Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Summer Feast

Episode Date: August 24, 2020

Our story tonight is called Summer Feast, and it’s a story about a meal eaten on a blanket spread over the grass. It’s also about shapes spotted in the clouds, whistle weeds, and taking the time to savor some favorite flavors. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness. And thank you for all the messages and lovely comments. I read everything, even if I cannot always reply. We are getting closer and closer

to the release of a beautiful book of our bedtime stories called Nothing Much Happens. It will come out on October 6th in the U.S. and Canada, and on or near that date in dozens of countries all over the world. It will have many of your favorite stories, along with 16 new stories that will only ever appear in the book. It also has really beautiful illustrations, recipes, meditations, and lots more. Pre-order your copy at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, let me say a little about how to use this podcast. Your mind needs a place to rest, someplace safe and soothing.

The story I'm about to read you is that place, and you rest your mind there just by following along with the sound of my voice and the simple details of the story. I'll read it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. As your mind settles and your body relaxes, you will sleep. This is brain training, and the more you do it, the better it will work. So have some patience if you are new to this. Now, it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you've been looking at.

Slide your body down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and sigh through the mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in. And out with sound. Good. Our story tonight is called Summer Feast. And it's a story about a meal eaten on a blanket spread over the grass. It's also about shapes spotted in the clouds, whistle weeds, and taking the time to savor some favorite flavors. Summer Feast I'd found the basket at a yard sale.

I'd been out for a walk in my neighborhood the autumn before, and as I turned a corner, found a row of houses with tables set up in their driveways and blankets laid over their front lawns, all covered with formerly precious objects that were now ready for a new home. I'd strolled through the offerings and found a few things I'd be happy to carry away with me.

There were some funny clip-on earrings in the shape of sunflowers that hadn't likely been worn since the 70s. A few spy novels with dusty book jackets that seemed perfect for afternoon reading on the porch. And a lovely wicker basket with sturdy handles and lined with a red checked cloth that looked like it could hold a hearty lunch to be eaten on a sunny summer day. When I'd gotten it home and given it a thorough cleaning, I'd been so eager to use it that I'd kept it out on my kitchen table for a week or so,

waiting for a warm, bright day to fill it with sandwiches and cookies and crisp autumn apples. But instead, winter had come early, and as the first snow of the season was falling outside, I'd regretfully stashed the basket in a cupboard to wait for next year's sunny days. Now we were in the sweetest, warmest days of summer,

and the basket was once again out on my table, its wicker flaps tipped open and ready to be filled. The excitement of a meal with friends in a shady green spot and my somewhat out-of-control vegetable garden meant that I had a lot to fill it with. I'd made a crunchy cucumber salad with tart vinegar and feathery fronds of dill that had spent the morning marinating in the fridge. When I'd eaten the last pickled beet from the jar the night before, rather than pouring the liquid out, I'd dropped some thinly sliced onions in and sealed it back up.

Today, I'd drained them out and found they were sweet and tangy and a beautiful pink that made the cucumber salad feel ready for a party Along with the cucumbers the garden had given me a glut of green tomatoes. I cut them into thick slices and sautéed them with shallots and thyme and balsamic vinegar until they were syrupy and caramelized.

Then I'd laid them into my tart pan, on top of a homemade crust that was a bit lumpy and lopsided, which I'd decided to call rustic. I'd folded the edges of the dough over the filling a bit and baked it all off. When it was cool, I'd folded the edges of the dough over the filling a bit and baked it all off. When it was cool, I'd cut the tart into wedges and wrapped them in wax paper and into the basket they'd gone. I took things off on my fingers. Salad, tart, plate, napkins and forks. Looking around the kitchen, I remembered the sweet cherries I'd rinsed in a colander in the sink, and found a bowl to seal them in, and just managed to fit them into the basket.

I pulled a blanket down from the hall closet, the one I took to outdoor concerts and to watch the fireworks from on the Fourth of July, and fit it over the wicker top, pulling the handles up and around. Soon, I was out the door with my sun hat on my head and the basket heavy in my hands. Luckily, I didn't have far to go. Up one block and around a corner, there was a tiny neighborhood park. Just a stretch of green grass with a gravel path curving through it and a few benches. On one were a couple of old friends, chatting as they waited for me,

with their own contributions to the feast on their laps. We laid out the blanket at the edge of the park, where there was a bit of shade under a catalpa tree, and pinned the corners down with what we'd brought. I unpacked the basket and laid out the dish of cucumber salad, the bowl of sweet cherries, and the wrapped pieces of green tomato tart.

