Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Paczki Day at the Bakery

Episode Date: March 2, 2026

Our story tonight is called Paczki Day at the Bakery, and it’s a story about a bustling morning in a shop downtown. It’s also about rose hip jam and powdered sugar, wax paper and yearly traditions that have lasted for as long as anyone can remember, a line stretching down the sidewalk, generous tendencies among neighbors and the people who exist in every community, making days smoother and sweeter. Subscribe to our ⁠⁠⁠Premium channel.⁠⁠⁠ The first month is on us. 💙 See less carts go abandoned and more sales go “cha ching” with Shopify and their Shop Pay button. Sign up for your one-dollar-per-month trial today at ⁠⁠⁠shopify.com/nothingmuch⁠ We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to the ⁠Furniture Bank of Metro Detroit⁠. They work to provide gently used furniture to neighbors in need, giving stability and dignity to families overcoming challenges such as homelessness, domestic violence, extreme poverty, or sudden crises like fires or floods. Pre-Order Links for Kathryn's New Book ⁠⁠⁠⁠Here⁠⁠⁠⁠! ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠NMH Merch, Autographed Books and More!⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠  Follow us on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ for more Village fun! Stop by The Inn with this Playlist! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai.

I write and read and read, all the stories you hear and nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Witterstein. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to the Furniture Bank of Metro Detroit. They work to provide

gently used furniture to neighbors in need, giving stability and dignity to families overcoming challenges like homelessness, domestic violence, extreme poverty, or sudden crises like fires or floods. You can learn more about them in our show notes. Your support means the world to us. We always want to be able to provide this service to the millions that use it. And in this fast-changing podcast world, the most reliable way to assure we can do that is to become a premium subscriber. It comes out to about a dime a day, and you get tons of bonus and extra

long episodes, and all 17 seasons of nothing much happens, and our daytime show, completely ad-free. You can join just by clicking the button for it on Spotify or Apple or go to Nothing Much Happens.com. Now, here's how this works. By letting your mind follow along with the sound of my voice and the gentle shape of the story to come will shift your brain activity into a place where sleep is a place where sleep is a accessible. And it will happen automatically, especially the more you use this podcast. It will become like a deeply ingrained habit. You'll hear my voice, and you will zonk right out. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night,

Just press play again. Our story tonight is called Punchki Day at the bakery, and it's a story about a bustling morning in a shop downtown. It's also about rose-hip jam and powdered sugar, wax paper, and yearly traditions that have lasted for as long as anyone for. can remember, a line stretching down the sidewalk, generous tendencies among neighbors, and the people who exist in every community, making days smoother and sweeter. Starting something new isn't just hard. It can feel really intimidating when you don't know what you don't know. Like when I first started

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Your work is over. And you are exactly where you are supposed to be right now. I'll be here. Keeping watch. Guarding the gates long after you've, fallen asleep. Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh it out. Again, breathe in and out. Good. Punchki Day at the bakery. There are few things that will entice folks to wade in line under gray skies on the slushy sidewalks at this time of year. But a sweet,

rich treat, or even better, a box of them. Still warm and smelling of jam and powdered sugar, just may do it. And considering that these treats are not available all year round, that they make a very brief appearance on bakery counters and store. shelves, and are therefore all the more precious. Well, I've seen people stand bundled up in a driving snowstorm, or struggle to keep umbrellas open against pelting sleet for that. And today it was neither snowing,

nor sleeting, so the lines stretched down the block, nearly to the entrance of the park, and the people waiting in it were in good spirits, stomping their feet now and then, against the cold, genially bickering over the best flavors, and the proper pronunciation of the delicious Polish doughnuts that had drawn them all out at the end of winter. The baker had, of course, heard it all over the years, that the only traditional fillings were plum butter or rose-hip jam, that it wasn't punchki, but punchki, that they should be rolled in, castor sugar while still hot, or dusted with powdered sugar as they cooled. She had long ago adopted the policy of simply agreeing with whatever customer she was serving, nodding shrewdly,

as she reached for another sheet of wax paper and filled box after box, Tradition was important, she knew. And so let each patron protect their own version of it. And she certainly did stock those heritage flavors, but also had raspberry or strawberry jam, as well as lemon custard and vanilla cream. she'd grown up saying Punchki, but let herself be corrected, good-naturedly,

by those who'd grown up hearing it said some other way. Most customers had favorites. They secured right away, then filled the rest of the box with a mix of the other flavors to pass around the office or kitchen. Occasionally, she'd have a Punchki newbie, a first-timer, who felt both the weight of an assortment of options and a long line at their heels. She, in fact, had what she called first-punchki-day boxes, which held a select.

