. "'We've only got a couple regulars who pour their own coffee anyway.

"'Well, try this, then.' "'I passed her over a slice of still-warm biscotti in a wax paper wrap. I'm trying new recipes, and I need an opinion I can trust. She took it gratefully, and I poured her a quick cup of coffee to go with it. It's orange and pistachio, and you might want to dunk it, I said, sliding the cup across the counter. I don't trust people who don't dunk, she observed.

This is why I'm asking your opinion, I said, tapping my finger to my nose. She held the slice up close to her nose and smelled. She looked at it all over, and I saw her taking in the ratio of pistachio pieces to ribbons of orange zest. Sometimes, when I hand someone a sample and ask them for feedback, they gobble it down in two bites and say, It's great, and move on, which is

not very helpful. This woman knew what she was about. She had a bite without dunking first, chewed slowly, then thoughtfully dipped it in her coffee

and took a second bite. She looked up at me, ran her tongue over her teeth, nodding slowly. I think the orange should be a bit stronger, but the bake is right on. I think the orange should be a bit stronger, but the bake is right on. It's crispy and a pleasure to dunk,

but if you want to eat it as it is, it's not going to break your teeth like some biscotti will. I'd say it's a winner. Pleased down to my clogs, as any baker is when something she makes is properly appreciated, I slid the coffee thermos back onto its warmer and went to fetch the order she'd come in for. I handed it over to her. She thanked me for the treat, and we said, see you tomorrow, and she headed back to her customers. For the next few hours, we had a steady stream of patrons. Some were regulars, whose orders we knew by heart.

And some were new faces, who stood staring at the cases, biting their lips, and asking for recommendations. We brewed pots and pots of coffee, packed dozens of donuts into paper boxes tied with string, handed over plate after plate of muffins and scones and toasted bagels. We handed out soft, salty pretzels, wrapped in wax paper.

We sliced loaves and wrapped them up for afternoon sandwiches. We put pies into boxes and piped names onto birthday cakes. We wiped crumbs from the counter and the tables and started to deliver the sad news that this or that had sold out for the day. As the day moved on and the bell rang less and less, I pulled out a few of my favorite cookbooks from the shelf in the office and poured a fresh cup of coffee.

I sat up at the counter where the spring sun was shining and flipped through the pages of a book that was older than I was. With pages stained and creased and filled with handwritten notes. It was a gift from the baker who'd first opened this shop, who I'd bought it from when he retired. A kind man with a quiet voice and flour in his eyebrows.

I remembered coming in for my daily bread and one day taking a bite of something and saying to him that I could always tell his bakes from any others, that he seemed to have a sort of signature flavor. He'd smiled and leaned his elbows on the counter. And turning his head side to side to make sure his secret wouldn't be heard by anyone else, he whispered, Graham Flower. We'd been friends from that day,

and I came to work for him soon after. Looking through his book of recipes made my stomach crumble, and I stepped behind the counter and took a baguette from the shelf. I sliced off a good long bit and slid it open. I had a bottle of olive oil, green and fruity, the kind that catches you in the back of the throat, and I drizzled it all over the bread. In the fridge, I found some artichoke hearts, and a jar of capers, and in the pantry, a container of soft, sun-dried tomatoes.

I layered them all over the oiled bread, cracked black pepper on top, and took my plate back to the sunny spot at the counter. My bread was delicious, and I proudly enjoyed every bite. As I flipped through more biscotti recipes. I took the pen from my pocket. And added a note.

More orange flavor. Maybe add marmalade? My next plan was for hazelnut and chocolate biscotti and something for spring strawberry and rhubarb I carried my cup back to the window where I'd stood that morning before flipping the sign. I looked up and down the street. Saturdays were my favorite. Sweet dreams.