Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Day after Thanksgiving

Episode Date: November 26, 2018

Our story tonight is called “The Day after Thanksgiving” and it’s a story about enjoying the quiet after a big day, and looking forward to the season to come. It’s also about being in your pajamas for as long as you like, the best way to pop popcorn, and some happy traditions. So get cozy and ready to sleep. This episode mentions alcohol. 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. All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook for a bit of extra coziness. Now let me tell you a little about how to use this podcast. This podcast is designed to put you to sleep, or to just help you relax. I'll tell you a story to give your busy mind a sweet place to lie down. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Just listen to the sound of my voice, and follow along with the details of the story.

And before you know it, you'll be drifting into deep, restful sleep. If you wake later in the night, just think back through the bits of the story that you can remember. This puts your brain right back on track for sleep, rather than letting it wander and race. The more you listen, the more your sleep will improve, as we are training your brain for better sleep habits over time. Now it's time to stop looking at and checking things. Turn off your light. Snuggle your body down into your sheets, and pull your blanket up over your shoulder.

Sometimes it helps to say to yourself, I'm about to fall asleep, and I'll sleep deep all night. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and let it out of the mouth. Good. Do that one more time. Breathe in

and out. Our story tonight is called The Day After Thanksgiving And it's a story about enjoying the quiet after a big day And looking forward to the season to come It's also about being in your pajamas for as long as you like The best way to pop popcorn And some happy traditions.

The Day After Thanksgiving I know some people rush out on that day after Thanksgiving, at four in the morning, to mob the stores and shop till they drop. But I've never felt the slightest desire to join them. In fact, I think that day after Thanksgiving is the perfect day to lay in bed for a long time,

sip coffee, and think about what kind of pie you should have for breakfast. So that's what I was doing. I was on my second cup, swaddled deep into my pillows and comforter while the rest of the house slept late. I was half reading a book and half remembering dinner the night before and smiling at the memories. Our Thanksgiving is a sweet mix of family and a few friends so dear and long-held that they might as well be family. It starts early in the afternoon as cars pull up and the doorbell rings. Casserole dishes carefully bundled in carriers get passed from hand to hand Drinks are poured and groups form around dishes of nuts and trays of olives and pickles Everyone helps out, stirring and tasting and laying the table

And finally we all sit down and raise our glasses to each other and the year that's passed and to all that we have. Then the food and passing plates and laughing and refilling glasses and declarations about not being able to eat any more, and then eating a bit more. There's always that lull after the meal, some needing to stretch out and maybe catch a little nap while football is played, the younger ones needing to blow off some steam and bundling up to play outside, others happy to chatter and gossip while they clean and pack up leftovers and brew pots of coffee to go with the pies.

That brought me back to the question at hand. What kind of pie should I have for breakfast? I padded down to the kitchen, blessedly cleaned by the group effort the night before, and considered my options. Pumpkin, apple, pecan. That was tough, and I had been known to choose the sampler option in the past. But today, I knew down deep. The answer was pumpkin. I cut myself a large wedge and poured another cup of coffee from the pot. I'd tried something new this year and whipped chilled coconut milk from the can

into a creamy, sweet topping. Some went onto the pie and some in my coffee. As I ate and sipped, I slid around in my socks and peered out through the windows. No snow yet, but the leaves had a crunchy hard frost on them, and the air looked cold through the sunlight. I saw a bird, a bright red northern cardinal with a black face and red beak at the feeder,

and on a branch beside him a silvery-gray tufted titmouse with a patch of blush peach on his side and belly. They ate well from our feeders, but also pecked around at the shrubs and trees, finding a few leftover berries. That made me think of the bowl of washed cranberries, ready in the fridge, that I'd forgotten to do anything with the day before. I clicked my tongue. Oh well, nobody really eats the cranberries anyway. I'd string them instead. With popcorn. For the Christmas tree. Perfect.

I added an old green sweater to my pajamas and socks ensemble, buttoning it up as I headed to the closet to find my sewing needles and thread. They weren't really mine. I'd inherited an old case of supplies from an aunt who was a keen seamstress. When her eyes had gotten a bit too bad to keep working, she'd passed it to me, hoping I might take up the hobby. I hadn't, really, but I loved her case and took a moment to set it out on a table and go through some of her things. She had a fine pair of long silver scissors. I remembered as a child that they couldn't be borrowed for any other purpose than sewing. An old red pin cushion that was fashioned like a tomato but with a tiny strawberry hanging

from it, still pricked with her needles and pins. And a glass jam jar full of buttons. I poured some out into my hand and poked through them, wondering what dress or suit jacket or fancy-heeled shoe they'd come from. I took some strong thread and the pincushion with needles, packed up the rest and put it away. I took out my bowl of cranberries and brought out the popcorn pan from the cupboard. I added oil and dropped in just three kernels of corn and put it on the stove.

