Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Plates and Bowls

Episode Date: December 30, 2024

Our story tonight is called Plates and Bowls, and it’s a story about keeping a promise to yourself after the bustle of the holidays has settled down. It’s also about a quiet, clean environment that brings some ease, coffee cups, and spoon rests, smooth porcelain, and hand-painted ceramics, and finding ways to celebrate the every day. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Make a Wish Foundation. They create life-changing wishes for children. Order your own NMH weighted pillow now! 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 NMH Premium channel on Apple podcast or follow the link below nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription.  Listen to our sister 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.  Relax and unwind with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box! Save over $100 on Kathryn's hand-selected favorites, designed to help you slow down and embrace tranquility.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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. With Audio Engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week, we are giving to Make a Wish Foundation. They create life-changing wishes for children. Learn more in our show notes. I appreciate you listening to this little bit of housekeeping at the beginning of our EPs. We want to help you at bedtime and during the day. So we created a daytime version of the show

called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much. We've also partnered on a project to make weighted pillows you can hug to settle your nervous system. I have mine on my lap right now. It's my constant companion when I'm recording. If you'd like to learn more about our daytime offerings, head to the links in our show notes or go to nothingmuchhappens.com. So this works by giving your brain a place to rest. Like an upturned leaf in a stream of water, it It will flow on the current of the story. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling rested and relaxed.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. This is a form of brain training. So know that regular use improves the results. Our story tonight is called Plates and Bowls. And it's a story about keeping a promise to yourself after the bustle of the holidays has settled down. It's also about a quiet, clean environment that brings some ease. Coffee cups and spoon rests, smooth porcelain, and hand-painted ceramics,

and finding ways to celebrate the everyday. Now, lights out. Snuggle down and feel your whole body relaxing into your bed. Maybe this is a moment you've been looking forward to all day. Well now it's here. Enjoy it. Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh it out. One more time. Breathe in and sigh.

Good. Plates and bowls. There is a little shop in downtown whose window I have been looking through each time I pass by. They sell, oh, wine glasses, cozy looking coffee cups, linen napkins, and heavy hard cover cookbooks. They have a few shelves of fancy salts and olive oils, candies and chocolates you can't find in the grocery store. And jams made of fruits I've never seen in person. There are a few old chandeliers hanging from their tall ceilings. And the light in there is warm and inviting. There's music playing, barely loud enough to hear. Something with cellos and violas and classical guitar.

It even smells calm, like herbs and lemon and clean laundry. And all through the month of December, each time I passed by, on my way to pick up the books I'd ordered from the bookshop, or to get dinner rolls from the bakery, I'd pause in my haste and stare in through their windows, making a little promise to myself that after all the business of the holidays was over, I would treat myself to a visit there. And listen, I enjoy the holidays. I love the lights and the gatherings, the food and the music, gifting and merrymaking. But the calm that comes after, the quiet and fresh start of the new year might be my favorite part.

So today, on this snowy afternoon with no errands to run, no party to go to later. I was keeping my promise to myself. When I turned onto the main street and saw that downtown was not busy, that parking spaces abounded, and that there were open booths at the diner, several small shops showing signs that they wouldn't even be open again till the new year. I sighed. I actually felt my own shoulders soften on my back. My grip on the steering wheel relax a bit.

wheel relax a bit. I tend to borrow a bit too much from my environments sometimes. A busy place can make me feel busy. A crowded street, a noisy restaurant, a cramped aisle in a grocery store. Can all leave me feeling simply too much. And while I was working on carrying my own calm, a deep well of quiet that couldn't run out inside of me. It was a work in progress, and I let the nearly empty street gift me some ease. Salt crunched under my boots on the sidewalks, and I stopped to look up at the sky. It had been sunny earlier, that energizing blast of winter sun that gets you moving even in the cold. But clouds had begun to move in, and I wondered if more snow was on its way.

