Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Table for One

Episode Date: November 1, 2021

Our story tonight is called Table for One and it's a story about a rainy afternoon watched from a favorite place. It’s also about an old radiator that hisses and bangs under the window, a meal that feels like love and enjoying the pleasure of your own company.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 write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We've got a treat planned for you, to help you adjust to daylight savings time. On Sunday, November 7th, at 8pm EST, you can join me for a live read and color along on Instagram. We'll have a printable, full-page illustration from the book for you, so you can get out

your colored pencils and crayons and listen to a few favorite stories before bed. Be sure to follow us on Instagram so you don't miss it. And as always, you can get ad-free and bonus episodes at nothingmuchappens.com. Let me say something about how to use this podcast. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's a simple story without much action, but full of relaxing detail. The story is like a nest, and we're enticing your fluttering mind to settle down into it.

I'll tell her story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of thumb in general when you're trying to fall asleep. Don't worry. Relax. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story and walk yourself back through the details that you remember, especially any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body to wind down, and the more often you do it,

the faster you will fall asleep. So have some patience at the beginning. Okay, lights out campers. Snuggle down into your preferred sleeping position. Make all the adjustments you need to to feel your body relaxing into your bed. You have done enough for today. It is enough. So let my voice be like a guardian, watching over as you let go. Now, let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh through the mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in

and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Table for One. And it's a story about a rainy afternoon watched from a favorite place. It's also about an old radiator that hisses and bangs under the window, a meal that feels like love, and enjoying the pleasure of your own company. Table for one.

It was quiet in the apartment. I like playing music and often had it on while I read or did chores. But sometimes my senses felt overloaded, like I'd heard too much, seen too much, and I needed a blank canvas again, so it was quiet in the apartment. I put the last plate in the drying rack and laid a clean kitchen towel over the dishes. I wiped down the counters, clearing away the little pile of accumulated stuff that seemed to return every few days.

An ink pen, a pebble I'd picked up in the park, a recipe I'd clipped from the paper. A business card. A spare stamp. Lately, when I found myself about to set something down that would only have to be dealt with later. I said, out loud, but in a kind and determined voice,

don't put it down, put it away. And it seemed to be helping, bit by bit. Instead of draping my sweater over a chair back, I'd hang it up in the closet. But it was a process of building up the habit. I went to the window and looked down into the street. The afternoon light was dim. The skies had been low and cloudy all day. I saw a few people on the street,

walking with their jackets zipped up and umbrellas still closed but ready at their sides. There was a man with a dog, both of them walking slowly and patiently. I watched them for a minute or so as they passed under my window and crossed the street into the square. The radiator under the window began to bang and hiss. In this old building, the heat was either on or off.

There wasn't really a way to regulate beyond that. And honestly, I didn't mind it. My place was toasty all winter. And when I wanted to cool it off a little, I just opened the windows and let the fresh air in. Feeling warm was lovely, but even better was to feel just a bit chilled and then warmed. I felt the heat rising up from the radiator and braced my feet firm on the floor to open the window. These old windows were sticky and needed a bit of muscle to get them open. I pressed my fingertips to the rail of the lower sash, where the pain met the painted wood, and gave a good push.

After a moment's resistance, it gave and slid up, letting the autumn in. It felt nice, rolling in over the heat of the radiator. I stood in the kitchen, one hip leaned against the counter, thinking of putting the kettle on for some tea. I had a package of cookies in the cupboard, and tea and cookies is never a bad idea. But having just cleaned the kitchen, I wasn't ready to start doing dishes again.

I went back to the window and lifted it enough to lean out and peer down into the alley towards the cafe on the corner. I could see the lights on inside, and it looked like it might only have a few customers at this hour. I like going to restaurants when the tables are empty. I like seeing movies alone in the theater. I like having the park to myself.

It was a bit like the quiet of the apartment. Sometimes I just had too much of the rest of the world. And having open space around me, an empty bubble of quiet, helped me recharge and eventually come back to enjoying company and the bustle of a busy space again. I decided a meal out, one I didn't have to cook or clean up after, sounded like just the thing today.

I closed the window in case the rain came and slipped my arms into my jacket and pulled the door shut behind me. Two flights down and out the building, onto the street. I pulled my hood up to keep that buffer of quiet around me and made my way to the end of the block. I liked a diner at breakfast time, chrome booths and bright lights, orange juice and

coffee to wake me up. But all of that sounded like too much today. This little cafe had candles on the tables, a fireplace by the back wall, and an open table where I could watch the street. Inside, I asked for a table for one, and the waiter took me straight to it. Best seat in the house, he said, as he laid the menu on the table.

I shed my coat and pulled a book from my bag and looked over the menu. This place had been around for forever and I had had most everything they served. I loved their Hungarian mushroom soup with dill and paprika. Their crisp, fresh salads and homemade dressings. And their grilled sandwiches with avocado and sauerkraut. But today I wanted more than a cup of soup or a sandwich. I wanted a meal.

