Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - In the Kitchen, During a Storm

Episode Date: July 7, 2018

Our story tonight is called “In the kitchen, during a storm” and it’s a story about doing something simple with great care. It’s also about the cool breeze that comes with a storm, remembering a sweet time in your past, and listening to records on a summer night. So get cozy and ready to sleep. This episode mentions alcohol. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Please keep sharing our podcast any way you can, with anyone you know who likes relaxing and good sleep. Now let me say a little about how to use this podcast. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story to help you relax and drift off into sleep. It's a simple, cozy story for you to nestle your mind down into, so that instead of getting snagged on thoughts from your day, you just relax until there's nothing left to do but

sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find that you're still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. That's fine. You could listen again, or just walk your mind back through the parts of the story that you remember. This works particularly well if you wake in the middle of the night. Lean right back into the story,

and it will put your mind right back on track for sleep. Now it's time to turn off your light. Slip on your sleep mask and slide down deep into your sheets. Set yourself up right now for the best sleep possible. Get comfortable. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose. And out through your mouth. Good.

One more like that. In. And out. Our story tonight is called In the Kitchen During a Storm. And it's a story about doing something simple with great care. It's also about the cool breeze that comes with the storm, remembering a sweet time in your past, and listening to records on a summer night. It was early evening, and I was flipping through a case of old records.

Hmm. Billie Holiday? Or Ella? Oh, Chet Baker. That will do nicely. I slipped it out of the sleeve and tilted the surface to the light. I blew the dust off and slid it onto the turntable. I lifted the needle and let it touch down into the groove of the record, then leaned back in my chair and put my feet up. As I listened, I hummed along, and tucking one arm behind my head, looked out the window at the silver undersides of leaves on the trees in my back garden. The wind was picking up. It had been a gray day, but humid and still hot.

Then just in the last hour or so, I'd felt the temperature begin to drop. I stepped barefoot through my back door and stood on the still warm stones of my patio. I took a deep breath to taste the air, and I was sure rain was coming. There is a feeling of energy around a storm. At first, it might just be the relief of the cooling air. But then there is an excitement, or a feeling of potential, that boosts you up and clears your head. I stood a while longer, looking out at the darkening sky and gripping the stones under my feet with my toes.

I knew what I would do. I stepped back into the house and walked through the rooms, cracking windows and lighting candles. I turned the music higher and stepped into the kitchen, where I hadn't seriously been for a few days because of the heat. I had a large window over my kitchen sink and a row of potted herbs stood on its sill. It was an old window, as it was an old house, so I had to prop it open with a short wooden block to keep it from slamming shut. The breeze blew through my tiny herb garden, and I could smell basil and oregano. I had a bottle of red wine,

open from the night before, and I reached into a cupboard for a jam jar to drink from. Sometimes I was fancy and used my best stem wine glasses, but often when I was home alone and just pottering about the kitchen, drinking from an old squat jam jar seemed just about right I pulled a wooden chopping board from a drawer And laid out my chef's knife And put a wide, low skillet on the range I was going to make spaghetti al pomodoro The way I had been taught to, years ago, in Italy

It was an incredibly simple dish that used only a few ingredients and came together in no time, but its tangy, bright flavor took me straight back to afternoon meals around my family's table on the rocky southern Italian coast. I'd been a foreign exchange student, and although I didn't possess a drop of Italian blood, I felt that after a year of walking her streets and learning her language and falling in love with her people, I had earned some Italian-ness. My host family had taken me in and loved me,

laughed at my funny accent and rolled their eyes at my overly independent American tendencies, but I'd become a member of the family, and even now, years later, we were close. Lunch came at around 2 p.m. in Italy, and trudging home from school, I would wonder what kind of pasta my mom would be cooking that day. I take the stairs, four flights up to our apartment,

slip my house key into the lock, and crack it just an inch, then stick my nose into the doorway and take a deep breath in. Now, more or less a grown-up in my own home, I smiled at the memory and pulled together the ingredients for my dinner. I filmed the bottom of the pan with good olive oil and took a yellow onion from the pantry. Mama had shown me many times that less was more in her cooking.

That just because you have a whole onion doesn't mean the dish needs a whole onion. I was a dutiful daughter and cut a third off the whole and sliced through the layers a few times. I slipped them into the pan and turned the heat to low. I just wanted to warm them through and give them a tiny bit of color. Back to the pantry for a large can of whole peeled tomatoes, grown and packed just a few miles from where I had lived. Mama passed them through an old-fashioned food mill in her kitchen, turning the crank slowly and letting the tomato skins catch in the wire weave of the filter. It made a smooth sauce that slipped over the noodles and coated them. I tipped mine into a bowl and used my fingers to break them up a bit instead. I didn't tell my mama this. Everyone has their secrets. I added the tomatoes

to the pan and tipped salt into the palm of my hand to measure it, then dusted it down into the tomatoes and stirred. I kept the heat on low and pinched a few basil leaves from my pot by the window to toss whole into the sauce. The rain was falling now, and I pressed my palm to the sill to check if it was raining in. It wasn't, and I was glad. The smell of the grass and trees cooling in the rain was lovely. I put a pot of water on the stove for the spaghetti and sipped from my jam jar. The record had stopped, and I wandered back into the other room to turn it over. As I set the needle on the record, I saw a flash of lightning in the darkening

sky. I waited, sitting back on my heels by the record player as the rumbling thunder grew louder. What a perfect night for pasta and wine. My water was boiling and I spun the spaghetti into the pot so it spread out and began to sink. Some people stand over the pot and test the noodles every few minutes or do some other nonsense about throwing pieces against the wall. But if you want properly cooked al dente pasta, it's simple. Buy good pasta made in Italy

and cook it for the length of time it says on the package. They know what they're doing. I set out a place for myself, where I could look at the storm and hear the music, and filled my jam jar again. I drained my pasta and tipped it into the sauce, coating the noodles, and with mouth-watering, plated it up. I set my plate down and sat myself at the table. I raised my jam jar to Chet Baker, and my mama, and to lightning, and to bare feet on patio stones and fresh basil.

