Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Something Borrowed

Episode Date: September 11, 2023

Our story tonight is called Something Borrowed, and it’s the next installment in our series leading up to a special day here in the Village of Nothing Much. It’s a story about early morning at the Inn. It’s also about pretty plates brought out of the pantry cupboards... cardamom and cinnamon... and remembering that you don’t have to do everything on your own. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to the GoFundMe Education Fund. This funds as many teacher-led back-to-school fundraisers as possible. https://www.gofundme.com/f/learning-and-education-cause-fund. We have a link to them in our show notes. Subscribe to our ad-free and bonus episodes at nothingmuchhappens.com.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 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 the GoFundMe Education Fund. This funds as many teacher-led, back-to-school fundraisers as possible. We have a link to them in our show notes.

You can subscribe to our ad-free and bonus episodes at nothingmuchappens.com. Busy minds need a place to rest, and that is what I have for you. A soft place to nestle into, where your mind will be occupied just enough to let you slip into an excellent night's sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn a story right back on, or just to think through whatever you can remember of it, even any pleasant memory. This will guide you right back to sleep. Now, snuggle down, turn off the light, and pull your comforter up over your shoulder. Let your whole body drop heavy into your bed. Soften.

Unclench. Let go. unclench let go maybe you've been sort of on all day okay but that's over now you can let go and rest I'll watch over till you wake

take a deep breath in through your nose. And sigh through your mouth. Do one more. Breathe in. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Something Borrowed, and it's the next installment in our series leading up to a special day here in the village of Nothing Much.

It's a story about early morning at the inn. It's also about pretty plates brought out of the pantry cupboards, cardamom and cinnamon, and remembering that you don't have to do everything on your own. Something Borrowed on your own. Something borrowed. Sunrise at the inn

is a special time of day. I often stand at the end of the dock and watch the sky brightening. Bugs skate over the water, and mist hides the far side of the lake. I'll take a few slow breaths, watch the treetops sway along the shore, and last night's stars fade, then turn and head back toward the inn,

stopping at the herb and vegetable gardens along the way, to harvest a bit before I step down into the kitchen. As the resident chef, I'm always up early, and taking these quiet moments feels important. I love the bustle of a busy kitchen as well. If I didn't, I guess I'd have found a different profession. But that bit of morning quiet... It's like a crisp, freshly ironed tablecloth to set a colorful spread of food onto.

One needs the other. This morning, I took a basket from a few small cantaloupes that I'd been babying for weeks. We were near the end of the season, so the garden, like one or two of the corridors up on the third floor, was nearly empty. I didn't mind the small reprieve, even though I usually wanted the summer season to go on longer than it did, because we were three days away from something big, something we'd been planning for months, something that, while we were all looking forward to it,

was a big responsibility and a good deal of work. In just a few days, there would be a wedding here at the inn. Our first in ages. And our small staff might have had more nerves about it than the happy couple did. Or maybe it was just me. The innkeeper seemed calm and ready. She had neat punch lists and timelines drawn up. She regularly assured me

that we'd have enough champagne, that the flowers had been confirmed, and that she had it on good authority. It wouldn't rain. Hmm. Weddings were special even when the couple weren't friends as they were in this case

I always felt the weight of the day the dreams that I wanted with the food I made to help come true. I thought of my to-do lists as I carried the basket of berries and melons down into my kitchen. I didn't usually wear my chef's coat at the inn's kitchens. That was just a bit formal for how I cooked here.

So I tied on my apron and fumbled in the pocket for a marker. Any good chef has at least two sharpies on them at any moment and I found one in the apron pocket and two more with their clips threaded onto the collar of my shirt even though I was fresh from the shower, I checked behind my ears, as I frequently found them there as well. We had an old, scrubbed kitchen table for staff meals in a corner. And I sat down with my notebook and marker

and looked at the lists I had for each day until the big one. I heard footsteps coming down the long hall overhead and pausing in the butler's pantry upstairs. That was the innkeeper. She started the coffee each morning, and I imagined her filling the pots and portioning out the fresh grounds. I heard the footsteps moving out onto our dining porch,

where guests ate breakfast. I knew she was tidying up the tables, pushing the chairs into even rows, and setting out sugar bowls and creamers and small bouquets in bud vases that our gardener prepared. A minute or two later, the footsteps sounded from the kitchen steps, and she turned the corner with a full cup of coffee in her hands. She said it in front of me, took in my pages of lists and general anxious air and rested a hand on my shoulder.

