Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Pickle Season

Episode Date: August 26, 2024

Our story tonight is called Pickle Season, and it’s a story about a day spent in the kitchen at the Inn, as batch after batch of pickles are made and canned. It’s also about the old farmhouse sink, aprons strings and dill flowers, jars on the pantry shelves, tomato sandwiches and the quiet companionship of a shared chore. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Old Friends Senior Dogs. They provide loving homes, good food, high-quality vet care, compassion, and comfort to senior dogs for the remainder of their lives. 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: nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription.  Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our excellent partners: Eversio Wellness: Chill Now Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book NuStrips: Sleep Strips Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this. 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, and nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Leader Dogs for the Blind. They believe that everyone deserves a life of independence and mobility.

All of their services are provided free of charge, which means that no one is excluded from living their most fulfilling life due to lack of funds. Learn more about them in our show notes. Thank you for listening, and for sharing what we do with anyone you know who might need some help at bedtime you can subscribe to our ad-free feed

get bonus and extra long episodes through the link in our show notes or at nothingmuchappens.com if you've ever fallen asleep while reading a book, then set your book down and couldn't sleep, you know that having something to keep your attention is very helpful at bedtime. Your brain needs just the right amount of engagement, and these

stories fit the bill perfectly. All you need to do is listen. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on, especially if you feel your mind beginning to race. Over time, with regular use, you'll sleep faster and wake less. Our story tonight is called Pickle Season, and it's a story about a day spent in the kitchen at the inn, as batch after batch of pickles are made and canned. It's also about an old farmhouse sink, apron strings and dill flowers,

jars on the pantry shelves, tomato sandwiches, and the quiet companionship of a shared chore. Now, switch off your light. Snuggle down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. The day is done. Nothing more is needed from you. You've done enough. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Do it again inhale and sigh it out

good pickle season the end of August can mean a lot of things. It can mean back-to-school shopping, a last-minute trip to the lake. It can mean gardens overrun with tomato plants so big their cages have disappeared inside their vines. Surplus zucchini desperately pushed on neighbors and random strangers on the street. It can mean excitement for the coming spooky season, the first pumpkin candles snuck onto windowsills

and burning bushes that are beginning to turn pink. The first pumpkin candles snuck onto windowsills, and burning bushes that are beginning to turn pink. But here at the inn, and at least according to Chef, the end of August means it is time to pickle. Most chefs have an area of interest that fascinates them more than others. They become experts in marinades, or bread flours, or in pairing wines. But ours was a pickle person through and through. They kept our pantry shelves full through the year with ever-expanding brined offerings,

and our guests now looked forward to them with ever-expanding brined offerings. And our guests now looked forward to them with the same gusto that they had for our coffee cake. Although, let's be clear, the two never crossed. Coffee cake was served with breakfast, with coffee. Pickles were part of our lunch service, served in dishes and bowls with fancy tongs I'd been collecting from estate sales. We'd even won two blue ribbons for our pickles at the village fair last autumn. One for chefs' now-famous watermelon rind pickles,

and one for the slightly controversial bread-and-but butter pickles. Listen, people have strong feelings about bread and butter pickles. And it got a little heated at the judging table, but we stand by our recipe and now proudly have a growing collection of ribbons pinned to the mantle in the library. Today, the inn was only half full, and that end-of-the-season lull that happened as folks got reorganized for school, which would start in another week or so. And we'd had a bit of rain and clouds today.

So most of our guests were either napping discreetly on sofas in the library and sleeping porch, or had headed into town to peruse the antique shops. We'd served lunch an hour before, and were just finishing our own staff meal and tidy up. Chef drummed their fingers on the table as I lingered over the tomato sandwiches and fruit salad. Sighed as I poured a second cup of espresso from the mocha pot and finally got up and fetched a clean apron from the drawer

and swapped it for my cup just as I stole the last sip. Subtle, I said, but with a chuckle in my voice. I got it. It was pickle time, and they had waited patiently enough. I washed my hands, wrapped the apron strings around, tying them in the front, and took my place at the kitchen's giant farmhouse sink. The inn had been first built as a grand family home,