with each flavor they sold, as well as a small card with some information about them, and like chocolates in a sampler, had a diagram printed inside the box, identifying each one. The newbies often let out a sigh as she handed over a box and relieved, stepped down to the register with a grateful smile on their faces. Punchki Day required a good deal of preparation in order to run smoothly and provide enough for each patron, who, suddenly finding themselves at the front of the line, might be struck with a surge of generosity

and think to themselves, let me also get a dozen for the night shift, or the family next door, or the teacher's lounge. The baker had a system that had been refined over the years. It involved an ordering process that started the month before, filling and dough prep that required extra staff and a conveyor belt of bakers working the friars and piping bags and kitchen carts and heaven forbid the custards get mixed up with the creams at least the jelly-filled donuts showed a dot of the fruit

where the nozzle went in to identify them. And certainly if they made just a few batches, some brave, self-sacrificing soul could volunteer to taste one to identify it. but they would make hundreds of batches with thousands of pastries. So a strict organizing system involving colored baking paper was adhered to. By 8.30 in the morning, she heard that the line had reached all the way into the park, and that some folks were sitting on benches while they waited for it to advance.

The baker blushed when she heard that. The year before, it had not gotten that long. But it seemed that the word was out, and that people were coming from farther and farther away for their Punchkis. She had a number of sold pastries in her head that she was hoping to hit. She hadn't said it aloud to anyone. She'd just planned for it, believed in it, and would know when she'd hit it, or even surpassed it.

By the wall of ready boxes stacked up along the coffee station. it had reached to the ceiling when she'd flipped the open sign this morning. And now, just an hour and a half later, she peeked over her shoulder to see that it was only hip high, the heat from the friars, was balanced out by the constant opening of the doors, As customers inched in and others squeezed out, there was a jovial atmosphere on the sidewalk.

As folks made friends after standing in line so long together, and inside the bakery itself, there was an ordered chaos as the cash register rang and calls for more than, napkins, and behind, were heard and heated. The baker noticed a commotion outside the window and heard raised voices, and braced herself for a possible low-blood-sugar-related tantrum or line-cutting scandal. Instead, she saw the waitress from the diner across the street. ushering a young man in a tie and coat through the door.

It's his first day at work, and he wants to bring a couple dozen in to make a good impression. Make way, folks. Let's help him out. He can't be late. We've all been there. People smiled and made way, and the young man nervously adjusted his time.

eye, and think to them as the path cleared. There are some people in town who can do these types of things. They are known, have put in their time at local spots, long enough to be listened to when they raise their voice. The waitress had worked early mornings and late nights for years, and poured coffee for just about every resident of the village at one point or another. She'd earned the right to make such a call. She guided the new office worker right over to the baker and told him to, go ahead, dear, just plan better next time. He swallowed.

and began to point to various flavors, asking for two of those, three of these. The waitress winked at the baker while she packed the boxes and got a chuckling smile in return as the man carried the boxes to the register, and the line resumed its movement. The waitress slipped behind the counter. to claim the diner's own order, a rolling cart full of their usual sandwich breads and muffins, as well as wrapped trays of the day's special donuts. She'd roll it straight out the back door and down the alley to the diner's kitchen.

She and the baker were important cogs, in this downtown breakfast machine. And today they were showing off how seamlessly it could run. By the time they would meet for a sandwich this afternoon, they'd have a few stories to share. The baker would finally say the number she'd had in her head. And how many dozens over it they'd sold. the waitress would tell her the young man's name

and how he'd called later from the office to thank her. They joked sometimes that one of them should run for mayor, but that they got much more done this way. Poonchki Day at the bakery. There are few things that will entice folks to wait in line under gray skies on the slushy sidewalks at this time of year. But a sweet, rich treat, or even better, a box of them, still warm, and smelling of jam and powdered sugar, may just do it. and considering that these treats are not available all year around,

that they make a very brief appearance on bakery counters and store shelves and are therefore all the more precious. well, I've seen people stand bundled up in a driving snowstorm or struggle to keep umbrellas open against pelting sleet for that. And today it was neither snowing nor sleeting, so the line stretched down the the block, nearly to the entrance of the park, and the people waiting in it, were in good spirits, stomping their feet now and then against the cold, genially bickering over the best flavors, and the proper pronunciation of the delicious Polish donuts

that had drawn them all out at the end of winter. The baker had, of course, heard it all over the years that the only traditional fillings were plum butter, or rose-hip jam, that it wasn't punchki, but punchki, that they should be rolled in castor sugar, while still hot, or dusted with powdered sugar, as they cooled. She had long ago adopted the policy of simply agreeing

with whatever customer she was serving, nodding shrewdly as she reached for another sheet of wax paper and filled box after box. Tradition was important, she knew, and so let each patron protect their own version of it. And she certainly did stock those heritage flavors, but also had raspberry or strawberry or strawberry jam filling, as well as lemon custard, and vanilla cream. She'd grown up saying, Punchki.

