Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Lemongrass and Ginger
Episode Date: January 8, 2024Our story tonight is called Lemongrass and Ginger, and it’s a story about fresh flavors and aromas enjoyed in a cozy kitchen. It’s also about a cache of cookbooks discovered in the basement, the w...inter sun warming your face, a softer way to look at mistakes when you make them, and a quiet, clean house on a snowy day. Our charity this week is Affirmations (Ferndale), a charity close to my heart and home. Affirmations works to provide a welcoming space where people of all LGBTQIA+ folks can find support and unconditional acceptance and where they can learn, grow, socialize, and feel safe. https://goaffirmations.org 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 podcast or go here: https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/stories-from-the-villagePurchase 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 create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim.
New show alert. It's called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, and it brings our stories out of their sleepy nook and into
the daylight. With lovely soundscapes and the non-sleep-inducing version of my voice.
I swear I have one.
You can soothe anxiety, ground yourself in goodness,
and finally hear the end of the story.
Listen now on your favorite podcast app.
Just search Stories from the Village of Nothing Much.
Our charity this week is Affirmations of Ferndale,
a charity close to my heart and my home.
Affirmations works to provide a welcoming space
where all LGBTQIA plus folks can find support and unconditional acceptance,
and where they can learn, grow,
socialize, and feel safe. We have a link to them in our show notes.
Now, let me say a little about how this works. Maybe you have had this experience where you're reading in bed in maybe not even a very comfortable position and you're not really taking in what you're reading, but you're pushing your eyes along
the line of text and you can't stay awake. The book keeps falling in your face. So finally, you set your book down, turn off the light, and get as comfortable as you have ever been.
And then, you can't sleep.
What happened in those few seconds is that your brain activity shifted from task mode to default mode.
Just by listening, letting your mind follow along with the sound of my voice, with my stories,
we will keep you in task mode, where sleep comes readily.
I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake later in the night, and you feel that busy brain kick back on. Please, don't hesitate.
Just turn a story back on,
and you will drop right back off.
Now, lights out campers.
Let's set up for a good night's sleep.
Get comfortable. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let
your whole body relax. Let my voice be like a guardian, protecting breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth.
Nice.
Again, fill it up and let it go.
Good.
Our story tonight is called Lemongrass and Ginger.
And it's a story about fresh flavors and aromas enjoyed in a cozy kitchen.
It's also about a cache of cookbooks
discovered in the basement,
the winter sun warming your face,
a softer way to look at mistakes
when you make them,
and a quiet, clean house
on a snowy day.
Lemongrass and ginger.
I'd spent the day packing up Christmas.
Now, just a few more boxes needed to be hauled down to the basement.
Then the traditional vacuuming of the pine needles could begin
and the living room would be more or less set to rights.
I say more or less because every year I seemed to forget to put away at least one thing.
One decoration that I'd spot a few days later.
After all, the tidying was done, and the a small, shiny bulb hanging from a leaf on my spider plant.
I'd huffed in frustration, imagining myself digging through the boxes in the basement to put this little one away.
Then I realized Christmas was in just ten months,
and that it might be nice to keep this pretty bulb out till then.
The next year it had been a stocking that stayed on the mantle all through the seasons.
Once it was a lone holiday mug
that must have been in the dishwasher
when its fellows went into their box.
But each time I poured coffee into it,
even in the muggy days of August,
it made me smile.
So now, as I carried the last box
full of the little village
that sat under my tree, carefully wrapped in newspapers down
to the basement, and slid it onto a shelf.
I knew I was likely missing something, but I was actually looking forward
to discovering what it might be.
While I was down there,
pushing the boxes around,
I stumbled upon an old crate
full of cookbooks.
It took me a few moments
to place these
where had they come from
then I remembered
the neighborhood yard sale the summer before
I'd been browsing on the sidewalks
pulling my little red wagon behind me,
and I stopped at a table full of books.
I'd bought a few paperbacks that were part of a new-to-me series that I was now devoted to. And the neighbor selling them
had offered to throw in this whole box of cookbooks for free.
How could I say no?
Who knew what culinary delights were described in their pages?
