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

Episode Date: August 26, 2019

Our story tonight is called “Summer Harvest” and it’s a story about the result of a season’s worth of hard work and planning. It’s also about telling time like a farmer would, a red popsicle eaten under a maple tree, and rows of canned tomatoes neatly lined up in the pantry. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase 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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Our audio engineer is Bob Wittersheim. We're proud members of the CuriousCast podcast network. You can follow us on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter for pictures of cozy things and calm reminders to breathe and enjoy the small pleasures around you.

If you need more Nothing Much in your life, go to nothingmuchappens.com where you can order some lovely pieces inspired by our stories. Hoodies for the autumn are coming soon. Has this ever happened to you? You're in bed, reading your book, and maybe even scrunched up in a not-so-comfortable position,

but you can't keep your eyes open. Then you turn off the light, get as snug as possible, and suddenly you can't sleep. What happened in those few seconds is that the narrative of the story was replaced by your thinking mind. So that's how this works. I'll provide a story, simple, relaxing, and told twice, with the second reading a little slower than the page.

And before you know it, you'll be in deep, restful sleep. If you wake in the middle of the night, rather than letting your brain take over, think back through any of the story that you remember, and you'll drop right back off. Now it's time to get comfortable. Switch off your light. Snuggle your body down into the sheets. And feel how good it is to be in bed.

Let's take a deep breath in through the nose. And out through the mouth. Good. Once more, breathe in. Sigh out. Good. Our story tonight is called Summer Harvest, and it's a story about the result

of a season's worth of hard work and planning. It's also about telling time like a farmer would, a red popsicle eaten under a maple tree, and rows of canned tomatoes neatly lined up in the pantry. Summer Harvest We'd gotten here early today, to take advantage of the cool morning air. The sun was just coming over the trees, and the dew was still thick in the grass. We were old hands by now.

We knew how to weed, when to water, and mostly when to harvest. We'd had a few missteps along the way. Those potatoes had been tricky, as predicted. But we'd managed to get a small crop of new potatoes, and left some in the ground to grow bigger for the fall. I'd been too timid to cut the broccoli, unsure if it was ready, and came one day to find that the beautiful green florets had bloomed into even more beautiful yellow flowers. Oh well. We were learning. Today we were here to harvest.

There would still be much more to come, but the plot was producing so quickly that we'd had to come up for a plan for all that we'd grown. We'd brought giant wicker baskets to fill with pounds and pounds of tomatoes. I had a laundry basket lined with an old blanket for the cabbages and cucumbers and zucchini. The runner beans and green beans are mostly finished by now,

but we'd left a row of the runners to dry on the vine for winter soups. Those wouldn't be harvested until almost all their leaves had dried and turned brown. When I walked past them, I thought to myself that they would be ready about when the potatoes were. I liked thinking in these terms, instead of Tuesday or Wednesday, instead of 1.30 or 6 o'clock. I timed things by when

the potatoes would be harvested, and the beans would be cut down and shelled. We started in the tomato plants, the tangy smell of the vines rubbing off on our hands as we carefully picked the fruit. We had romas for sauce, huge lopsided heirloom tomatoes for slicing and salads, giant beef steaks that would go in canning jars today, and about a million tiny, crispy cherry and grape tomatoes that burst with an acidic snap in your mouth. We took a few that were yet unripe for fried green tomato sandwiches,

and some that had fallen heavy and with split skins to the garden floor. We didn't mind their bruises. We set the baskets under a tree. The day was getting hotter, and as we stopped for a rest and a cool drink, the family with the allotment next to ours arrived. Their two boys ran to greet us. We were old friends by now. They told us, one talking over the other in a quick galloping rush of words, about summer camp, and their new backpacks for school

and that their neighbor had a pool. Do we know them? We don't. And later, the going swimming. And did we want popsicles because Mom brought popsicles? We didn't. But as my friend headed back to the Rose to work,

I sat for a few minutes at the picnic table under a big maple when the youngest boy came back, popsicle in hand, and awkwardly climbed up onto my lap. He sat, swinging his feet, and contentedly staring into the distance while he ate and dripped his treat onto my dusty work clothes. I rested my chin on his head and hummed a little. When he was done, he handed me the red stained stick and rushed back to play in the dirt again with his brother.

Back to work then, I said, and joined my friend in the rows of zucchini. There were so many zucchini that we were a bit overwhelmed. I'd been grilling it, sautéing it, and baking it into muffins and bread. I'd shredded zucchini on my box grater and sautéed it with olive oil and garlic and tossed it with pasta. I'd given it to neighbors until they'd refused anymore. I remembered an old joke, something my uncle used to say, that if you left your car unlocked in a parking lot this time of year, you'd come back to find it filled with zucchini.

