Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Summer at the Inn Part 2

Episode Date: July 4, 2022

Our story tonight is taking us back to the Inn for part 2 in this series. It’s a story about a busy afternoon for the innkeeper. It’s also about watermelons, ripe and ready to cut, a dinner bell ringing on the porch, and how good it feels to care for and be cared for. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you. and bonus episodes, and is a wonderful and really appreciated way to support what Bob and I do. You can also buy merch, listen to spooked-up versions of our Halloween episodes, and link to our social media feeds. Again, that's nothingmuchappens.com. Every episode is someone's first episode, so I like to let you know how this works.

How will a bedtime story put you to sleep? Well, mostly it will because it occupies the part of your brain that likes to wander and worry. It keeps it in a soft, cozy nest, and once your brain is seen to, your body will naturally follow. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read. If you wake again later, just turn the story back on, or think through any details you can remember. You'll drop right back off.

Now, lights out campers. Set down anything you were looking at. Get the right pillow in the right spot. You have done enough for today. It is enough. Nothing is left but deep sleep. Take a slow breath in through your nose. Let it out with a sigh do one more breathe in and out

good our story tonight is taking us back to the inn Good. Our story tonight is taking us back to the inn for part two in this series. It's a story about a busy afternoon for the innkeeper. It's also about watermelons, ripe and ready to be cut. A dinner bell ringing on the porch. And how good it feels to care for and be cared for. Summer at the Inn, Part 2 I heard the crunch of tires on gravel

coming from the circle drive at the front of the inn I still had the birdseed scoop in my hand from refilling the feeders as I rounded the edge of the house. We weren't expecting any new guests today, so I wondered who might be stopping by. Occasionally, folks from the neighboring streets came to have a cup of coffee on the porch and share a bit of local gossip.

But they usually showed up on foot or rode their bicycles. I spotted a dusty pickup coming up the drive, and I smiled as I recognized it. We bought a lot of our produce from nearby farmers, whatever chef couldn't grow in our vegetable patch. And there was one farm. They were famous all through the county for their giant vegetables.

They won the blue ribbon at the fair nearly every year for their enormous pumpkins and boulder-sized cabbages. We hadn't placed an order for anything recently, but sometimes they just drove up with their truck bed full of goodies to see if there was anything we needed. As the truck stopped at the front door, and I peered into the bed,

I knew we'd be taking some today. A woman in worn jeans and a flannel shirt stepped out of the cab and smilingly said, Watermelon season has begun. I can see that, I laughed, looking down at the giant fruit piled among blankets to keep them from breaking open. Beside the watermelon, there were a few cantaloupes, and I thought of the cantaloupe ice cream

Shuff had made last year. How delicious and creamy it had been, with nothing but the pure flavor of the fruit. Chef had served it in perfect quinelles on our fancy patterned china plates. But I'd eaten the last bites straight from the container at midnight in my slippers while the whole inn slept.

Chef must have heard the truck as well. And they came around to inspect the fruit. We were at full capacity for the foreseeable future, and we talked about what to buy, what we might serve. The days were hot, and platters of chilled watermelon set out by the beach chairs would always hit the spot. But Chef also would make a salad with the fruit,

with mint and lime and smoked almonds. We had a breakfast service each morning. Then we did platters of sandwiches and salads at lunchtime, and set out some nuts and olives with drinks in the afternoon. By then, our small staff had already put in a full day's work, so our guests drove into town to find their dinners. Still, every now and Chef was inspired to make a special supper, like on the summer solstice, or on a night when we were predicted to have clear skies and an abundance of shooting stars, when eating on our porch by the lake would be irresistible, or just when there was a confluence of excellent fresh things to cook and gastronomic inspiration.

We began to pick out melons. I added a few cantaloupes with a hopeful smile, and from the cab, the farmer brought out baskets of asparagus and spring onions, rainbow chard, and the season's first ears of corn. I could see the gears turning in Chef's head and thought we might be in store for a treat after all. The farmer helped us carry everything down into the kitchens, and we worked out the cost, which was somewhat lessened when we added several jars of chef's spicy pickled watermelon rind that had been put up the year before, with the same farm's melons. Once the produce was all laid out on the counters,

we talked through some ideas. It was nearly lunchtime, and Chef had made sandwiches as soon as breakfast was done. We took them from the fridge, and I set the neatly cut triangles out on pretty platters so that the guests could serve themselves. There was a big dish of cucumber salad topped with pickled red onions, and Chef set about slicing a couple of watermelons to go with it. I carried the platters and dishes up to a long table

laid with a white cloth on the screened-in porch. I fussed with the napkins and stacks of plates and bowls and went back down for more. There was a tray of warm, soft flatbreads topped with slices of yellow tomatoes and garlic spread, and carafts of lemonade and hibiscus iced tea. Lastly, I laid out the watermelon and from the porch eaves to let our guests down by the water know that lunch was served. Some sprang up from their towels and lounge chairs and headed up the grassy hill straight away. Others were deep into naps or novels

or just starting their first lap in the lake. We'd keep the platters full till everyone was fed and happy. I liked to watch the guests come in till everyone was fed and happy. I liked to watch the guests come in and survey the table and excitedly pick up a plate and begin to fill it. We had a loosely enforced rule that if you were in a bathing suit,

especially if you had just gotten out of the water, you'd carry your meal to one of the shady picnic tables outside. And on a day like today, nearly everyone chose to eat alfresco. I kept an eye on our diners, bringing out pitchers of water to some of the tables and carrying in the dishes as they emptied. As our lunch service was ending, I felt my stomach rumble, and I realized it was time for my own repast. Sometimes the staff met for family meal in the late morning or early afternoon, depending on how busy we were. If it was a day when the whole inn would turn over

from one group of guests to another, we'd often just fill a plate whenever we could. Today, our schedule had been displaced by that truck rumbling up the drive, and when I got back down into the kitchens, I found that Chef and our housekeeper had already lunched and were sipping tiny cups of espresso to finish their meal. They laughed when they caught my expression, hungry and pouting. I fixed you a plate, don't worry, said Chef, and lifted a plaid towel to show me one piled with all my favorites. I pulled up a chair and drew the plate toward me.