With her other hand, she flipped my notebook to today's tasks, blocking out those for tomorrow and the day after, saying, first this, then that, my friend. I nodded and let out a sigh and sipped at my coffee. And I've got good news, she added, pointing to the item on my list that was written in all caps and underlined three times. The one that said, Wedding Cake. I've called in reinforcements.

I lifted an eyebrow, and just then we heard the front door opening, the pleasant creak of the old wood floors in the entryway, and the innkeeper motioned me to follow her up. Bring your coffee, she said over her shoulder. In the front office, where our guests checked in, her apron already on, and a giant crate of supplies in her hands, we found the woman who ran the excellent bakery downtown. She had a giant smile on her face

and even this early in the morning was bubbling over with the excitement of baking and creating something very special. As soon as I saw her, my shoulders dropped down from around my ears. I let out a huge sigh of relief. Thank goodness you're here, I said. Oh, you couldn't have kept me away, she laughed. I gave a grateful look to the innkeeper.

I wasn't always the best at asking for help. It was something I was working on. And I took a tiny moment to feel the flood of solace in my body. And let that be a physiological sticky note reminder that I didn't have to do everything on my own. That having help actually felt good. I took the crate of supplies and noticed that on top of the extra whisks and beaters, were several bakery boxes tied up with string. There was still warmth rising up off of them. I brought cardamom buns,

enough for your guests' breakfast and ours, she said as we made our way back down the long hall. That way you can skip doing breakfast service and we can get right to the good stuff, the baker said. I could kiss you, I said, as I turned the corner and led the way to the kitchen. One wedding at a time, please, the innkeeper called from the pantry.

In the kitchen, we laid out the buns and chafing dishes, where they could stay warm as our guests rose and made their way to the porch. They smelled so delicately of cardamom and were sprinkled with pistachios and crushed rose petals. We carried them up and found some pretty China dessert plates in the pantry to serve them on. The sun was an inch above the horizon, and the porch smelled of a mix of fresh coffee and dewy grass. We filled our cups, took a bun each, and went back to the table to plan everything out.

As we sipped and ate, I sketched out the design I had in mind. She made a few suggestions. How best to stabilize the tears. Timing for when each layer would be crumb-coated and left to set up in the freezer. Well, she said, rolling the last sip of coffee around in the bottom of her cup. I understand the plan, but you haven't told me yet. What kind of cake is this?

What flavor are we making? I smiled down at the table and propped my chin in my hand. You know, I thought about that for a long time. They said from the beginning that they trusted me to choose. And I have this recipe, kind of careful about it. I don't give it out, you know. She raised her eyebrows from across the table. Your coffee cake recipe? It's famous. People even ask me for it thinking I might know but I've never been able to recreate it that swirl of cinnamon crunch

through the center and the crumb on it it's fantastic she spoke with reverence and a question in her voice, knowing what it meant to share something that special. Well, they'll need something borrowed, won't they? I said shrugging my shoulders as if it were casual. It wasn't.

Just this once. I'll share it. She raised her cup in salute, then swallowed the last of her coffee. Your secret is safe with me, chef. I knew it was. We pushed away from the table and went to wash our hands. A day full of baking lay ahead of us.

All my nerves were forgotten now that I had someone to share the work and my secret recipe with. It would be a wonderful day. Something Borrowed borrowed. Sunrise at the inn is a special time of day. I often stand at the end of the Bugs skate over the water And mist hides the far side of the lake I'll take a few slow breaths Watch the treetops sway along the shore And last night's stars fade, then turn and head back toward the inn, stopping at the herb and vegetable gardens along the way to harvest a bit

before I step down into the kitchen. As the resident chef, I'm always up early, and taking these quiet moments feels important. I love the bustle of a busy kitchen as well. If I didn't, I guess I'd have found a different profession. But that bit of morning quiet, it's like a crisp, freshly ironed tablecloth to set a colorful spread of food onto.

One needs the other. This morning, I took a basket from a stack by the garden shed and filled it with late summer raspberries, fresh mint, tiny tart tomatoes,

and a few small cantaloupes that I'd been babying for weeks. We were near the end of the season, so the garden, like one or two of the corridors up on the third floor, was nearly empty. I didn't mind the small reprieve

even though I usually wanted the summer season to go on longer than it did because we were three days away from something big something we'd been planning for months, something that, while we were all looking forward to it, was a big responsibility and a good deal of work. In just a few days, there would be a wedding here at the inn. Our first inn ages, and our small staff might have had more nerves about it than the happy couple did.

