Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Toast and Marmalade

Episode Date: April 5, 2021

Our story tonight is called Toast and Marmalade and it’s a story about the first few months of a lifelong friendship. It’s also about a collar with a bell on it, letting go of what ifs, and the joy of watching someone discover a year of firsts. 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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Now is a particularly good time to follow us on Twitter or Instagram or Facebook. We'll have some exciting announcements coming up in the next few weeks. to follow us on Twitter or Instagram or Facebook.

We'll have some exciting announcements coming up in the next few weeks, and I don't want you to miss out on them, as well as regular doses of cozy photos and illustrations and small reminders from me to breathe. Now, this podcast works by giving your mind a place to rest. Something soothing and simple to focus on. So that the background static goes quiet. And you can relax and sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read-through.

Just follow along with the sound of my voice and the gentle details of the tale. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed and rested. If you wake in the middle of the night, take your mind right back to any of the details you can remember, and you'll drop right back off. Really. This is brain training, so be patient as we plant these seeds. Now it's time to turn off your light and put away anything you were looking at. Prioritize your own comfort right now. Getting the right pillow in the right spot and pulling your comforter up over your shoulder. You are about to fall asleep

and you will sleep deeply all night. Take a slow breath in through your nose and let it out with a sigh. Once more, breathe in, let it out. Good. Our story tonight is called Toast and Marmalade, and it's a story about the first few months of a lifelong friendship. It's also about a collar with a bell on it, letting go of what-ifs, and the joy of watching

someone discover a year of firsts. Toast and marmalade. It had only been a few months since we met, but we both knew. This was it. This was it. This was love. And it had been, from that day in the early winter, the first snowfall, when I'd found her paw prints at my front door,

when I'd rigged up a makeshift bed from a cardboard box and bribed her with a big bowl of kibble. We'd been missing each other like two ships in the night, but then finally, I'd heard a high, small meow, and when I opened the door, she'd raced right in. Since then, we'd been together. That first night, she curled up in front of the fire, and I curled up around her, and we'd she reveled in a warm bed, and how many bowls of kitten chow we went through. I guessed it had been a while. It was the best feeling to tell her,

even if she couldn't quite understand me, that she'd never be hungry again, never be without a soft place to lay, or without company if she wanted it. And she did. She followed me through the house wherever I went. She wound through my ankles when I stood peeling carrots at the sink. She helped me make the bed, diving out from between blankets to pounce on my fingers as they smoothed the sheets. She sat with me while we watched the snow melt, and the birds come back to the bushes and shrubs in the backyard. We were mostly inseparable, although she had been a bit cross with me

after her first visit with the doctor. She howled all the way home, then ran straight out of her carrier to pout under the bed for a few hours. But by the time I had our fire going in the living room, she'd inched out to take her place on the sofa, and allowed me to lay a hand on her back. I'd made it up to her with a bit of shopping. She got new bowls to eat her meals from, a new bed that had a flap like an envelope that she loved to tuck herself into,

and a sweet little collar. We'd discussed color options, what would go best with her orange-red fur, and found a pretty paisley one in shades of yellow and cream. It had a tiny bell that rang as she pounced through the halls, and a small charm with her name, Marmalade, on the front and my number on the back. She was still a kitten, and it had been so long since I'd had a kitten.

I'd forgotten the pure fun that came with that. She made a game of everything. I'd bought her a basket full of toys, stuffed mice and feathers on strings. And while I often found them carefully tucked inside the flap of her bed, I imagined her like a dragon sitting on her gold. She was just as happy to play with pencils from my desk or jump at dangling sleeves of sweaters as I attempted to get them onto hangers in the laundry room. I most liked to watch her discover something for the first time. Once, while I was running a bath, she climbed up onto the radiator beside it, and I scooped up a handful of bubbles and blew them into the air.

Her head twitched back and forth, watching them as they scattered and fell. She reached out her curious nose, and only her kiddie reflexes had kept her from tumbling into the water. Along with her wariness of the tub, she'd developed a contentious relationship with the toaster. The first time a piece of bread had come springing up out of it, she'd jumped a mile, as she tried to catch it and simultaneously get away from it. I hadn't laughed like that in so long. Another day, a friend had come visiting with his sweet, gentle giant of a greyhound. Marmalade's eyes widened comically as he trotted into the living room. She watched him from her perch on the windowsill for as long as she could stand, then gave

in to her curiosity and dropped down to sneak closer. The dog, a senior and a rescue himself, who by my friend's account liked nothing so much as spending nearly every hour of the day dozing in various spots around the house, had found a patch of sunlight on the rug, and stretched out languorously on his side. Marmalade crept closer, inch by inch, then dug her nails into the carpet and pulled herself back like a rubber band about to be shot across the room. When the dog didn't so much as look at her, she changed tack and stepped up closer, striding through his long legs, eventually

coming to nestle into the curved space behind his front paws. she sidled closer until she was pressed tight against him and promptly fell asleep my friend and I had left them to it and went to have lunch at the kitchen table when we poked our heads back in in an hour, they were just where we'd left them, and now we scheduled regular nap dates for the two of them. As the spring weather got warmer, we spent time on the screened-in porch off the kitchen. It was on the east side of the house and caught all the morning sunlight, not blocked by the trees.