So I plunked the box down into my wagon and carted them home where,
apparently, I'd set them on a shelf in the basement and promptly forgotten all about them. In the shadowy light of the hanging bulb,
I couldn't make out their titles very clearly,
but one in particular felt hefty,
and its cover had a woven feel that I liked.
So I plucked it from the box and took it back upstairs with me.
I laid it on the kitchen table and boiled the kettle for a fresh cup of tea.
When I sat down, dunking my teaag and spooning in a bit of sugar, I took a closer look at the cover.
It did look a bit familiar.
Gold letters on a red background.
An embossed image of a knife, fork, and spoon, when I thought maybe
my grandmother had had this book on her kitchen shelf.
I sipped my tea and began to page through it.
As per usual, the holidays had been full of wonderful meals,
and I thoroughly enjoyed myself,
but my taste buds felt a little overworked.
So many rich flavors and heavy dishes that I was craving simplicity now, a literal palate cleanser. I looked through some recipes for salads, endive and grilled radicchio, shaved carrots and thin-sliced apples and pears.
That all sounded lovely, but what I really needed was something that would warm me from the inside out. I flipped to the soup section
and paged past the chowders
and heavy cream varieties.
Then there it was,
a winner of a recipe
whose top corner had been folded over
by its previous owner,
a good sign in a hand-me-down cookbook.
A lemongrass and ginger soup with a few vegetables and a warming but light broth. I set down my tea and ran my finger down the list of ingredients
and found I had everything I needed.
Lemongrass wasn't a constant staple in my kitchen, but I must have had a flash of intuition when I'd been at the
corner store the day before. I'd seen it beside a big hand of ginger, which I thought looked a bit like reindeer antlers.
I'd reached for the ginger and then the lemongrass stalks
and noticed how fragrant they were.
After months of nutmeg and cinnamon,
I was ready for a change,
and these seemed like just the ticket, so they'd come home with me.
Now, as I washed my hands and tied on my apron, I took them from the fridge and set them out on my big chopping block. I took my stock pot from the cupboard,
propped my recipe book beside the stove,
and began to cook.
I bruised the lemongrass with the side of my knife
to help release the flavor,
and peeled the ginger with the edge of a spoon.
I could get lost in chopping and dicing.
The steadiness of the task eased the chatter in my head,
and time passed peacefully as the kitchen began to smell of this delicious soup.
I added a few vegetables to the broth, brought it to a boil, then down to a simmer, and set
my spoon on my spoon rest. At the sink I washed my the counter, and looked out through the window into the
backyard. The afternoon sunshine was slanting over the snowdrifts, And when I moved a few inches to my right and turned my face a bit more,
there, the light hit me. I closed my eyes and I could feel the warmth on my face. I I just soaked it in for a bit listening to one of the best sounds in the world
a simmering pot
and felt my shoulders softening on my back
the light changed
and I blinked my eyes open to see a layer of clouds spreading out over the sky.
Within a few minutes, flakes were falling, and the wind was picking up. Ah, to be home, tucked in, snug and safe as the snow fell outside.
A freshly cleaned house and a pot of soup. I felt a blooming warmth in my chest, gratitude for what I had.
The wind blew again, and I heard a faint jingle from the front door.
I chuckled, realizing what piece of holiday decor had been left out this year?
The long strand of jingle bells now dancing in the wind.
Well, all year long, we'd be ringing in the days.
Lemongrass and ginger.
I'd spent the day packing up Christmas.
Now, just a few more boxes needed to be hauled down to the basement.
Then, the traditional vacuuming of the pine needles could begin,
and the living room would be more or less set to rights. I say more or less, because every year I seemed to forget to put away at least one thing.
One decoration that I'd spot a few days later,
after all the tidying was done and the storage room in the basement had been packed up tight.
The first year it had happened, when, in nearly February, I found a small, shiny bulb hanging from a leaf on my spider plant.
I'd huffed in frustration, imagining myself digging through the boxes in the basement to put this little one away. Then I realized Christmas was only ten months off, and that it might be nice to just keep this pretty bulb out till then. The next year it had been a stocking that stayed on the mantle all through the seasons.
Once, it was a lone holiday mug that must have been in the dishwasher when its fellows went into the box.
But each time I poured coffee into it,
even in the muggy days of August,
it had made me smile.
