Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Supper Club

Episode Date: February 14, 2022

Our story tonight is called Supper Club and it’s a story about adventures in cooking and friendship. It’s also about less being more, a bubbling pandowdy, and the patience it takes to carefully fold a dumpling.Buy the book: https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/book-storeGet beautiful NMH merch: https://www.podswag.com/collections/nothing-much-happensGet an autographed copies: https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/book-store/autographedGet our ad-free and bonus episodes here: https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscriptionPurchase 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 with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We just got a lovely new item in our merch shop. It's a satiny eye mask filled with lavender flowers. It's a perfect gift for yourself or a sweet dreamer in your life. Find it through the merch button

on nothingmuchappens.com, and that's also where you can subscribe to our ad-free and bonus stories. Let's get ready to sleep. I'll read you a simple, cozy story. It's a place to rest your mind, and when your mind rests, your body will inevitably follow. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read. Just follow along with the sound of my voice and the cozy details of the story. Pull them around you as you would a soft blanket. And if you wake in the night, take yourself back into the story just by thinking through many parts you can remember. This trains your brain

to return to sleep mode and the more you practice it, the easier you will find it. Now, it's time to switch 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. If you sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep, try resting the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help to keep your jaw relaxed.

Now, take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh out through your nose. And sigh out through the mouth. Again, breathe in. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Supper Club, and it's a story about adventures in cooking and friendship. It's also about less being more, a bubbling pan-doughty, and the patience it takes to carefully fold a dumpling.

Supper Club. It had started just because it takes quite a few hands to roll grape leaves. So I'd been called to a friend's house, where a dozen of us spent a day cooking and rolling and chatting and eating. I'd never done it before, but by the end of the day, I was fairly competent when it came to rolling a well-formed dolma, and had learned about soaking the rice beforehand, not cinching the roll too tightly as it needed some space to expand as it cooked, and the right mix of spices and lemony broth to make each bite well-seasoned and delicious. When we finished, we each had a large platter or baking dish full of the fruits of our labor to take home and feast on for as long as they lasted. It had gotten me thinking, how many of my friends and neighbors had foods like that, passed down through generations, delicious and possibly a bit labor-intensive,

that we could come together to make? And so we started our supper club. I got a dozen or so of our fellow chefs together, and we circled dates on a calendar. Once a month, we'd rotate to a different home and make a big meal, then share it. We'd teach each other our family

recipes, and by the end of a year, we'd all have many newly acquired skills and taste buds. And, and this was were always saying we should. That first year, we ended up making a lot of dumplings, as it seems like most every culture and culinary tradition has something like it. Some pocket of dough, steamed or boiled or fried, that was stuffed with yummy bits. And those bits were usually some of the most important foods for the people who made them. We'd made pierogies and malai kafta and knishes. I'd loved leveling up as we learned to shape mandu dumplings. From the simple half-moon we all started with,

by folding the wrapping and pinching it closed, to a slightly more complicated envelope fold, and then the showstopper. A full rose shape that had three dumplings rolled together to mimic petals and a bud. This was not something you could easily learn from a book. This was something you needed to see done in front of you, to hear explained by someone who had done it a thousand times.

And even then, it simply needed to be repeated over and over, to build the skill and muscle memory necessary to do adequately. I found myself so grateful to my friends and neighbors for sharing each process with me. And making them was quite meditative, especially at first. I needed to give all my attention to my fingers as I handled the wrappers and spooned the filling in. I'd hold my breath as I made the first fold,

afraid that the delicate dough would tear. And sometimes it would. But we'd just start again. In the summer, we made empanadas, stuffed with corn and green onions, seasoned with paprika and garlic. We made savory noodles, some with potatoes and some with a bready shell. And in the fall, we made madombi to top a comforting stew, and for dessert, sauce cliquis, which were sweet and cinnamony. When the snow fell,

we met up for an afternoon of ravioli making, where I learned to roll the dough by hand with a long wooden roller, almost as big as a broomstick. As I dotted the filling onto it I repeated a mantra I'd learned from nearly a year of dumpling making Less is more. I'd been so eager at the beginning

to get as much of the delicious bits into each packet that I'd split dozens of them. A little is enough, I'd tell myself. So often, it was. These flavors were concentrated, sauteed down, and seasoned.

And each bite would have a little of everything in it. It reminded me to savor rather than gulp down to really enjoy whatever my senses were presented with and take in the details that might otherwise be missed that first year

of supper club had left us all with freezers full of meals ready to be enjoyed and new skills and favorite dishes even when we'd worked through most of our own well-loved family recipes, we felt we'd only just begun our culinary adventures. So we followed it up with a year of birthday meals.