I tipped my nose down to my plate and let the sweet, tangy steam cover my face. It was early evening, and I was flipping through a case of old records. Hmm. Billie Holiday? Or Ella? Oh. Chet Baker. That will do nicely. I slipped it out of the sleeve and tilted the surface to the light. I blew the dust off and slid it onto the turntable.

I lifted the needle and let it touch down into the groove of the record. I leaned back in my chair and put my feet up. As I listened, I hummed along, and tucking one arm behind my head, looked out the window at the silver undersides of leaves on the trees in my back garden. The wind was picking up. It had been a gray day, but humid and still hot. Then, just in the last hour or so, I'd felt the temperature begin to drop. I stepped barefoot through my back door and stood on the still warm stones of my patio.

I took a deep breath to taste the air, and I was sure rain was coming. There is a feeling of energy around a storm. At first, it might just be the relief of the cooling air, but then there is an excitement, or a feeling of potential that boosts you up and clears your head. I stood a while longer, looking out at the darkening sky and gripping the stones under my feet with my toes.

I knew what I would do. I stepped back into the house and walked through the rooms, cracking windows and lighting candles. I turned the music higher and stepped into the kitchen, where I hadn't seriously been for a few days because of the heat. I had a large window over my kitchen sink, and a row of potted herbs stood on its sill. It was an old window, as it was an old house, so I had to prop it open with a short wooden block

to keep it from slamming shut. The breeze blew through my tiny herb garden, and I could smell basil and oregano. I had a bottle of red wine, open from the night before, and I reached into a cupboard for a jam jar to drink from. Sometimes I was fancy and used my best stemmed wine glasses. But often when I was home alone and just pottering about the kitchen, drinking from an old squat jam jar seemed just about right. I pulled a wooden chopping board from a drawer and laid out my chef's knife

and put a wide, low skillet on the range. I was going to make spaghetti al pomodoro, the way I had been taught to, years ago, in Italy. It was an incredibly simple dish that used only a few ingredients and came together in no time. But its tangy, bright flavor took me straight back to afternoon meals, around my family's table on the rocky southern Italian coast. I'd been a foreign exchange student, and although I didn't possess a drop of Italian blood,

I felt that after a year of walking her streets and learning her language and falling in love with her people, I had earned some Italian-ness. My host family had taken me in and loved me, laughed at my funny accent, and rolled their eyes at my overly independent American tendencies. But I'd become a member of the family. And even now, years later, we were close. Lunch came at around 2 p.m. in Italy. And trudging home from school,

I would wonder what kind of pasta my mama would be cooking that day. I'd take the stairs, four flights up to our apartment, slip my house key into the lock and crack it just an inch. Then stick my nose into the doorway and take a deep breath in. Now, more or less a grown-up in my own home, I smiled at the memory and pulled together the ingredients for my dinner. I filmed the bottom of the pan with good olive oil and took a yellow onion from the pantry. Mama had shown me many

times that less was more in her cooking. That just because you have a whole onion doesn't mean the dish needs a whole onion. I was a dutiful daughter and cut a third off the whole and sliced through the layers a few times. I slipped them into the pan and turned the heat to low. I just wanted to warm them through

and give them a tiny bit of color. Back to the pantry for a large can of whole peeled tomatoes, grown and packed just a few miles from where I had lived. Mama passed them through an old-fashioned food mill in her kitchen, turning the crank slowly and letting the tomato skins catch in the wire weave of the filter. It made a smooth sauce that slipped over the noodles and coated them. I tipped mine into a bowl and used my fingers to break them up a bit. I didn't tell my mama this.

Everyone has their secrets. I added the tomatoes to the pan and tipped salt into the palm of my hand to measure it, then dusted it down into the tomatoes and stirred. I kept the heat on the low end of medium and pinched a few basil leaves from my pot by the window to toss whole into the sauce. The rain was falling now,

and I pressed my palm to the sill to check if it was raining in. It wasn't, and I pressed my palm to the sill to check if it was raining in. It wasn't, and I was glad. The smell of the grass and the trees cooling in the rain was lovely. I put a pot of water on the stove for the spaghetti and sipped from my jam jar. The record had stopped, and I wandered back into the other room to turn it over. As I set the needle on the record, I saw a flash of lightning in the darkening sky. I waited,

sitting back on my heels by the record player as the rumbling thunder grew louder. What a perfect night for pasta and wine. My water was boiling, and I spun the spaghetti into the pot so it spread out and began to sink. Some people stand over the pot and test the noodles every few minutes or do some other nonsense

about throwing pieces against a wall. But if you want properly cooked, al dente pasta, it's simple. Buy good pasta made in Italy, and cook it for the length of time it says on the package. They know what they're doing. I set out a place for myself where I could look out at the storm and hear the music, and filled my jam jar again. I drained my pasta and tipped it into the sauce, coating the noodles, and with mouth-watering, plated it up. I set my plate down and sat myself at the table.

I raised my jam jar to Chet Baker and my mama and to lightning and to bare feet on patio stones and to fresh basil. I tip my nose down to my plate and let the sweet tangy steam cover my face. Buon appetito and sweet dreams.