Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The First Cool Days

Episode Date: September 23, 2019

Our story tonight is called The First Cool Days and it's a story about that pivotal time between seasons and how lovely it can be to go from the heat of the lakeside to the cool shadowy days of September. It’s also about being allowed some time to be alone and quiet, a candle burning on a kitchen windowsill, and the best bite of watermelon. 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. Audio engineering is done by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening and for sharing our stories with anyone you know

who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness. If you need a little more nothing much in your life, head to nothingmuchappens.com where you can find some special pieces inspired by the show. Let me explain a little about how to use this podcast. Just like when you were a child being tucked in for bed,

you're about to hear a story to send you off to dreamland. The story is meant to be a soft landing place for your mind, so that instead of circling through the same thoughts, you can rest in a sweet, peaceful place. I'll tell her story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story and walk yourself back through the details that you can 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 a bit of patience at the beginning and if you find yourself awake again later in the night think back through the story again to go right back to sleep now it's time to turn off the light

and put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. In time, all of this becomes a signal for your brain. A signal that says, it's time for sleep.

Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh through the mouth. Good. Do that one more time. In and out. Our story tonight is called The First Cool Days, and it's a story about that pivotal time between seasons, and how lovely it can be to go from the heat of the lakeside to the cool, shadowy days of September. It's also about being allowed some time to be alone and quiet, a candle burning on a kitchen windowsill, and the best bite of watermelon.

The first cool days. and the best bite of watermelon. The First Cool Days It was one of the first cool days of the fall. Just a few days ago, we'd been in our shorts and tank tops, wringing the last bits of summer from the season. We'd had one more day at the lake, stretched out on giant beach towels and running into the waves every half an hour to paddle around and splash.

Even when grown-ups forget to play, something about being in the water reminds them. Suddenly we start skating our hands across the water, splashing and turning in circles. We hang off each other like otters, laugh and turn somersaults in the waves. We'd stayed all day by the water, sleeping in the shade,

eating watermelon and sandwiches from the picnic basket, and being as lazy as we could manage. The watermelon was particularly good at the peak of its season, and as I bit into it, I remembered hearing once that in some language, maybe German,

they had a separate word for the frosty sweet core of the watermelon. A different word for the best bite. I liked that. When something is special, it deserves its own word. A way to acknowledge a superlative moment. Like that moment. The warm end of the summer water.

The rustling of the leaves high above us, and the way that the heat felt in my body, knowing that the cool, crisp autumn was coming soon. Waking today, I felt it. The air smelled differently. The sunlight cutting through the trees had a golden tone that it simply hadn't had a few days before. I took a favorite sweater from my closet. I hadn't needed one in months, and it felt so good to slip it on and feel that shiver of warmth in my skin. I traded in my flip-flops for sneakers and carried my coffee out to the deck. Why do we like the contrast of cool and warm so much?

To stand in the chill morning air with that cup in my hands felt like, well, it felt like it needed its own word to say how good it was. I lingered on the deck for a while, sitting on the steps with my knees to my chest, just looking out into the trees. My cup was kindly and quietly refilled for me. Everybody needs some time, every day, to just be, to let the wheels inside lose momentum and run out of steam. I sat till I felt truly quiet. It took a while, but I was patient.

When the quiet was in every bone, stitched into the fabric of my breath, I stood, dusted off, and took my cup back inside. I opened a few windows and let the cool air into the house. I lit the candle that sat on the windowsill above the kitchen sink I took a paper sack of apples from the fridge and started to peel them in long curling strips I cut the apples into chunks and dropped them into a huge ceramic bowl

I sprinkled on cinnamon and squeezed in some lemon juice. I took a special jar of sugar from the pantry. A few weeks before, I'd used a vanilla bean in a recipe, carefully slicing it open and scraping out the black seeds with the back of my knife. The seeds had gone into a cake, dotting its white sponge with one of the best flavors in the world. I'd saved the pod and put it in the bottom of a clean glass jar, poured in table sugar to fill it, and sealed it in the bottom of a clean glass jar, poured in table sugar to fill it,

and sealed it back up. Now, when I opened the jar, the scent of the vanilla drifted out, and the sugar had gone slightly golden as it drank up the nectar. I added a few heaping tablespoons of it to the apples and stirred them around. I set the bowl aside and took out flour and a plate of cubed coconut oil I'd set in the fridge the night before. I dropped the oil into a bowl with flour and a pinch of salt.

You can do this in a food processor, and maybe that's even the best way so that the warmth of your hands doesn't melt the oil. But I liked rubbing it through. I liked feeling it come together in my hands. I added one spoonful of iced water at a time until the dough was smooth. I slipped it into the fridge while I warmed the oven

and found my pie plate and rolling pin. The pin was smooth marble, handed down through generations of pie makers. The stone was naturally cold and would keep the pastry cool as I rolled it out. I dusted the counter with flour and brought the pie crust back out. It would be a double-crust pie, so I divided the pastry into two and slowly rolled out even discs. I lined the pie plate and checked on my apples. They were juicy and fragrant with the vanilla and the cinnamon, and I sprinkled a few spoonfuls of ground almonds into the open crust before I spread the apples out. The almond flour would soak up the juice cast off as it baked and keep the crust flaky and crisp.