I smiled as I turned toward the shop. Of course it was. We still had months of winter ahead of us. Might as well welcome it. It was something a friend of mine said. When you can't get out of it, get into it. A reminder to enjoy where you can, what you can. And that was what I was going to do, right now. I pulled open the door to the shop. I guess it could be called a kitchen shop, but that didn't seem to do it justice. And stepped into the warmth and glowing lights. All those times I'd passed by before, there had been one section that always drew my

eyes. A long table full of dishes, stacks of different patterns of plates and bowls, gravy boats and water pitchers. I am a sucker for dishes. My grandmother had one set for every day and one for special occasions. And they lasted her for many decades. But I am not built like that. When I can afford it, I like to switch them out, to have a new set to serve my meals on. And I'd saved up a little stash for this, my own holiday gift to myself.

I slipped off my gloves, one and then the other, and tucked them into my coat pocket. I would need to feel the weight of the plates, the finish and texture of the soup bowls and spoon rests to know what I wanted. There were classic sets of shining white porcelain, And even though I was pretty sure those weren't the ones I would choose, I still took my time lifting a few pieces, turning them over in my hands, and imagining the food I might serve on them. and imagining the food I might serve on them.

They had a very elegant stamp on their bottoms, a company name that I recognized as being old and respected. And their rims felt delicate and sharp. Knowing my own propensity to drop and bump things, I imagined these would only last a few dinners in my house. Beside them sat a stack of thicker dishes. They had a handmade, imperfect feel, and were painted with daubs of bright colors against a pale blue background. The glaze was fairly smooth, but here and there were tiny and, I guessed, intentional grains of grit from the clay that still stood out on the surface.

All in all, they were not the plates for me. But both of these styles had helped me whittle down my ideas and what I wanted. I needed something in the middle. Not so perfect and elegant that they couldn't withstand regular use, and not so handmade and rustic that their aesthetic overwhelmed the food itself. I clasped my hands behind my back and wandered around the table slowly, peering down at the other options. Sunny yellow soup bowls that felt out of season but whose shape was perfect. Wide dinner plates in Robin's egg blue, whose color I adored but whose rim was too wide and well too small for the hearty meals I'd eat this winter. And then I found them. They were a hearty olive green color, the finish shifting a bit lighter at the rim,

and with such a nice heft as I lifted a mug from the table. The plates were round and minimal, with a small lip and a humble feel. The bowl was low and wide, almost a second plate, with a high rim, which was how I liked it. Perfect for pasta or soup that would cool to the right temp as it set. The pieces were smooth but not glossy, and I just felt that any meal I ate out of them I would be grateful for. I would feel nourished by. I would feel nourished by. And I could already imagine myself

plating up a square of spice cake or ladling out my mushroom wild rice soup and handing it over to a friend to enjoy. Suddenly I was looking forward to the months of winter yet to come as I carefully stacked some plates and began carrying them over to the register. I'd found a way, as I couldn't get out of it, to get into it. Plates and bowls. There is a little shop in downtown whose window I have been looking through each time I pass by.

Each time I pass by, they sell, oh, a variety of things. Pretty wine glasses, cozy-looking coffee cups, linen napkins, and heavy, hardcover cookbooks. They have a few shelves of fancy salts and olive oils, candies and chocolates you can't find in the grocery store, fruits you can't find in the grocery store, and jams made of fruits I've never seen in person. There are a few old chandeliers hanging from their tall ceilings. And the light in there is warm and inviting. There is music playing, barely loud enough to hear. Something with cellos and violas and clean laundry. And all through the month of December, each time I passed by on my way to pick up the books

I'd ordered from the bookshop up the books I'd ordered from the bookshop, or to get dinner rolls from the bakery. I'd pause in my haste and stare in through their windows, making a little promise to myself that after all the business of the holidays was over, I would treat myself to a visit there. And listen, I enjoy the holidays that comes after the quiet and the fresh start of the new year might be my favorite part. So today, on this snowy afternoon, with no errands to run, no party to go to later, I was keeping a promise to myself. When I turned onto Main Street and saw that downtown was not busy, that parking spaces abounded, and that there were open booths at the diner. Several small shops

showing signs that they wouldn't even be open again till the New Year. I sighed. I actually felt my own shoulders soften on my back. My My grip on the steering wheel relax a bit. I tend to borrow a bit too much from my environment sometimes. A busy place can make me feel busy. A busy place can make me feel busy. A crowded street. A noisy restaurant.