My friends applauded the menu and filled their plates. To go with our lunch, one friend brought a chilled thermos of homemade lemonade that she'd sweetened with lavender syrup. She unpacked glasses and poured some for each of us. The other friend had a tin of homemade cookies, and he popped off the top to show us. They looked crispy and delicious, with crisscross hatch marks on top, made with the tines of a fork.

We handed round napkins and forks, and leisurely ate, sometimes leaning back on our hands, and stretching our legs rich and tender. A cucumber salad had been tasty when I'd tried a forkful this morning, but now that it had spent a few more hours with its flavors blending and marinating. It was really delicious, and we went back for more until the bowl was empty. The cherries were sweet and juicy, and I dropped the pits into the grass, wondering if I might come back in twenty years to find a tree grown up in our favorite spot.

We took a break from eating for a bit, and laid down on the blanket with our heads together, and our eyes turned up to the sky. It was bright blue, a kind of blue that when you stop to really look at it is honestly astonishing. Have you had those moments? When you take a closer look at something you see every day and feel just plain knocked out by it. A few clouds were moving very slowly across the sky, and we pointed out shapes to one another, as we had when we were children. I saw a horse in mid-gallop, and as I watched, its nose stretched out in front of it,

and its flanks lifted and shifted until it had become a dragon with wings open in a glacially slow flap. I turned my head and saw among the grass and the seed pods that had dropped from the tree beside our blanket were the wide leaves of whistleweed. I plucked a piece and lined it up so that the strip of green was stretched in a straight line between my thumbs. I pressed my lips to the spot and blew and found I could still make the loud honking call I had learned to in summer camp.

My friends laughed at the sound, and we all realized why our camp counselors had begged us to quit all those years ago. The tin of cookies was passed around, and we ate them, still lying on our backs, watching the clouds moving across the sky. My mother used to say, when we sat down to a table for dinner, we don't eat, we dine. It was a reminder to take time to savor our meals instead of gulping them down and rushing

on to the next thing. It was probably also meant to insert a little civility into our family dinners, to teach manners and a bit of propriety. I like thinking that in the end, good manners are really just about showing regard for the people around you, and that it can be done while you're lying in the grass with cookie crumbs in your hair.

I curled onto my side and tucked my arm under my head. The warm air and my full belly were making me drowsy. I listened while my friends talked about this and that, and let my eyes close, knowing that they were watching over, and that we had no place to be. Summer Feast.

I'd found the basket at a yard sale. I'd been out for a walk in my neighborhood the autumn before. And as I turned a corner, found a row of houses with tables set up in their driveways and blankets laid out over their front lawns, all covered with formerly precious objects that were now ready for a new home. I'd strolled through the offerings and found a few things I'd been happy to carry away with me.

There were some funny clip-on earrings in the shape of sunflowers that hadn't likely been worn since the 70s. A few spy novels with dusty book jackets that seemed perfect for afternoon reading on the porch. And a lovely wicker basket with sturdy handles

lined with a red checked cloth that looked like it could hold a hearty lunch to be eaten on a sunny summer day. When I'd gotten it home and given it a thorough cleaning. I'd been so eager to use it that I'd kept it out on my kitchen table for a week or so, waiting for a warm, bright day to fill it with sandwiches,

and cookies, and crisp autumn apples. But instead, winter had come early, and as the first snow of the season was falling outside, I'd regretfully stashed the basket in a cupboard to wait for next year's sunny days. Now we were in the sweetest, warmest days of summer, and the basket was once again out on my table, its wicker flaps tipped open and ready to

be filled. The excitement of a meal with friends in a shady green spot, and my somewhat out-of-control vegetable garden meant that I had a lot to fill it with. I'd made a crunchy cucumber salad with tart vinegar and feathery fronds of dill that had spent the morning marinating in the fridge. When I'd eaten the last pickled beet from the jar the night before,