Something like a Sunday dinner I found what I was looking for on the sheet of daily specials a vegetable pot pie it came with green beans with slivered almonds fresh baked bread and afterward beans with slivered almonds, fresh baked bread,

and afterward, a dish of warm cinnamon apples. I put in my order and opened my book. There were two or three diners in the place, and you could hear low conversation and the tinkling of cutlery on plates. Outside, a gust of wind blew through the street, and rain began to hit the windows. Even from here, I heard the bell over the door at the bakery as a customer ducked in out of the rain, and the wind rushed in behind her. The lights up and down the

street and here in the restaurant flickered, and we all held our breath till they came back on a moment later. When they did, we smiled and chuckled to each other in the way of a shared experience, of knowing without having to say what we were all thinking. My waiter brought my plate, a beautiful golden brown pie with the bright green beans and the basket of bread. I smiled up at him as the steam fogged up my glasses. There are places where, when you eat there, you can feel that the food is made with love. And when you take your last bite and push away the plate,

you feel cared for. This place was like that. I thanked him and spread my napkin over my lap. Sometimes I propped my book against the water jug, but this looked too delicious for that. I wanted to give it my full attention. I cut into the pie, and while it cooled,

took a deep breath of the aroma. I could smell the crisp pastry and vegetables, something herby, maybe tarragon or sage and black pepper. The rain came down even harder, and I was glad that, by the time I would be ready to head home, I'd be warmed by my dinner and the kind care of this place, and could hurry through the chill back to my quiet apartment. I tucked into my meal. Table for one.

It was quiet in the apartment. I like playing music and often had it on while I read or did chores. But sometimes my senses felt overloaded, like I'd heard too much, seen too much, and I needed a blank canvas again. So it was quiet in the apartment. I put the last plate in the drying rack and laid a clean kitchen towel over the dishes.

I wiped down the counters, clearing away the little pile of accumulated stuff that seemed to return every few days. An ink pen. A pebble I'd picked up in the park. A recipe I'd clipped from the paper. A business card.

A spare stamp. Lately, when I found myself about to set something down that would only have to be dealt with later, I said out loud, in a kind but determined voice, don't put it down, put it away. And it seemed to be helping bit by bit. Instead of draping my sweater over a chair back, I'd hang it up in the closet. But it was a process of building up the habit.

I went to the window and looked down into the street. The afternoon light was dim. The skies had been low and cloudy all day. I saw a few people on the street, walking with their jackets sipped up and umbrellas still closed but ready at their sides. There was a man with a dog, both of them walking slowly and patiently. I watched them for a minute or so as they passed under my window and crossed the street into the square. The radiator under the window began to bang and hiss. In this old building, the heat was either on or off.

There wasn't really a way to regulate beyond that. And honestly, I didn't mind it. My place was toasty all winter. And when I wanted to cool it off a little, I opened the windows and let the fresh air in. Feeling warm was lovely, but even better was to first feel just a bit chilled

and then warmed. I felt the heat rising up from the radiator and braced my feet firm on the floor to open the window. These old windows were sticky and needed a bit of muscle to get them open. I pressed my fingertips to the rail of the lower sash, where the pain met the painted wood, and gave it a good push.

After a moment's resistance, it gave and slid up, letting the autumn in. Hmm, it felt nice, rolling in over the heat of the radiator. I stood in the kitchen. One hip leaned against the counter, thinking of putting the kettle on for some tea. I had a package of cookies in the cupboard, and tea and cookies is never a bad idea.

But having just cleaned the kitchen, I wasn't ready to start doing dishes again. I went back to the window and lifted it enough to lean out and peer down the alley toward the cafe on the corner. I could see the lights on inside, and it looked like it might only have a few customers at this hour. I like going to restaurants when the tables are empty. I like seeing movies alone in the theater. I like having the park to myself. It was a bit like the quiet of the apartment. Sometimes I just had too much of the rest of the world. And having open space around me,

an empty bubble of quiet, helped me recharge and eventually come back to enjoying company and the bustle of a busy space again. I decided a meal out one I didn't have to cook or clean up after sounded like just the thing today I closed the window in case the rain finally came

and slipped my arms into my jacket and pulled the door shut behind me. Two flights down and out the building onto the street. I pulled my hood up to keep that buffer of quiet around me and made my way to the end of the block. I liked a diner at breakfast time, chrome booths and bright lights, orange juice and coffee to wake me up. But all of that sounded like too much today. This little cafe had candles on the tables, a fireplace by the back wall, and an open table where I could watch the street.

Inside, I asked for a table for one, and the waiter took me straight to it. Best seat in the house, he said, as he laid the menu on the table. I shed my coat and pulled a book from my bag and looked over the menu. This place had been around for forever, and I had had most everything they served.

I loved their Hungarian mushroom soup with dill and paprika, their crisp, fresh salads and homemade dressings, and their grilled sandwiches with avocado and sauerkraut. But today, I wanted more than a cup of soup or a sandwich. I wanted a meal. Something like a Sunday dinner. I found what I was looking for on the sheet of daily specials, a vegetable pot pie. It came with a side of green beans with slivered almonds, fresh baked bread, and afterward, a dish of warm cinnamon apples. I put in my order and opened my book. There were two or three diners in the place, and you could hear low conversation and the tinkling of cutlery on plates.

Outside, a gust of wind blew through the street, and rain began to hit the windows. Even from here, I heard the bell over the door at the bakery, as a customer ducked in out of the rain, and the wind rushed in behind her. The lights up and down the street and here in the restaurant flickered, and we all held our breath till they came back on a moment later. When they did, we smiled and chuckled to each other in the way of a shared experience, of knowing without having to say what we were all thinking.

My waiter brought my plate, a beautiful golden brown pie with the bright green beans and the basket of bread. I smiled up at him as the steam fogged up my glasses. There are places where, when you eat there you can feel that the food is made with love. And when you take your last bite and push away the plate you feel cared for. This place was like that.

I thanked him and spread my napkin over my lap. Sometimes I propped my book against the water jug. But this looked too delicious for that. I wanted to give it my full attention. into the pie, and while it cooled, took a deep breath of the aroma. I could smell the crisp pastry and vegetables,

something herby, maybe tarragon or sage, and black pepper. The rain came down even harder, and I was glad that by the time I would be ready to head home, I'd be warmed by my dinner and the kind care of this place, and could hurry through the chill back to my quiet apartment. I tucked into my meal. Sweet dreams.