We weren't the only growers with an overabundance, and luckily we'd found a food pantry, happy to take all that we wanted to give. They'd even set out bins at the entrance to the gardens, and we'd be leaving an awful lot of zucchini there today. We packed the fruits of our labor into our cars and shook hands, silly and content at the successful completion of the plans we'd made, back when the snow was still on the ground. We'd done it. We were farmers now. From here we headed back to my place to can tomatoes until we dropped.

I'd been reading up on it and had the counters lined with clean new jars and my pressure canner on the stove. There was a lot to do, but before anything else, we needed to eat. I laid out a plate of sliced cucumbers with sea salt sprinkled over them. I'd boiled some of those new potatoes the day before and cut them into chunks and drizzled them with olive oil and rosemary and salt. I'd set them out on the counter with a towel draped over the bowl before leaving the house that morning, so they'd be room temperature when we were ready to eat.

I pulled the towel off the bowl, and the smell of rosemary hit me. Then I rinsed and halved a mess of those tiny red and orange grape tomatoes. I drizzled olive oil over them and ripped basil leaves into the bowl. I added salt and a few garlic cloves, which I'd peeled and just cut in half. They were there for flavor, not for eating. Then I handed the bowl to my friend and dug out my tomato salad stirring spoon from the back of the drawer. It was old, from my grandmother's kitchen. It had a long handle and was plenty big and deep.

I told my friend to stir without stopping for five minutes. She raised an eyebrow but set to work. You can't be hasty with some things. Some things take a long time to cook or combine or ripen or grow, and all you can do is be patient. I turned the broiler on and cut a half-dozen thick slices of bread. I laid them out on a sheet pan and brushed them with more olive oil and pushed them in. She stirred.

I watched the toasting bread. Bruschetta is meant to be well toasted, so that when you top it with the juicy tomato salad, it stays crisp. I waited for golden brown and just a little char around the edges and took them out. She dutifully kept to her work with a spoon, while I plated up the bread and poured us glasses of tea. Okay, I said, and she brought the bowl over to add to the rest of the feast.

The tomatoes had given some of their juice to the oil, and the fruit was glossy and fragrant. We piled it onto the warm toasts, picking out the garlic and crunching away with the satisfaction that comes from eating food you've grown yourself. We made our way through the potatoes and cucumbers. And when she sat back with a sigh, I filled her tea glass and broke the last cookie in the jar in half to share.

We looked around the kitchen, taking in the baskets of tomatoes, the rows of jars, and all the work yet to do. But we didn't mind. We'd turn on some music, tidy up the dishes, and start. We'd chat, or work in comfortable quiet, as we cored and scored the fruit. We'd blanch and shock it to take off the skins, then stew them and sterilize the jars.

Finally, the jars would go into the canner, and as they came out, we would set them top-down on towels till they cooled. We'd split them up and set them neatly on our pantry shelves for soups and sauces in the winter. We were farmers, and now, canners as well. Summer Harvest And now, canners as well. Summer harvest. We'd gotten here early today. To take advantage of the cool morning air.

The sun was just coming over the trees. And the dew was still thick in the grass. We were old hands by now. We knew how to weed, when to water, and mostly when to harvest. We'd had a few missteps along the way. Those potatoes had been tricky, as predicted.

But we'd managed to get a small crop of new potatoes and left some in the ground to grow bigger for the fall. I'd been too timid to cut the broccoli, unsure if it was ready, and came one day to find that the beautiful green florets had bloomed into even more beautiful yellow flowers. Oh well. We were learning.

Today we were here to harvest. There would still be much more to come, but the plot was producing so quickly that we'd had to come up with a plan for all we'd grown. We'd brought giant wicker baskets to fill with pounds and pounds of tomatoes. I had a laundry basket lined with an old blanket for the cabbages and cucumbers and zucchini The runner beans and green beans were mostly finished by now

but we'd left a row of the runners to dry on the vine for winter soups Those wouldn't be harvested to dry on the vine for winter soups. Those wouldn't be harvested until almost all their leaves had dried and turned brown. When I walked past them, I thought to myself that they would be ready about when the potatoes were. I liked thinking in those terms, instead of Tuesday or Wednesday, instead of 1.30 or 6 o'clock. I timed things by when the potatoes would be harvested

and the beans would be cut down and shelled. We started in the tomato plants, the tangy smell of the vines rubbing off on our hands as we carefully picked the fruit. We had romas for sauce, huge lopsided heirloom tomatoes for slicing and salads, giant beefsteaks that would go in canning jars today, and about a million tiny crispy cherry and grape tomatoes that burst with an acidic snap in your mouth. We took a few that were yet unripe

for fried green tomato sandwiches and some that had fallen heavy and with split skins to the garden floor. We didn't mind their bruises. We set the baskets under a tree. The day was getting hotter, and as we stopped for a rest and a cool drink, the family with the allotment next to ours arrived.