Listen, I'm about to tell you a secret about popcorn. Wait for those three kernels to pop, and once all three have, add the rest, and you'll pop every one in the pot by the time you're done, without burning. I don't know how it works, but it does. I guessed that the smell of fresh popcorn and hot coffee would mean I would have company soon, and that sounded fine to me. I poured the popcorn into a huge bowl and salted it. I set myself up on the sofa, a long string of black thread, a needle, my bowls and another one to catch

the strung garland. I ate a piece and strung a piece and worked like that for a while, till I heard shuffling slippers on the stairs and a cup being filled in the kitchen. Sleepy eyes watched me over the rim as I threaded the berries in the corn. Where's the Christmas music? And we should have a fire. I smiled, knowing we had the whole day to do more of this. Yes, please, I said. The Day After Thanksgiving I know some people rush out on that day after Thanksgiving,

at four in the morning, to mob the stores and shop till they drop. But I've never felt the slightest desire to join them. In fact, I think that day after Thanksgiving is the perfect day to lay in bed for a long time, sip coffee, and think about which kind of pie you should have for breakfast. So that's what I was doing. I was on my second cup,

swaddled deep in my pillows and comforter, while the rest of the house slept late. I was half reading a book and half remembering dinner the night before and smiling at the memories. Our Thanksgiving is a sweet mix of family and a few friends so dear and long-held that they might as well be family. It starts early in the afternoon as cars pull up and the doorbell rings.

Casserole dishes, carefully bundled in carriers, get passed from hand to hand. Drinks are poured, and groups form around dishes of nuts and trays of olives and pickles. Everyone helps out, stirring and tasting and laying the table. And finally, we all sit down and raise our glasses to each other and the year that's passed and to all that we have. Then the food and passing plates laughing, and refilling glasses, and declarations about not being able to eat anymore, and then eating a bit more.

There's always that lull after the meal, some needing to stretch out and maybe catch a little nap while football is played, the younger ones needing to blow off steam and bundling up to play outside, others happy to chatter and gossip while they clean and pack up leftovers and brew pots of coffee to go with the pies. That brought me back to the question at hand.

What kind of pie should I have for breakfast. I padded down to the kitchen, blessedly cleaned by the group effort the night before, and considered my options. Pumpkin, apple, pecan. That was tough.

I had been known to choose the sampler option in the past. But today, I knew down deep, the answer was pumpkin. I cut myself a large wedge and poured another cup of coffee from the pot. I'd tried something new this year and whipped chilled coconut milk from the can into a creamy, sweet topping. Some went onto the pie, and some in my coffee. As I ate and sipped, I slid around in my socks and peered out through the windows.

No snow yet, but the leaves had a crunchy hard frost on them and the air looked cold through the sunlight. I saw a bird, frost on them, and the air looked cold through the sunlight. I saw a bird, a bright red northern cardinal with a black face and red beak at the feeder. In a branch beside him, a silvery gray tufted titmouse, with a patch of blush peach on his side and belly. They ate well from our feeders, but also pecked around at the shrubs and trees, finding a few leftover berries. That made me think of the bowl of washed cranberries, ready in the fridge,

that I'd forgotten to do anything with the day before. I clicked my tongue. Oh well, nobody really eats the cranberries anyway. I'd string them, instead, instead with popcorn for the Christmas tree. Perfect. I added an old green sweater to my pajamas and socks ensemble, buttoning it up as I headed to the closet to find my sewing needles and thread. They weren't really mine.

I'd inherited a case of supplies from an aunt who was a keen seamstress. When her eyes had gotten a bit too bad to keep working, she'd passed it to me, hoping I might take up the hobby. I hadn't, really, but I loved her case, and I took a moment to set it out on the table and go through some of her things. She had a fine pair of long, silver scissors.

I remembered as a child, they couldn't be borrowed for any other purpose than sewing. An old red pincushion that was fashioned like a tomato, but with a tiny strawberry hanging from it, still pricked with her needles and pins, and a glass jam jar full of buttons. I poured some out into my hand and poked through them, wondering what dress or suit jacket or fancy-heeled shoe they'd come from. I took some strong thread and the pincushion with needles and packed up the rest and put it away. I took out my bowl of cranberries and brought out the popcorn pan from the cupboard. I added oil and dropped in just three kernels of corn and put it on the stove.

Listen, I'm about to tell you a secret about popcorn. Wait for those three kernels to pop, and once all three have, add the rest, and you'll pop every one in the pot by the time you're done, without burning. I don't know how it works, but it does. I guessed that the smell of fresh popcorn and hot coffee would mean I would have company soon, and that sounded fine to me. I poured the popcorn into a huge bowl and salted it. I set myself up on the sofa, a long string of black thread, a needle, my bowls, and another one to catch the strung garland. I ate a piece and strung a piece,

and worked like that for a while, till I heard shuffling slippers on the stairs and a cup being filled in the kitchen. Sleepy eyes watched me over the rim as I threaded the berries in the corn. Where's the Christmas music? And we should have a fire. I smiled,

knowing we had the whole day to do more of this. Yes, please, I said. Sweet dreams.