Or maybe it was just me. The innkeeper seemed calm and ready. She had neat punch lists and timelines drawn up. She regularly assured me that we'd have enough champagne, that the flowers had been confirmed, and that she had it on good authority, it wouldn't rain. Weddings were special, even when the couple weren't friends, as they were in this case, I always felt the weight of the day. The dreams that I wanted with the food I made, to help come true. I thought of my to-do lists as I carried the basket of berries and melons down into my kitchen.

I didn't usually wear my chef's coat in the inn's kitchens. That was just a bit formal for how I cooked here. So I tied on my apron and fumbled in the pocket for a marker. Any good chef has at least two Sharpies on them at any moment, and I found one in the apron pocket, and two more with their clips threaded onto the collar of my shirt. Even though I was fresh from the shower,

I checked behind my ears, as I frequently found them there as well. We had an old, scrubbed kitchen table for staff meals in a corner, and I sat down with my notebook and marker and looked at the lists I had for each day until the big one. I heard footsteps coming down the long hall overhead and pausing in the butler's pantry upstairs. That was the innkeeper.

She started the coffee each morning, and I imagined her filling the pots and portioning out the fresh grounds. I heard the footsteps moving out onto our dining porch, where guests ate breakfast. I knew she was tidying up the tables, pushing the chairs into even rows, and setting out sugar bowls and creamers

and small bouquets in bud vases that our gardener prepared. A minute or two later, the footsteps sounded from the kitchen steps, and she turned the corner with a full cup of coffee in her hands. She said it in front of me, took in my pages of lists and general anxious air, and rested a hand on my shoulder. With her other hand,

she flipped my notebook to today's tasks, blocking out those for tomorrow and the day after, saying, first this, then that, my friend. I nodded and let out a sigh and sipped at my coffee. And I've got good news, she added, pointing to the item on my list that was in all caps and underlined three times. The one that said,

Wedding Cake. I've called in reinforcements. I lifted an eyebrow, and just then we heard the front door opening, the pleasant creak of the old wood floors in the entryway, and the innkeeper motioned me to follow her up. Bring your coffee, she said over her shoulder. In the front office, where our guests checked in,

her apron already on, on a giant crate of supplies in her hands. We found the woman who ran the excellent bakery downtown. She had a giant smile on her face. And even this early in the morning was bubbling over with the excitement of baking and creating something very special. As soon as I saw her, my shoulders dropped down from my ears. I let out a huge sigh of relief.

Thank goodness you're here, I said. Oh, you couldn't have kept me away, she laughed. I gave a grateful look to the innkeeper. I wasn't always the best at asking for help. It was something I was working on, and I took a tiny moment to feel the flood of solace in my body. And let that be a physiological sticky note reminder that I didn't have to do everything on my own.

That having help actually felt good. I took the crate of supplies and noticed that on top of the extra whisks and beaters were several bakery boxes tied up with string. There was still warmth rising up off of them.

I brought cardamom buns, enough for your guests' breakfast and ours, she said as we made our way back down the long hall. That way you can skip doing breakfast service and we can get right to the good stuff, the baker said. I could kiss you,' I said as I turned the corner and led the way to the kitchen. "'One wedding at a time, please rose and made their way to the porch. delicately of cardamom, and were sprinkled with pistachios and crushed rose petals. We carried them up and found some pretty China dessert plates in the pantry to serve them on. The sun was an inch above the horizon now.

The porch smelled of a mix of fresh coffee and dewy grass. We filled our cups, took a bun each, and went back to the table to plan everything out. As we sipped and ate, I sketched out the design I had in mind. She made a few suggestions, how best to stabilize the tears,

timing for when each layer would be crumb-coated and left to set up in the freezer. Well, she said, rolling the last sip of coffee around in the bottom of her cup. I understand the plan. But you haven't told me yet. What kind of cake is this? What flavor are we making? I smiled down at the table

and propped my chin in my hand. You know, I thought about that for a long time. They said from the beginning that they trusted me to choose. And I have this recipe. I'm kind of careful about it. I don't give it out, you know. She raised her eyebrows from across the table. Your coffee cake recipe?

It's famous. People even ask me for it, thinking I might know, but I've never been able to recreate it. That swirl of cinnamon crunch through the center, and the crumb on it, it's fantastic. She spoke with reverence, and a question in her voice, knowing what it meant to share something that special. Well, they'll need something borrowed, won't they? I said, shrugging my shoulders, as if it were casual. It wasn't.

Just this once, I'll share it. She raised her cup in salute, then swallowed the last of the coffee. Your secret is safe with me, chef. I knew it was. We pushed away from the table and went to wash our hands. A day full of baking lay ahead of us. All my nerves

were forgotten now that I had someone to share the work and my secret recipe with. It would be a wonderful day. Sweet dreams.