rather than pouring the liquid out, I'd dropped some thinly sliced onions in and sealed it back up. Today, I drained them out and found they were sweet and tangy and a beautiful pink that made the cucumber salad feel ready for a party. Along with the cucumbers, the garden had given me a glut of green tomatoes. I cut them into thick slices and sautéed them with shallots and thyme and balsamic vinegar

until they were syrupy and caramelized. Then I laid them into my tart pan on top of a homemade crust that was a bit lumpy and lopsided, which I'd decided I would call rustic. I'd folded the edges of the dough over the filling a bit and baked it off. When it was cool, I'd cut the tart into wedges and wrapped them in wax paper and into the basket they'd gone. I ticked things off on my fingers. Salad. Tart.

Plates. Napkins and forks. Looking around the kitchen, I remembered the sweet cherries I'd rinsed in a colander in the sink and found a bowl to seal them in and just managed to fit it into the basket. I pulled a blanket down from the hall closet, the one I took to outdoor concerts and to watch the fireworks from on the 4th of July,

and fit it over the wicker top, pulling the handles up and around. Soon, I was out the door, with my sun hat on my head, and the basket heavy in my hands. Luckily, I didn't have far to go. Up one block, and around a corner, there was a tiny neighborhood park, just a stretch of green grass with a gravel path curving through it, and a few benches. On one were a couple of old friends, chatting as they waited for me, with their own contributions

to the feast on their laps. We laid out the blanket at the edge of the park, where there was a bit of shade under a catalpa tree, and pinned the corners down with what we'd brought. I unpacked the basket and laid out the dish of cucumber salad, the bowl of sweet cherries, and the wrapped pieces of green tomato tart. My friends applauded the menu and filled their plates. To go with our lunch, one friend brought a chilled thermos of homemade lemonade that she'd sweetened with lavender syrup.

She unpacked glasses and poured some for each of us. The other friend had a tin of homemade cookies, and he popped the top off to show us. They looked crispy and delicious, with crisscross hatch marks on top, made with the tines of a fork. We handed round napkins and forks, and leisurely ate, sometimes leaning back on our hands and stretching our legs out of the cover of the shade to let them warm in the sun.

The tart crust had stayed crisp and the tomatoes were rich and tender. The cucumber salad had been tasty when I'd tried a forkful this morning. But now that it had spent a few more hours with its flavors blending and marinating, it was really delicious. And we went back for more until the bowl was empty.

The cherries were sweet and juicy, and I dropped the pits into the grass, wondering if I might come back in twenty years to find a tree grown up in our favorite spot. We took a break from eating for a bit and laid down on the blanket with our heads together and our eyes turned up to the sky. It was bright blue,

a kind of blue that, when you stop to really look at it, is honestly astonishing. Have you had those moments? moments, when you take a closer look at something you see every day and feel just plain knocked out by it. A few clouds were moving very slowly across the sky, and we pointed out shapes to one another, as we had when we were children. I saw a horse in mid-gallop, and as I watched, its nose stretched out in front of it,

and its flanks lifted and shifted until it had become a dragon with wings open in a glacially slow flap. I turned my head and saw among the grass and the seed pods that had dropped from the tree beside our blanket, the wide leaves of whistleweed. I plucked a piece and lined it up so the strip of green was stretched in a straight line between my thumbs. I pressed my lips to the spot and blew, and found I could still make the loud honking call I had learned to in summer camp.

My friends laughed at the sound. honking call I'd learned to in summer camp. My friends laughed at the sound and we all realized why our camp counselors had begged us to quit all those years ago. The tin of cookies was passed around, and we ate them, still lying on our backs, watching the clouds moving across the sky. My mother used to say, when we sat down to the table for dinner, we don't eat. We dine. It was a reminder to take time to savor our meals instead of gulping them down and rushing on to the next thing. It was also probably meant to insert a little civility into our family dinners, to teach manners and a bit of propriety. I liked thinking that, in the end,

good manners are really just about showing regard for the people around you, and that it can be done while you're lying in the grass with cookie crumbs in your hair. I curled onto my side and tucked my arm under my head. The warm air and my full belly were making me drowsy. I listened while my friends talked about this and that, and let my eyes close, knowing they

were watching over, and that we had no place to be. Sweet dreams.