A cramped aisle in the grocery store. Can all leave me feeling simply too much. And while I was working on carrying my own calm, a deep well of quiet that couldn't run out inside of me. It was a work in progress, and I let the nearly empty street gift me some ease. Salt crunched under my boots on the sidewalk, and I stopped to look up at the sky. It had been sunny earlier, that energizing blast of winter sun that gets you moving, even in the cold. But clouds had begun to move in.

And I wondered if more snow was on its way. I smiled as I turned toward the shop. Of course it was. We still had months of winter ahead of us. Might as well welcome it. It was something a friend of mine said, when you can't get out of it, get into it. A reminder to enjoy where you can, what you can. And that was what I was going to do right now. I pulled open the door to the shop. I guess it could be called a kitchen shop, but that didn't seem to do it justice. I stepped into the warmth and glowing lights.

All those times I'd passed by before, there had been one section that always drew my eyes. A long table full of dishes, stacks of different patterns of plates and bowls, gravy boats and water pitchers. I am a sucker for dishes. My grandmother had one set for every day and one for special occasions. And they had lasted her for many decades. But I am not built like that. When I can afford it, I like to switch them out, to have a new set, to serve my meals on. And I'd saved up a little stash for this, my own holiday gift to myself. I slipped off my gloves, one and then the other, and tucked them into my coat pocket. I would need to feel the weight of the plates, the finish and texture of the soup bowls and the spoon rest to know what I wanted. There were classic sets of shining white porcelain.

And even though I was pretty sure those weren't the ones I would choose. I still took my time, lifting a few pieces, turning them over in my hands, and imagining the food I might serve on them. They had a very elegant stamp on their bottoms, a company name that I recognized as being old and respected, and their rims felt delicate and sharp. Knowing my own propensity to drop and bump things, I imagined these would only last a few dinners in my house. Beside them sat a stack of thicker dishes. They had a handmade, imperfect feel, and were painted with daubs of bright color against a pale blue background. The glaze was fairly smooth, but here and there were tiny and, I guessed, intentional grains of grit and I guessed intentional grains of grit from the clay

had still stood out on the surface. All in all, they were not the plates for me, but both of these styles had helped me whittle down my ideas on what I wanted. I needed something in the middle. perfect and elegant, that they couldn't withstand regular use, and not so homemade and rustic that their aesthetic overwhelmed the food itself. I clasped my hands behind my back and wandered around the table, peering slowly Sunny yellow soup bowls that felt out of season, but whose shape was perfect. Wide dinner plates in Robin's egg blue, whose color I adored, but whose rim was too wide and well too small for the hearty meals I'd eat this winter. And then I found them. They were a hearty olive green color, the finish shifting a bit lighter at the rim, with such a nice heft as I lifted a mug from the table. The plates were round and minimal, with a small lip and a humble feel. The bowl was low and wide, almost a second plate, with a high rim, which was how I liked it. Perfect for pasta or soup that would cool

to the right temperature as it set. The pieces were smooth, but not glossy. And I just felt that any meal I ate out of them, I would be grateful for. I would feel nourished by. And I could already imagine myself plating up a square of spice my mushroom and wild rice soup, and handing it over to a friend to enjoy. Suddenly I was looking forward to the months of winter yet to come as I carefully stacked some plates and began carrying them over to the register. I'd found a way, as I couldn't get out of it, to get into it. Sweet Dreams