and so its kitchens were in the basement. Even so, space was full of light as it had been constructed before even great houses like this were electrified. There were wide windows, and on two sides you could walk straight out to the gardens. Chef had admitted to me in the past that they actually preferred to be down here. There was a coziness to these kitchens and some privacy. I had a feeling that if our guests could easily find us here,

they'd have come right in to try to get their hands on some of Chef's recipes. And I loved the basement kitchens because of the dumb waiter. No matter how many times I stood in the hall upstairs and opened its doors to find beautiful plates of side dishes charming inn, and didn't mind the amount of elbow grease it required to restore this place and keep it shining. We'd modernized the kitchens to a certain extent and the renovations. But I had fought to keep the dumbwaiter, and Chef had fought to keep this sink. It was long and deep like a washtub,

but set up higher to make working in it more comfortable. It was white enamel and on either side of the double basins were drain boards ribbed and ever so slightly tilted so that water would run back into the sink. One side of it was now completely full of plump green cucumbers, soaking in cool water and a bit of white vinegar. I began to transfer them to the other side of the sink, rinsing them well,

and finally settling them on towels in the drain board. I would repeat this many times today. Chef was heating giant pots on the stove to warm the jars before we filled them and laying out some of our ingredients. There were prep bowls full of pickling salt and spices, whole coriander and peppercorns, peeled cloves of garlic, and a huge bundle of fresh dill picked from our herb garden.

Oh, that fresh dill, so bright and green. My mouth was already watering as I began to cut the cucumbers into spears. This batch would be classic dill pickles, the kind that went perfectly with the sandwich. They came out tart and garlicky and absolutely delicious. We'd make pickle chips with the same brine for those of us who want pickles on our sandwiches as well as on the side. Chef and I began to pack the spears into the warm jars. I looked around the sunny space and smelled all the good, savory flavors, looking forward to seeing all the jars we finished today lined up neatly,

with their labels all facing the same way in the pantry. We ladled the brine in over the spears, adding in dill flowers wherever they would fit, and ran clean offset spatulas around the inside of the jars to release any trapped air bubbles. I wiped the rims with a clean kitchen towel, and Chef followed behind me, placing the vacuum lids and rings on the jars. and Chef followed behind me,

placing the vacuum lids and rings on the jars. We would get faster and more sure-footed with the whole process as the afternoon went on. Canning isn't tricky, but there are several steps and things need to be done correctly for safety's sake so we were both quiet as we loaded the jars into the canner and prepped the second batch

there was just the sound of bubbling water and the ticking timers that we'd set. Thanks for being my sous-chef today. Sure, I said. No big deal. I waited. I really relish working together. They sighed. I feel like you've got one more in there.

Well, if we didn't do this every year, I think it would be really jarring. They finally cracked a smile, shaking their head over the steaming pot. I went back to the sink and began to run cold water into the basin again. After another batch or two, we'd take a break, and if the rain held off, sit outside with a cold drink and a plan for the bread and butter, for the dilly carrots and the sour Brussels sprouts. The spicy mix, the beets. We might even start some sauerkraut and kimchi. I reached for another bushel basket of cucumbers. And we carried on. Pickle season.

The end of August can mean a lot of things. It can mean back-to-school shopping, a last-minute trip to the lake. It can mean gardens overrun with tomato plants so big their cages have disappeared inside their vines. Surplus zucchini desperately pushed on neighbors and random strangers on the street. It can mean excitement for the coming spooky season.

The first pumpkin candles snuck onto window sills and burning bushes that are beginning to turn pink. But here at the inn, and at least according to Chef, the end of August means it is time to pickle. Most chefs have an area of interest that fascinates them more than others. They become experts in marinades or bread flours or in pairing wines. But ours was a pickle person through and through.

They kept our kitchen pantry shelves full through the year with ever-expanding brine offerings. And our guests now looked forward to them with the same gusto that they had for our coffee cake. Although, let's be clear, the two never crossed. Coffee cake was served with breakfast, with coffee. Pickles were part of our lunch service, served in dishes and bowls, with fancy tongs I'd been collecting from estate sales. We'd even won two blue ribbons for our pickles at the village fair last autumn.