I laid on the top crust and crimped all the way around the edge, just like all those pie makers had done before me. With the tip of a sharp knife, I cut a few slits in the dough to let the steam out and slid it into the oven. The wind was picking up outside. I heard that rushing in the branches of a thousand leaves colliding that comes right before a storm. And I let the cool current of air blow around me as I ran a sink full of hot water to wash the dishes in. I was quiet as I washed each bowl, slow and attentive.

Even washing dishes can be a meditation if you let it. As I finished, I began to smell the pie baking in the oven behind me. I thought about the sweet core of the watermelon, the warm cup of coffee on the deck, and the first bite of apple pie on the first cool day of the autumn. The rain began to fall. The first cool days. It was one of the first cool days of the fall.

Just a few days ago, we'd been in our shorts and tank tops, wringing the last bits of summer from the season. We'd had one more day at the lake, stretched out on giant beach towels and running into the waves every half hour to paddle around and splash. Even when grownups forget to play, something about being in the water reminds them. Suddenly we start skating our hands across the water, splashing and turning in circles. We hang off each other like otters, laugh and turn somersaults in the waves. We'd stayed all day by the water,

sleeping in the shade, eating watermelon and sandwiches from the picnic basket, and being as lazy as we could manage. The watermelon was particularly good at the peak of its season, and as I bit into it, I remembered hearing once that in some language, maybe German, they had a separate word for the frosty sweet core of the watermelon. A different word for the best bite. I liked that. When something is special, it deserves its own word. A way to acknowledge a superlative moment. like that moment,

the warm end of the summer water, the rustling of the leaves high above us, and the way that the heat felt in my body, knowing that the cool, crisp autumn was coming soon. Waking today, I felt it. The air smelled differently. The sunlight cutting through the trees had a golden tone that it simply hadn't had a few days before. I took a favorite sweater from my closet. I hadn't needed one in months, and it felt

so good to slip it on and feel that shiver of warmth in my skin. I traded in my flip-flops for sneakers and carried my coffee out to the deck. Why do we like the contrast of cool and warm so much? To stand in the chill morning air with that cup in my hands felt like, well, it felt like it needed its own word to say how good it was. I lingered on the deck for a while, sitting on the steps with my knees to my chest, just looking out into the trees.

My cup was kindly and quietly refilled for me. Everybody needs some time every day to just be, to let the wheels inside lose momentum and run out of steam. I sat till I felt truly quiet. It took a while, but I was patient. When the quiet was in every bone, stitched into the fabric of my breath. I stood, dusted off, and took my cup back inside. I opened a few windows and let the cool air into the house. I lit the candle that sat on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. I took a paper sack of apples from the fridge

and started to peel them in long, curling strips. I cut the apples into chunks and dropped them into a huge ceramic bowl. I sprinkled on cinnamon and squeezed in some lemon juice. I took a special jar of sugar from the pantry. A few weeks before, I'd used a vanilla bean in a recipe, carefully slicing it open and scraping out the black seeds with the back of my knife. The seeds had gone into a cake, dotting its white sponge with one of the best flavors in the world. I'd saved the pod and put it in the bottom of a clean glass jar, poured in table sugar to fill it, and sealed it back up. Now, when I opened the jar, the scent of the vanilla drifted out, and the sugar had gone slightly golden as it drank up the nectar.

I added a few heaping tablespoons of it to the apples and stirred them around. I set the bowl aside and took out flour and a plate of cubed coconut oil I'd set in the fridge the night before. I dropped the oil into a bowl with flour and a pinch of salt. You can do this in a food processor, and maybe that's even the best way, so that the warmth of your hands doesn't melt the oil. But I liked rubbing it through. I liked feeling it come together in my hands. I added one spoonful of iced water at a time, until the dough was smooth.

I slipped it into the fridge while I warmed the oven, and found my pie plate and rolling pin. The pin was smooth marble, handed down through generations of pie makers. The stone was naturally cold and would keep the pastry cool as I rolled it out. I dusted the counter with flour and brought the pie crust back out. It would be a double crust pie, so I divided the pastry into two, and slowly rolled out even discs. I lined the pie plate and checked on my apples.

They were juicy and fragrant with the vanilla and cinnamon, and I sprinkled a few spoonfuls of ground almonds into the open crust before I spread the apples out. The almond flour would soak up the juice cast off as it baked and keep the crust flaky and crisp. I laid on the top crust and crimped all around the edge, just like all those pie makers had done before me. With the tip of a sharp knife, I cut a few slits in the dough to let the steam escape

and slid it into the oven. The wind was picking up outside. I heard that rushing in the branches of a thousand leaves colliding that comes right before a storm. And I let the cool current of air blow around me as I ran a sink full of hot water to wash the dishes in. I was quiet as I washed each bowl, slow and attentive.

Even washing dishes can be meditation if you let it. As I finished, I began to smell the pie baking in the oven behind me. I thought about the sweet core of the watermelon, the warm cup of coffee on the deck, and the first bite of apple pie on the first cool day of the autumn. The rain began to fall. Sweet dreams.