But let herself be corrected good-naturedly by those who'd grown up hearing it, hearing it said some other way. Most customers had favorites. They secured right away, then filled the rest of the box with a mix of the other flavors to pass around the office or kitchen. Occasionally she'd have a Poonschki newbie,

a first-timer, who felt both the weight, of an assortment of options and a long line at their heels. She, in fact, had what she called first Punchki Day boxes, which held a selection with each flavor they sold, as well as a small card, with some information about, them and like chocolates in a sampler had a diagram printed inside the box, identifying each one. The newbies often let out a sigh of relief as she handed a box over

when they stepped down to the register with a grateful smile on their faces. Punchki Day required a good deal of preparation in order to run smoothly and provide enough for each patron who suddenly finding themselves at the front of the line might be struck with a surge of generosity

and think to themselves. Let me all also get a dozen for the night shift or the family next door or the teacher's lounge. The baker had a system that had been refined over the years. It involved an ordering process that started the month before, filling and dough prep that required extra staff and a conveyor belt of bakers, working the friars and piping bags and kitchen carts. And heaven forbid the custards get mixed up with the creams.

At least the jelly-filled donuts showed a dot of the fruit, where the nozzle went in to identify them. And certainly, if they made just a few batches, some brave, self-sacrificing soul would volunteer to taste one, to identify it, but they would make hundreds of batches, thousands of pastries. So, a certain of pastries. So, a certain thing. strict organizing system involving colored baking paper was adhered to. By 8.30 in the morning, she heard that the line had reached all the way into the park and that some folks were sitting on benches while they waited for it to advance. The baker blushed when she heard that. The year before, it hadn't gotten that long, but it seemed that the word was out,

and people were coming from farther and farther away for their punchkeys. She had a number in her head of pastries sold that she was home. hoping to hit. She hadn't said it aloud to anyone, just planned for it, believed in it, and would know when she hit it, or even surpassed it by the wall of ready boxes, stacked up along the coffee station. It had reached to the ceiling when she'd flipped the open sign this morning, and now, just an hour and a half later, she peeked over her shoulder to see it was only hip high.

The heat from the friars was balanced out by the constant opening of the doors as customers inched in and others squeezed out. There was a constant opening of the doors. a jovial atmosphere on the sidewalk as folks made friends. After standing in line so long together and inside the bakery itself, there was an ordered chaos as the cash register rang, and calls for more napkins and behind were heard and heated.

The baker noticed a commotion outside the window and heard raised voices and braced herself for a possible low-blood sugar-related tantrum or line-cutting scandal. Instead, she saw the waitress from the diner across the street, ushering a young man in a tie and coat through the door. It's his first day at work, and he wants to bring a couple dozen in to make a good impression.

Make way, folks. Let's help him out. He can't be late. We've all been there. People smiled and made way, and the young man nervously adjusted his tie and thanked them

as the path cleared. There are some people in town who can do these types of things. They are known, have put in their time at local spots long enough to be listened to, when they raise their voice.

The waitress had worked early mornings and late nights for years and poured coffee for just about every resident of the village at one point or another. She'd earned the right to make such a call. She guided the new office worker

right over to the baker and told him to go ahead, dear, just plan better next time. He swallowed and began to point to various flavors, asking for two of those, three of these.

The waitress winked at the baker, while she packed the boxes and got a chuckling smile in return as the man carried the boxes to the register and the line resumed its forward movement. The waitress slipped behind the counter to claim the diners' own order. A rolling cart full of the counter, their usual sandwich breads and muffins, as well as wrapped trays of the day's special donuts.

She'd roll it straight out the back door and down the alley to the diner's kitchen. She and the baker were important cogs in this downtown breakfast machine. And today they were showing off how seamlessly it could run. By the time they would meet for a sandwich this afternoon, they'd have a few stories to share. The baker would finally say the number she'd had in her head. and how many dozens over it they had sold. The waitress would tell her the young man's name

and how he'd called later from the office to thank her. They joked sometimes that one of them should run for mayor, but that they got more done this way, sweet dreams.