The chef passed over some silverware and a napkin. The kitchen was cool and smelled already of whatever our special supper would be tonight. I spread the napkin over my lap and let out a contented sigh. The summer was busy, but in all the best ways. Summer at the Inn, Part 2 I heard the crunch of tires on gravel coming from the circle drive at the front of the inn. I still had the birdseed scoop in my hand

from refilling the feeders as I rounded the edge of the house. We weren't expecting any new guests today, so I wondered who might be stopping by. Occasionally, folks from the neighboring streets came to have a cup of coffee on the porch and share a bit of local gossip. But they usually showed up on foot or rode their bicycles. I spotted a dusty pickup truck coming up the drive,

and I smiled as I recognized it. We bought a lot of our produce from nearby farmers. Whatever chef couldn't grow in our vegetable patch. When there was one farm, they were famous all through the county for their giant vegetables. They won the blue ribbon at the fair nearly every year for their enormous pumpkins and boulder-sized cabbages. We hadn't placed an order for anything recently, but sometimes they just drove up with their truck bed full of goodies to see if there was anything we needed. As the truck stopped at the front door and I peered into the bed, I knew we'd A woman in worn jeans and a flannel shirt stepped out of the cab and smilingly said,

Watermelon season has begun. I can see that, I laughed, looking down at the giant fruit piled among blankets to keep them from breaking open. Beside the watermelon, there were a few cantaloupes. And I thought of the cantaloupe ice cream Chef had made last year. How delicious and creamy it had been with nothing but the pure flavor of the fruit. Chef had served it in perfect quenelles on our fancy, patterned china plates.

But I'd eaten the last bites straight from the container at midnight in my slippers while the whole inn slept. Chef must have heard the truck as well, and they came around to inspect the fruit. We were at full capacity for the foreseeable future and we talked about what to buy, what we might serve. The days were hot and platters of chilled watermelon, set out by the beach chairs, would always hit the spot. But Chef also would make a salad with the fruit, with mint leaves and lime and smoked almonds.

We had a breakfast service each morning. Then we did platters of sandwiches and salads at lunchtime, and set out some nuts and olives with drinks in the afternoon. By then, our small staff had already put in a full day's work, so our guests drove into town to find their dinners. Still, every now and then,

Chef was inspired to make a special supper, like on the summer solstice. Or on a night when we were predicted to have clear skies. And an abundance of shooting stars. When eating on our porch by the lake. Would be irresistible, or just when there was a confluence of excellent fresh things to cook and gastronomic inspiration. We began to pick out melons I added a few cantaloupes

with a hopeful smile and from the cab the farmer brought out baskets of asparagus and spring onions rainbow chard of asparagus and spring onions, rainbow chard and the season's first ears of sweet corn. I could see the gears turning in Chef's head and thought we might be in store for a treat after all.

The farmer helped us carry everything down into the kitchens, and we worked out the counters, we talked through some ideas. It was nearly lunchtime, and Chef had made sandwiches as soon as breakfast was done. We took them from the fridge, and I set the neatly cut triangles out on pretty platters, so the guests could serve themselves. There was a big dish of cucumber salad topped with pickled red onions. And Chef set about slicing a couple of the watermelons to go along with it. I carried the platters and dishes up to a long table laid with a white cloth on the screened-in porch.

I fussed with the napkins and stacks of plates and bowls and went back down for more. There was a tray of warm, soft flatbreads topped with slices of yellow tomatoes and garlic spread and carafts of lemonade and hibiscus tea. Lastly, I laid out the watermelon and pushed the screen door open I rang the bell

that hung from the porch eaves to let our guests down by the water know that lunch was served. Some sprang up from their towels and lounge chairs and headed up the grassy hill straight away. Others were deep into novels or naps or just starting their first laps in the lake we'd keep the platters full

till everyone was fed and happy I liked to watch the guests come in and survey the table and excitedly pick up a plate and begin to fill it. We had a loosely enforced rule that if you were in a bathing suit, especially if you had just gotten out of the water, you'd carry your meal to one of the shady picnic tables outside. And on a day like today, nearly everyone chose to eat alfresco. I kept an eye on our diners, bringing out pitchers of water to some of the tables, and carrying in the dishes as they emptied. As our lunch service was ending, I felt my stomach rumble, and I realized it

was time for my own repast. Sometimes the staff met for family meal in the late morning or early afternoon, depending on how busy we were. If it was a day when the whole inn would turn over from one group of guests to another, we'd often just fill a plate whenever we could. The day our schedule had been displaced by that truck rumbling up the drive.

And when I got back down into the kitchens, I found that Chef and our housekeeper had already lunched and were sipping tiny cups of espresso to finish their meal. They laughed when they caught my expression, hungry and pouting. I fixed you a plate, don't worry, said chef, and lifted a plaid kitchen towel to show me one piled with all my favorites. I pulled up a chair and drew the plate toward me. A chef passed over some silverware and a napkin. The kitchen was cool and smelled already of whatever our special supper would be tonight I spread the napkin over my lap and let out a contented sigh sigh the summer was busy, but in all the best ways. Sweet dreams.