Their two boys ran to greet us. We were old friends by now. They told us, one talking over the other, in a quick galloping rush of words about summer camp and their new backpacks for school, and that their neighbor had a pool. Do we know them? We don't. And later, they're going swimming. And did we want popsicles? Because Mom brought popsicles.

We didn't, but as my friend headed back to the Rose to work, I sat for a few minutes at the picnic table under a big maple, and the youngest boy came back, popsicle in hand, and awkwardly climbed up onto my lap. He sat swinging his feet and contentedly staring into the distance while he ate, and dripped his treat onto my dusty work clothes. I rested my chin on his head and hummed a little. When he was done, he handed me the red-stained stick and rushed back to play in the dirt again with his brother.

Back to work then, I said, and joined my friend in the rows of zucchini. There were so many zucchini that we were a bit overwhelmed. I'd been grilling it, sautéing it, and baking it into muffins and bread. I'd shredded zucchini on my box grater, and sautéed it with olive oil and garlic, and tossed it with pasta. I'd given it to neighbors until they'd refused anymore. I remembered an old joke, something my uncle used to say, that if you left your car unlocked

in a parking lot this time of year, you'd come back to find it filled with zucchini. We weren't the only growers with an overabundance, and luckily we found a food pantry, happy to take all that we wanted to give. They'd even set out bins at the entrance to the gardens, and we'd be leaving an awful lot of zucchini there today. We packed the fruits of our labor into our cars and shook hands, silly and content, at the successful completion of the plan we'd made,

back when the snow was still on the ground. We'd done it. We were farmers now. From there, we headed back to my place, to canned tomatoes until we'd dropped. I'd been reading up on it, and had the counters lined with clean new jars, and my pressure canner on the stove. There was a lot to do, but before anything else,

we needed to eat. I laid out a plate of sliced cucumbers with sea salt sprinkled over them. I'd boiled some of those new potatoes the day before, cut them into chunks and drizzled them with olive oil and fresh rosemary and salt. I'd set them out on the counter with a towel draped over the bowl before leaving the house that morning, so they'd be room temperature when we were ready to eat. I pulled the towel off the bowl when the smell of rosemary hit me.

Then I rinsed and halved a mess of those tiny red and orange grape tomatoes. I drizzled olive oil over them and ripped basil leaves into the bowl. I added salt and a few garlic cloves, which I'd peeled and just cut in half. They were for flavor, not for eating. Then I handed the bowl to my friend and dug out my tomato salad stirring spoon from the back of the drawer. It was old, from my grandmother's kitchen. It had a long handle, and was plenty big and deep.

I told my friend to stir without stopping for five minutes. She raised an eyebrow but set to work. You can't be hasty with some things. Some things take a long time to cook, or combine, or ripen, or grow. And all you can do is be patient. I turned the broiler on and cut a half-dozen thick slices of bread. I laid them out on a sheet pan and brushed them with more olive oil and pushed them in. She stirred. I watched the toasting bread. Bruschetta is meant to be well toasted,

so that when you top it with a juicy tomato salad, it stays crisp. I waited for golden brown and just a little char around the edges, and then took them out. She dutifully kept to her work with the spoon, while I plated up the bread and poured us glasses of tea. Okay, I said, and she brought the bowl over to add to the rest of the feast The tomatoes had given some of their juice to the oil and the fruit was glossy and fragrant

We piled it onto the warm toasts picking out the garlic and crunching away with the satisfaction that comes from eating food you've grown yourself. We made our way through the potatoes and cucumbers, and when she sat back with a sigh, I filled her tea glass and broke the last cookie in the jar in half to share. We looked around the kitchen, taking in the baskets of tomatoes, the rows of jars, and all the work yet to do. But we didn't mind. We'd turn on some music,

tidy up the dishes, and start. We'd chat, or work, in comfortable quiet, as we cored and scored the fruit. We'd blanch and shock it to take off the skins, then stew them and sterilize the jars. Finally, the jars would go into the canner,

and as they came out, we set them down on towels till they cooled. We'd split them up and set them neatly on our pantry shelves for soups and sauces in the winter. We were farmers, and now, canners as well. Sweet dreams.