So now, as I carried the last box
full of the little village that sat under my tree, carefully wrapped in newspapers
down to the basement, and slid it onto a shelf. I knew I was likely missing something, but
I was actually looking forward to discovering what it might be.
While I was down there, pushing the boxes around,
I stumbled upon an old crate full of cookbooks.
It took me a few moments to place these.
Where had they come from?
Then I remembered.
The neighborhood yard sale from the summer before.
I'd been browsing on the sidewalks, pulling my little red wagon behind me.
And I'd stopped at a table full of books. I'd bought a few
paperbacks that were part of a new-to-me series that I was now devoted to, and the neighbor
selling them had offered to throw in this whole box of cookbooks for free.
How could I say no?
Who knew what culinary delights were described in their pages?
So I'd plunked the box down into my wagon and carted them home,
where, apparently, I'd set them on a shelf in the basement and promptly forgotten all about them.
In the shadowy light of the hanging bulb,
I couldn't make out their titles very clearly,
but one in particular felt hefty,
and its cover had a woven feel that I liked,
so I plucked it from the box
and took it back upstairs with me.
I laid it on the kitchen table
and boiled the kettle for a fresh cup of tea.
When I sat down,
dunking my tea bag
and spooning in a bit of sugar,
I took a closer look at the cover.
I did look a bit familiar.
Gold letters on a red background.
An embossed image of a knife, fork, and spoon.
And I thought maybe my grandmother
had had this book on her kitchen shelf.
I sipped my tea and began to page through it.
As per usual, the holidays had been full of wonderful meals, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
But my taste buds felt a little overworked.
So many rich flavors and heavy dishes that I was craving simplicity now.
A literal palate cleanser. I looked through some recipes for salads, endive, and grilled radicchio, shaved carrots, and thin-sliced apples and pears.
That all sounded lovely,
but what I really needed was something that would warm me from the inside out.
I flipped to the soup section
and paged past the chowders
and heavy cream varieties.
Then, there it was, a winner of a recipe,
whose top corner had been folded over by its previous owner.
A good sign in a hand-me-down cookbook.
A lemongrass and ginger soup
with a few vegetables
and a warming but light broth.
I set down my tea
and ran my finger down the list of ingredients and found I had everything I needed. a constant staple in my kitchen. But I must have had a flash of intuition
when I'd been at the corner store the day before.
I'd seen it beside a big hand of ginger,
which I thought looked a bit like reindeer antlers.
I'd reached for the ginger and then the lemongrass stalks and noticed how fragrant they were.
After months of nutmeg and cinnamon,
I was ready for a change.
And these seemed like just the ticket,
so they'd come home with me.
Now, as I washed my hands and tied on my apron,
I took them from the fridge and set them out on my big chopping block.
I took my stock pot from the cupboard,
propped my recipe book beside the stove,
and began to cook.
I bruised the lemongrass with the side of my knife
to help release the flavor
and peeled the ginger
with the edge of a spoon. I could get lost in chopping and dicing. The steadiness
of the task eased the chatter in my head, and time passed peacefully as the kitchen began to smell of this delicious soup.
I added a few vegetables to the broth, brought it to a boil, then down to a simmer,
and set my spoon on my spoon rest.
At the sink, I washed my cutting board and the few dishes I'd dirtied along the way.
Then I stood, my hip against the counter,
and looked out through the window into the backyard.
The afternoon sunshine was slanting over the snowdrifts,
and when I moved a few inches to my right
and turned my face a bit more,
there, the light hit me. I closed my eyes and I could feel the warmth on my face. I just soaked it in for a bit, listening to one of the best sounds in the world, a simmering pot. I felt my shoulders
softening on my back. The light changed and I blinked my eyes open to see a layer of clouds spreading out over the sky.
Within a few minutes, flakes were falling, and the wind was picking up. To be home,
tucked in,
snug and safe
as the snow fell outside.
A freshly cleaned house
and a pot of soup.
I felt a blooming warmth in my chest
gratitude for what I had
the wind blew again
and I heard a faint jingle
from the front door
I chuckled, realizing what piece of holiday decor
had been left out this year.
The long strand of jingle bells now dancing in the wind. Well, all year long,
we'd be ringing in the days.
Sweet dreams.