One for chefs' now famous watermelon rind pickles. And one for the slightly controversial bread and butter pickles. Listen, people have strong feelings about bread and butter pickles. And it got a little heated at the judging table. But we stand by our recipe and now proudly have a growing collection of ribbons pinned to the mantle in the library. Today, the inn was only half full in that end-of-the-season lull that happened as folks got reorganized for school, which would start in another week or so. And we'd had a bit of rain and clouds today.

So most of our guests were either napping discreetly on sofas in the library and on the sleeping porch or had headed into town to peruse the antique shops. We'd served lunch an hour before and were just finishing our own staff meal and tidy up. Chef drummed their fingers on the table as I lingered over the tomato sandwiches and fruit salad. Sighed as I poured a second cup of espresso from the mocha pot,

and finally got up and fetched a clean apron from the drawer and swapped it for my cup, just as I stole the last sip. Subtle, I said, but with a chuckle in my voice. I got it. It was pickle time, and they had waited patiently enough. I washed my hands, wrapping the apron strings around, tying them in the front, and took my place at the kitchen's giant farmhouse sink. The inn had been first built as a grand family home,

and so its kitchens were in the basement. Even so, the space was full of light, as it had been constructed before even great houses like this were electrified. There were wide windows, and on two sides, you could walk straight out to the gardens. Chef had admitted to me in the past that they actually preferred to be down here. There was a coziness to these kitchens and some privacy.

I had a feeling that if our guests could easily find us here, they'd have come right in to try to get their hands on some of the recipes. And I loved the basement kitchens because of the dumb waiter. No matter how many times I stood in the hall upstairs and opened its doors to find beautiful plates of side dishes and cut fruit sent up by chef. It never ceased to delight me. I felt lucky to be the keeper of such a charming inn and didn't mind the amount of elbow grease it required

to restore this place and to keep it shining. We'd modernized the kitchens to a certain extent, in the renovations. But I had fought to keep the dumbwaiter, and Chef had fought to keep this sink. It was long and deep like a washtub, but set up higher to make working in it more comfortable. It was white enamel, and on either side of the double basins were drain boards, ribbed and ever so slightly tilted so that water would run back into the sink. One side of it was now completely full of plump green cucumbers

soaking in cool water and a bit of white vinegar. I began to transfer them to the other side of the sink, rinsing them well and finally settling them on towels rinsing them well, and finally settling them on towels in the drain board. I would repeat this many times today.

Chef was heating giant pots on the stove to warm the jars before we filled them, and laying out some of our ingredients. There were prep bowls full of pickling salt and spices, whole coriander and peppercorns, peeled cloves of garlic, and a huge bundle of fresh dill picked from our herb garden. Oh that fresh dill, so bright and green. My mouth was already watering as I began to cut the cucumbers into spears. This batch would be classic dill pickles. The kind that went perfectly with the sandwich. They come out tart

and garlicky and absolutely delicious. We'd make pickle chips with the same brine for those of us who want pickles on our sandwiches, as well as on the side. Chef and I began to pack the spears into the warm jars. I looked around the sunny space and smelled all the good, savory flavors. Looking forward to seeing all the jars we finished today,

lined up neatly with their labels all facing the same way in the pantry. We ladled the brine in over the spears, adding in dill flowers wherever they would fit, and ran clean offset spatulas around the inside of the jars to release any trapped air bubbles. I wiped the rims with a clean kitchen towel, and Chef followed behind me, placing the vacuum lids and rings on the jars. We would get faster and more sure-footed with the whole process as the afternoon went on. Canning isn't tricky, but there are several steps, and things need to be done correctly, for safety's sake.

So we were both quiet as we loaded the jars into the canner, and prepped the second batch. There was just the sound of the bubbling water and the ticking timers we'd set. Thanks for being my sous-chef today. Sure, I said. No big deal. I waited. I really relish working together. They sighed.

I feel like you've got one more in there. Well, if we didn't do this every year, I think it would be really jarring. They finally cracked a smile, shaking their head over the steaming pot. I went back to the sink and began to run cold water into the basin again. After another batch or two, we'd take a break.

And if the rain held off, sit outside with a cold drink and plan for the bread and butter, for the dilly carrots and sour Brussels sprouts, the spicy mix, the beets. We might even start some sauerkraut, and kimchi. I reached for another bushel basket of cucumbers, and we carried on.

Sweet dreams.