Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Pantry

Episode Date: March 28, 2022

Our story tonight is called “The Pantry” and it’s a story about a chore that becomes a sort of meditation. It’s also about neat rows of cans with their labels all turned the same way, the satisfaction of a job well done and taking care of little you, even once you’re all grown up.So get cozy and ready to sleep. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.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 our stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Ad-free and bonus episodes are available through nothingmuchappens.com. And we're actually just a few days away from releasing our next bonus, which turned out to be a two-parter. so there's a bonus to the bonus in April.

If you've heard the story called Back to School, you might remember, if you weren't already deeply asleep, that it's about a person taking a class in art restoration to find out something more about a painting handed down through her family. Well, I've always wanted to tell the story of the woman in that painting, who she was and who painted her. And it turned out to be a rather long one, so we'll release both bonus episodes on April 1st. No foolin'. Sign up at nothingmuchappens.com.

Now, let me tell you how to use this podcast your mind needs a place to rest some place quiet and simple and soft that's what the story will be a landing place a nest for your mind all you have to do is listen landing place, a nest for your mind.

All you have to do is listen, follow along with the sound of my voice, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling rested and refreshed. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower when I get to the second telling. If you wake again in the middle of the night, try thinking back to any part of the story you can remember, sometimes just saying the name of it in your mind will put you right back into your nest and you'll drop right back off. This is a kind of brain training. It improves with time,

so be sure to give it some time. Now, lights out campers. Switch everything off. Slide down into your sheets. And notice how good it feels to be in your bed. To be about to fall asleep. Maybe this is a moment you've been looking forward to all day. Well, here it is.

Please enjoy it. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Once more, please. In and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Pantry,

and it's a story about a chore that becomes a sort of meditation. It's also about neat rows of cans with their labels all turned the same way. The satisfaction of a job well done. And taking care of little you, even once you're all grown up. The pantry. I'd been walking past it for a while, the pantry door shut to hide the messy mix of bags and boxes, cans and bottles. It was a chore I'd been putting off for a rainy day. We all have a room like that, right? Or sometimes it's the trunk of the car, or just an overstuffed bag. A collection of things that need to be sorted and dealt

with. I put it off even though I knew that having it organized and clean would feel so good. The space would be inviting and calm again, and I'd be happy to open the door and scan the shelves rather than avoid it. Still, sometimes as humans, we do the opposite of the thing we know we should. And that's not a moral sort of should, just the I'd feel better if sort. So today, I decided I couldn't walk past it one more time. I flicked on the lights in the kitchen

and cleared off the counters. I took the pot of hyacinths from the table and set it on the bookshelf in the living room. I'd need a good bit of space for this. Then I opened the pantry door and let out a heavy sigh. It was only a closet, slightly wider than the door itself and not very deep.

But every shelf, from top to bottom, was crammed with cans of beans, bottles of herbs and garlic salt, boxes of pasta and ramen, as well as quite a good bit of random stuff that had no business being in a pantry. Were those winter gloves up there? The light bulbs I bought three years ago that were the wrong size? Packages of cheesecloth from back when I was definitely going to start making my own nut milk a couple times a week.

And that part that came off that thing that I thought I should save in case I needed it again, considering that I couldn't remember anymore what the thing had been, I guessed I'd been wrong. I started to unload the shelves onto my kitchen counters and table. I remembered a podcast I'd been listening to earlier. A fascinating history of a big city

I'd always dreamed of visiting and thought it would make the perfect companion to my work. I turned it on and set it playing between the boxes. While I made trip after trip between the pantry and the counters. I listened and imagined the great buildings described, the cobblestone streets, the view from the observation deck on the tallest building, The open-air markets in the squares. Gosh, how much would I have come home with if I could have visited those stalls?

Already, just from our own shops and markets, I'd collected a dozen kinds of hot sauce, spices I had no idea what to do with, pickles and vinegars and sauces that overwhelmed the surface of the table. Well, some of these things were years old, dust on their caps and their best-by dates, so long past they were illegible.

I imagined I had better be safe rather than sorry, so bottles were emptied and rinsed to go into the recycling bin. Once the pantry was empty, it got a solid top-to-bottom cleaning. I scrubbed the surfaces till they shone, and that sticky ring of pomegranate molasses on the bottom shelf finally dissolved and disappeared. I swept and mopped the floor and found a few random pasta shapes, dog food nuggets, and even though I've never worn one in my life, a couple of bobby pins.

They must just appear in places. While the shelves and floor dried, I started to sort what was left into categories. Baking supplies were grouped by the sink, and I was excited to find I had almond and orange extract. I'd have to make something with those. I had a truly impressive collection of dried beans. I had split peas, both green and yellow, and all colors of lentils, and fat lima beans as big as my thumbnail, and pretty calypso and yellow eye beans. I had boxes of pasta and noodles,

udon and ramen, farfalle, bucatini, and tiny pastina that I used in soup on freezing days or when I felt under the weather. I started to arrange things back on their shelves. I tried to imagine where things should go based on how often I used them. And was excited when a can or box fit perfectly into the spot I'd left for it. I knew it was fussy, but when I put the cans of beans and tomatoes and hearts of palm back into place, I turned them so that the labels lined up identically, just like in the grocery store.

I guess I was playing shop owner, like I had with a playset when I was little. But what's wrong with that? The order made me feel calm. And if our spaces can help us feel that way, it's worth the effort. I found a few sturdy cardboard boxes, nice ones that gifts had come in, and used them to hold the small bits that would otherwise fall all over the place. I slotted snack packs of fig cookies into one, with little packets of almonds and cashews beside it.