These were the dishes you wanted on your birthday, when you didn't hesitate to order up your favorites, even if they took a good bit of work. Often they held as much sentimental value as tastiness. We'd meet in the afternoon to start and dole out the jobs, and we aimed for an appetizer, a main course with a side, and always, always a dessert. That became my favorite part of the meal,

to work on and enjoy. We certainly baked cakes, classic chocolate or vanilla cake with sprinkles, and in the summer, a pale yellow lemon cake with raspberry filling. We also had a fair number of requests for pie, blueberry, and peach, and an apple dessert called a pan dowdy. It had a sweet apple filling and a layer of pastry rolled out on top. But halfway through the baking, we took it from the oven and broke, and we found that, just as we had many versions of dumplings in our repertoire, we all had a different name for a slightly contrasting

fruit dessert baked in the oven. I loved a cobbler, but wouldn't say no to a crumble or a crisp, a Betty or a buckle. But my favorite was a sonker, which turned out to just be a cobbler, a thing which by any name tastes sweet. We were nearing the end of our year of birthday meals, and we had to decide which direction to go in next. We would debate at our next supper whether we might cook our way through a famous cookbook or a box of handwritten recipe cards from a rummage sale. Maybe we'd try to recreate

favorite dishes from places we'd traveled to or drill down on bread baking or cook a year's worth of meals with ingredients grown in our own county. I'd be eager for my turn to host, that was for certain,

to clear the counters and pass around the aprons, and for all of us to learn and savor something together. Supper Club. It had started just because it takes quite a few hands to roll grape leaves. So I'd been called to a friend's house, where a dozen of us spent a day cooking and rolling and chatting and eating. I'd never done it before. But by the end of the day, I was fairly competent when it came to rolling a well-formed dolma

and had learned about soaking the rice beforehand, not cinching the roll too tightly as it needed some space to expand as it cooked, and the right mix of spices and lemony broth to make each bite well seasoned and delicious. When we finished, we each had a large platter or baking dish full of the fruits of our labor to take home and feast on for as long as they lasted. It had gotten me thinking, how many of my friends and neighbors had foods like that, passed down through the generations, delicious and possibly a bit labor-intensive, that we could come together to make.

And so, we started our supper club. I got a dozen or so of our fellow chefs together, and we circled dates on a calendar. Once a month, we'd rotate to a different home and make a big meal, and then share it. We'd teach each other our family recipes, and by the end of a year, we'd all have many newly acquired skills and taste buds. And, and this was the bonus, we'd get to share a meal together on a regular basis, just like we were always saying we should. That first year, we ended up making a lot of dumplings. As it seems, most every culture and culinary tradition has something steamed or boiled or fried

that was stuffed with yummy bits. And those bits were usually some of the most important foods for the people who made them. We made pierogies and malai kafta and knishes. I'd leveling up as we learn to shape mandu dumplings from the simple half moon we all started with by folding the wrapping and pinching it closed to a slightly more complicated envelope fold.

And then the showstopper, a full rose shape that had three dumplings rolled together to mimic petals and a bud. This was not something you could easily learn from a book. This was something you needed to see done in front of you, to hear explained by someone who had done it a thousand times. Even then, it simply needed to be repeated over and over to build the and neighbors for sharing each process with me. And making them was quite meditative.

Especially at first. I needed to give all my attention to my fingers as I handled the wrappers and spooned the filling in. I'd hold my breath as I made the first fold, afraid that the delicate dough would tear. And sometimes it would, but we'd just start again. In the summer, we made empanadas, stuffed with corn and green onions,

seasoned with paprika and garlic. We made savory noodles, some with potatoes and some with a bready shell. And in the fall, we made madombi to top a comforting stew. And for dessert, sous-clakies, which were sweet and cinnamony. When the snow fell, we met up for an afternoon of ravioli making, where I learned to roll the dough by hand with a long wooden roller, almost as big as a broomstick. As I dotted the filling onto it, I repeated a mantra I'd learned from nearly a year of dumpling making.

Less is more. I'd been so eager at the beginning to get as much of the delicious bits into each packet that I'd split dozens of them. A little is enough, I'd tell myself.

So often it was. These flavors were concentrated, sautéed down and seasoned, and each bite would have a little of everything in it. It reminded me to savor rather than gulp down, to really enjoy whatever my senses were presented with, and to take in the details that might otherwise be missed. That first year of supper club had left us all with freezers full of meals ready to be enjoyed, and new skills and favorite dishes. Even when we worked through most of our well-loved family recipes, we felt we'd only just begun our culinary adventures.

So we followed it up with a year of birthday meals. These were the dishes you wanted on your birthday, when you didn't hesitate to order up your favorites, even if they took a good bit of work. Often, they held as much sentimental value as tastiness. We'd meet in the afternoon to start and dole out the jobs. And we aimed for an appetizer, a main course with a side, and always, always a dessert. That became my favorite part of the meal to work on and enjoy. We certainly baked cakes, classic chocolate or vanilla cake with raspberry filling. We also had a fair number of requests for pie, blueberry, and peach, and an apple dessert called a pan dowdy.

It had a sweet apple filling and a layer of pastry rolled out on top. But halfway through the baking, we took it from the oven and broke up and pressed down on the top crust so that the fruit would bubble up around it. This started a long discussion on crisps and pies and we found that just as we had many versions of dumplings in our repertoire. We all had a different name for a slightly contrasting fruit dessert baked in the oven.

I loved a cobbler, but wouldn't say no to a crumble or a crisp, a beddy or a buckle. But my favorite was a sonker, which turned out to just be a cobbler, a thing which, by any name, tastes sweet. We were nearing the end of our year of birthday meals and had to decide which direction to go in next. We would debate at our next supper whether we might cook our way through a famous cookbook or a box of handwritten recipe cards from a rummage sale. Maybe we'd try to recreate favorite dishes from places we'd traveled to,

or drill down on bread baking, or cook a year's worth of meals with ingredients grown in our own county. I'd be eager for my turn to host, that was for certain, to clear the counters and pass around the aprons, and for all of us to learn and savor something together.

Sweet dreams.