Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Stone Fruit

Episode Date: July 31, 2023

Our story tonight is called Stone Fruit and it’s a story about a sweet part of the summer season. It’s also about how many pecks make a bushel, lovely silly kid logic, apple blossoms, and vanilla, and picking the best peach with your own two hands. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to the National Audubon Society https://www.audubon.org/ “We protect birds and the places they need.” 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 the National Audubon Society. We protect birds and the places they need. At audubon.org.

You can now subscribe to our ad-free feed right on the Apple Podcast app, and you can learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. Let me say a bit about how this podcast works. Just as your body needs a bed to sleep in, your mind needs a place to rest. Someplace calm and safe and simple. And that's what the story is, a place to rest your mind.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. As you listen, pull the details of the story around you like a blanket. Imagine yourself in the story. And before you know it, likely long before I finish reading, you'll be deeply and peacefully asleep. If you wake again in the middle of the night, don't hesitate to turn the story right back on. It'll put your mind right back into its nest, and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling relaxed and refreshed. Now, it's time to settle in. Set yourself up for sleep.

Turn off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on. Adjust your pillows and comforter until you feel completely at ease. You are about to fall asleep. And you will sleep deeply all night. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh through your mouth. Again, breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Stone Fruit. And it's a story about a sweet part of the summer season.

It's also about how many pecks make up a bushel. Lovely, silly, kid logic. Apple blossoms and vanilla on picking the very best peach with your own two hands. Stone fruit. When I first heard the term stone fruit as a child, I imagined something like a mud pie, something that played at being food for the sake of a tea party held on the lawn or inside a blanket tent in the living room on a rainy day. I think I must have even imagined apples or bananas made of carved stone. And I'd liked thinking that even adults needed play food,

though it was rather boring of them to make that food fruit. That bit of kid logic persisted until I was in my teens, when I heard the term again on a cooking show. The chef on the screen was making peach preserves and mentioned that most other kinds of stone fruit would work as well. Thinking back, I imagine a question mark appearing above my head in that moment. What? And I'd gone to ask my mother, who laughed, not unkindly, and explained that stone fruit was a fruit with a pit or a stone at its center, like a plum or a cherry or, as on my cooking show, a peach.

Ah, well, I guessed stone fruit was a better choice than pit fruit. Over the years, the term had become a part of my own vocabulary. I found I just liked the way it sounded, and the inside joke I had with my younger self about it. And maybe that is what has led me to become a lover of nectarines and cherries, apricots and plums, and all the lovely things that can be made from them. There was an orchard outside of town that had rows and rows of fruit trees.

I'd drive down their dirt road a couple times a week during this part of the summer, slowing down to read the signs propped along their split-rail fence, showing what was ripe and ready. And finally this week, the signs for peaches and nectarines had come out, and I'd excitedly turned down the long drive to their lot. Apple trees grew along either side of the drive, and in the spring, when their branches were full of white petals, I'd made the same drive more than once. There'd been nothing to pick or buy then, and I hoped the orchard owners hadn't minded my little car turning around in their parking lot.

But I just hadn't been able to help myself. One particular spring day, the wind had been blowing, and the petals were raining down like soft snowflakes. And I'd wanted to be right in the middle of it, to be doused in a flood of them. And I had. Today, apples were growing on those branches, still small, about the size of golf balls, and the pale green of a cabbage leaf. I thought of the autumn, a few months off, but coming with cooler air and apple picking and leaves crunching underfoot. It is a very good thing to enjoy where you are and at the same time hold a spark of excitement

for what is waiting down the road. And right now, waiting down the road were stone fruits. The lot was busy with others who had seen the signs out front. And I found one of the last spots to park my car. As soon as I stepped out, I could smell the rich scent of peaches. The air was full of it. I just breathed it in for a bit, sweet and a little acidic,

rich like nectar and somehow smelling juicy. I'd read somewhere about a study that had been conducted to see if people all over the world could agree on whether a scent was pleasant or not. And that there were two that seemed to appeal to humans, no matter their culture or geography. They were vanilla and peach. That made me think of grilled peaches with vanilla bean ice cream, and my steps quickened across the parking lot. I started in their shop, which was cool and shady after being in the bright sun. They had baskets and baskets of fresh-picked peaches lining the counter.

Eight quarts made a pack. Four packs made a bushel, all of which were available and looked fresh and unbruised. There were also dark purple plums with shimmering frosty skin, small orange apricots, and a few early cherries. They made their own jams and preserves and the jars were lined up in neat rows on their shelves, all the labels facing in the same direction. Ah, to pick or not to pick, that was my question. Whether tis nobler in the heat of summer, to suffer the slings and arrows of possible sunburn, or to take up a basket of ready fruit, and by buying them, eat them sooner? Oh my, possibly the peach fumes were making me very silly,

and I decided a few minutes of hard work in the fresh air might do me good. I decided to pick my own and took an empty bushel basket from a stack beside the door and headed out toward the trees. I'd learned over the years that picking fruit at the right time was essential. If it didn't get enough time on the tree, the sugars wouldn't develop.

The fruit would be sour or tasteless. If, on the other hand, it stayed too long, the sugars would increase till the tartness was lost, and that freshness that came from the perfect balance of sweet and tart would be replaced with a sort of flat, unappetizing flavor.

The best way to know when to pick, especially for someone like me, who wasn't a fruit farmer, was just to taste and see. Now the farmers here knew what they were about and when they set out the signs at the road I trusted them. But they also kindly let you eat from any tree you passed to be sure about the bushel you were about to pick.