Into a tall jar, I poured a bag of small coconut candies wrapped in foil and screwed on the lid. Lining my shelves like this, little snacks in easy reach, treats as well as staples, it felt like caring for the little kid part of me. There was plenty here, as in abundance, more than enough. And I could go and reach for what I needed.

And that was a really lovely, safe feeling. Parenting doesn't stop when we become adults. We just take over from others the work of continually raising ourselves. Now I wondered again why I'd waited to put these shelves in order. I deserved this. On the highest shelf, I put away clean vases, ready for spring flowers, and a stack of cookbooks that, and here I vowed and hoped it would be true, that I would start to actually cook from.

I'd found a handful of little screw-in hooks in the garage, and I screwed them into the edge of that top shelf to hang herbs and braided garlic from. All I had for now was a small posy of lavender that a friend had gifted me a few weeks before. But I slipped its twine wrap over the hook and stood back to admire what I had done. Clean, organized, and more than enough to keep my plate full and flavored for quite a while.

The Pantry I'd been walking past it for a while. The pantry door shut to hide the messy mix of bags and boxes, cans and bottles. It was a chore I'd been putting off for a rainy day. We all have a room like that, right? Or sometimes it's the trunk of the car or an overstuffed bag. A collection of things that needs to be sorted and dealt with. I put it off even though I knew that having it organized and clean would feel so good. The space would feel inviting and calm again. and I'd be happy to open the door and scan the shelves rather than avoid it.

Still, sometimes as humans, we do the opposite of the thing we know we should. And that's not a moral sort of should, just the I'd feel better if sort. So today, I decided I couldn't walk past it one more time. I flicked on the lights in the kitchen and cleared off the counters. I took the pot of hyacinths from the table and set it on the bookshelf in the living room. I'd need a good bit of space for this. Then I opened the pantry door and let out a heavy sigh.

It was only a closet, slightly wider inside than the door itself, and not very deep, but every shelf from top to bottom was crammed with cans of beans, bottles of herbs and garlic salt, boxes of pasta and ramen, as well as quite a good bit of random stuff that had no business being in a pantry. Were those winter gloves up there?

The light bulbs I'd bought three years ago that were the wrong size, packages of cheesecloth from back when I was definitely going to start making my own nut milk a couple of times a week. That part that came off that thing that I thought I should save in case I needed it again. Considering that I couldn't remember anymore what the thing had been, I guessed I'd been wrong. I started to unload the shelves onto my kitchen counters and table.

I remembered a podcast I'd been listening to earlier, a fascinating history of a big city I'd always dreamed of visiting and thought it would make the perfect companion to my work. I turned it on and set it playing between the boxes. While I made trip after trip between the pantry and the counters, I listened and imagined the great buildings described, the cobblestone streets, the view from the observation deck on the tallest building, the open-air markets and the squares.

Gosh, how much would I have come home with if I could have visited those stalls? Already, just from our own shops and markets, I'd collected a dozen kinds of hot sauce. Spices I had no idea what to do with. Pickles and vinegars and sauces that overwhelmed the surface of the table. Well, some of these things were years old, dust on their caps, and their best-by dates so long past they were illegible. I imagined I had better be safe rather than sorry So bottles were emptied and rinsed to go into the recycling bin

Once the pantry was empty It got a solid top-to-bottom cleaning. I scrubbed the surfaces till they shone, and that sticky ring of pomegranate molasses on the bottom shelf finally dissolved and disappeared. I swept and mopped the floor and found a few random pasta shapes, dog food nuggets,

and even though I'd never worn one in my life, a couple of bobby pins. They must just appear in places. While the shelves and floor dried, I started to sort what was left into categories. Baking supplies were grouped by the sink, and I was excited to find I had almond and orange extract. I'd have to make something with those.

I had a truly impressive collection of dried beans, split peas, both green and yellow, and all colors of lentils. Then fat lima beans, as big as my thumbnail, and pretty calypso and yellow eye beans. I had many boxes of pasta and noodles, udon and ramen, farfalle, bucatini, and tiny pastina that I used in soup on freezing days or when I felt under the weather.

I started to arrange things back on their shelves. I tried to imagine where things should go based on how often I used them and was excited when a can or box fit perfectly into the spot I'd left for it. I knew it was fussy, but when I put the cans of beans and tomatoes and hearts of palm back into place, I turned them so that the labels lined up identically, just like in the grocery store. I guess I was playing shop owner, like I had with the playset when I was little. But what's wrong with that?

The order made me feel calm. And if our spaces can help us feel that way, it's worth the effort. I found a few sturdy cardboard boxes nice ones that gifts had come in and used them to hold the small bits that would otherwise fall all over the place I slotted snack packs of fig cookies into one otherwise fall all over the place.

I slotted snack packs of fig cookies into one, with little packets of almonds and cashews beside it. Into a tall jar, I poured a bag of small coconut candies, wrapped in foil, and screwed on the lid. Lining my shelves like this, little snacks in easy reach, treats as well as staples. It felt like caring for the little kid part of me. There was plenty here, as in abundance, more than enough. And I could just go and reach for what I needed.

And that was a really lovely, safe feeling. Parenting doesn't stop when we become adults. We just take over from others the work of continually raising ourselves. Now I wondered again why I'd waited to put these shelves in order. I deserved this. On the highest shelf,

I put away clean vases, ready for spring flowers, and a stack of cookbooks that, and here I vowed and hoped it would be true, I would start to actually cook from. I'd found a handful of little screw-in hooks in the garage, and I screwed them into the edge of that top shelf to hang herbs and braided garlic from.

All I had for now was a small posy of lavender that a friend had gifted me a few weeks before. But I slipped its twine wrap over the hook and stood back to admire what I had done. Clean, organized, and more than enough to keep my plate full and flavored for quite a while. Sweet dreams.