I let my nose guide me as I wandered through the grove with my basket. I came to a tree where the scent was strong and arresting. The fruit's skin was a warm, sunny yellow with a line of blush pink. I reached up for a peach, took it gently and twisted.

It came away easily, another sign that it was ready to eat. I sat down in the shade of the tree and savored every bite of this first peach of the season. I would fill my basket carefully, not stacking them too high, lest they squish the ones at the bottom, then cart them home. There would be enough to make a crumble or a cobbler, to have sliced on my pancakes, grilled with my ice cream, and still more to eat just like this, fresh and simple, till all I was left with were the stones. Stone fruit. When I first heard the term stone fruit as a child. I imagined something like a mud pie, something that played at being food for the sake of a tea party held on the lawn or inside a blanket tent in the living room on a rainy day. I think I must have even

imagined apples or bananas made of carved stone. And I'd liked thinking that even adults needed play food, though it was rather boring of them to make that food fruit. That bit of kid logic persisted until I was in my teens, when I heard the term again on a cooking show. The chef on the screen was making peach preserves, and mentioned that most other kinds of stone fruit would work as well. Thinking back, I imagine a question mark appearing above my head in that moment. What? And I'd gone to ask my mother, who'd laughed not unkindly, and explained that stone fruit was a fruit with a pit or a stone at its center. Like a plum, or a cherry, or, as on my cooking show, a peach. Ah, I guessed stone fruit was a better choice than pit fruit. Over the years, the term had become a part of my own vocabulary.

I found I just liked the way it sounded and the inside joke I had with my younger self about it. And maybe that is what has led me to become a lover of nectarines and cherries. Apricots and plums. And all the lovely things that can be made from them. There was an orchard outside of town that had rows and rows of fruit trees. I'd drive down their dirt road a couple times a week during this part of the summer, slowing down to read the signs propped along their split-rail fence,

showing what was ripe and ready. Finally, this week, the signs for peaches and nectarines had come out, and I'd excitedly turned down the long drive to their lot. Apple trees grew along either side of the drive, and in the spring, when their branches were full of white petals, I'd made the same drive more than once. There'd been nothing to pick or buy then,

and I hoped the orchard owners hadn't minded my little car turning around in their parking lot. But I just hadn't been able to help myself. One particular spring day, the wind had been blowing, and the petals were raining down like soft snowflakes, and I'd wanted to be right in the middle of it, to be doused in a flood of them, and I had. Today, apples were growing on those branches, still small, about the size of golf balls

and the pale green of a cabbage leaf. I thought of the autumn, a few months off, but coming, with cooler air, and apple picking, and leaves crunching underfoot. It is a very good thing to enjoy where you are

and at the same time hold a spark of excitement for what is waiting down the road. And right now, waiting down the road. And right now, waiting down the road were stone fruits. The lot was busy with others

who had seen the signs out front. And I found one of the last spots to park my car. As soon as I stepped out, I could smell the rich scent of peaches. The air was full of it. I just breathed it in for a bit sweet and a little acidic rich like nectar and somehow smelling juicy

I'd read somewhere and somehow smelling juicy. I'd read somewhere about a study that had been conducted to see if people all over the world could agree on whether a scent was pleasant or not. And that there were two that seemed to appeal to humans, no matter their culture or geography. They were vanilla and peach. That made me think of grilled peaches with vanilla bean ice cream, and my steps quickened across the parking lot. I started in their shop, which was cool and shady, after being in the bright

sun. They had baskets and baskets of fresh-picked peaches lining the counter. Eight quarts made a pack. Four packs made a bushel, all of which were available and looked fresh and unbruised. There were also dark purple plums with shimmering frosty skin, small orange apricots, and a few early cherries. They made their own jams and preserves, and the jars were lined up in neat rows on

their shelves, all their labels facing in the same direction. Ah, to pick or not to pick, that was my question. Whether tis nobler in the heat of summer to suffer the slings and arrows of possible sunburn, or to take up a basket of ready fruit and by buying them, eat them sooner. Oh my, possibly the peach fumes were making me very silly when I decided a few minutes of hard work in the fresh air might do me good. I decided to pick my own, and took an empty bushel basket from a stack beside the door, and headed out toward the trees.

I'd learned over the years that picking fruit at the right time was essential. If it didn't get enough time on the tree, the sugars wouldn't develop. The fruit would be sour or tasteless. If, on the other hand, it stayed too long, the sugars would increase till the tartness was lost, and the freshness that came from the perfect balance of sweet and tart would be replaced with a sort of flat, unappetizing flavor. The best way to know when to pick, especially for someone like me, who wasn't a fruit farmer, was just to taste and see. Now the farmers here knew what they were about,

and when they set out their signs at the road, I trusted them, but they also kindly let you eat from any tree you passed to be sure about the bushel you were about to pick. I let my nose guide me as I wandered through the grove with my basket. I came to a tree where the scent was strong and arresting. The fruit's skin was a warm, sunny yellow with a line of blush pink.

I reached up for a peach, took it gently and twisted. It came away easily, another sign that it was ready to eat. I sat down in the shade of the tree and savored every bite of this first peach of the season. I would fill my basket carefully, not stacking them too high, lest they squish the ones at the bottom. Then cart them home. There would be enough to make a crumble or a cobbler to have sliced on my pancakes, grilled with my ice cream.

And still more to eat, just like this, fresh and simple, till all I was left with were the stones. Sweet dreams.