So it was often warmer than the house itself. This morning, I'd noticed that the forsythia shrub in the far corner of the yard was in full bloom. She watched me as I strode out in my mud boots with my garden shears, and came back a minute later with a basket full of branches lined with cheery yellow flowers. She followed me to the kitchen and hopped up onto the counter as I pulled an old ceramic pitcher down from the cupboard. As I let the water warm, best to keep the blooms open,

she reached a cautious paw out to play in the stream. I filled the pitcher and settled the branches into place. I carried it back out to the screened-in porch and set it on a table beside my favorite chair. I went back in and dropped a couple pieces of bread into the toaster for breakfast as I watched her jump up beside the forsythia. She sat, regarding the flowers, with all four paws in a row, and her tail curled around them. I realized that since she'd been home, we hadn't had a vase of flowers out. She'd seen the Christmas tree and been fascinated by it. But I'd skipped buying poinsettias, afraid she would chew on them.

The vet thought she'd likely been born in early autumn, so these might be the first flowers she'd ever seen. I watched her stretch her short, furry neck out toward the blooms. She let them drape over her cheek and forehead, and just stayed very still with her eyes closed. I smiled in the kitchen, thinking of all the moments she'd made me laugh or gasp or marvel at her. I'd felt so lucky that she'd picked my door that snowy day. I'd heard once that dogs don't do what-ifs, and I hoped it was the same with cats. What if I hadn't been home? What if the snow had been heavier, the night colder?

She didn't worry about such things. She just sat, her face draped in tiny yellow flowers, breathing in the sweet almond scent of them. The toast about to pop up and make her jump for the next exciting moment of her life here at home. Toast and marmalade. been a few months since we met. But we both knew this was it. This was love. And it had been from that day in the early winter, the first snowfall, when I'd found her paw a makeshift bed from a cardboard box and bribed her with a big bowl of kibble. We'd been missing each other like two ships in the night. But then, finally, I'd raced right in. Since then, we'd been together. That first night, she'd curled up in front of the fire, and I'd curled up around her. And we'd stayed like that for a while. I didn't know how long she slept, by how much she reveled in a warm bed, and how many bowls

of kitten chow we went through, I guessed it had been a while. It was the best feeling to tell her, even if she couldn't quite understand me, that she would never be hungry again, never be without a soft place to lay, or without company if she wanted it. And she did. She followed me through the house wherever I went. She wound through my ankles when I stood peeling carrots at the sink. She helped me make the bed, diving out from between blankets to pounce on my fingers as they smoothed the sheets. She sat with me while we watched the snow melt and the birds come back to the bushes

and shrubs in the backyard. We were mostly inseparable, although she had been a bit cross with me after her first visit with the doctor. She'd howled all the way home, then run straight out of her carrier to pout under the bed for a few hours. But by the time I had our fire going in the living room, she inched out to take her place on the sofa and allowed me to lay a hand on her back.

I'd made it up to her with a bit of shopping. She got new bowls to eat her meals from, a new bed that had a flap like an envelope that she loved to tuck herself into, and a sweet little collar. We'd discussed color options, what would go best with her orange-red fur, and found a pretty paisley one in shades of yellow and cream. It had a tiny bell that rang as she pounced through the halls, and a small charm with her name marmalade on the front and my number on the back.

She was still a kitten, and it had been so long since I'd had a kitten. I'd forgotten the pure fun that came with that. She made a game of everything. I'd bought her a basket full of toys, stuffed mice, and feathers on strings. And while I often found them carefully tucked inside the flap of her bed. I imagined her like a dragon sitting on her gold. She was just as happy to play with pencils from my desk or jump at dangling sleeves of sweaters as I attempted to get them onto hangers in the laundry room. I most liked to watch her discover something for the first time. Once, while I was running a bath, she'd climbed

up onto the radiator beside it, and I scooped up a handful of bubbles and blew them into the air. Her head twitched back and forth, and fell. She reached out her curious nose, and only her kitty reflexes had kept her from tumbling into the water. Along with her wariness of the tub, she developed a contentious relationship with the toaster. The first time a piece of bread had come springing up out of it, it. She jumped a mile as she tried to catch it and simultaneously get away from it. I hadn't laughed like that in so long. Another day, a friend had come visiting with his sweet, gentle giant of a greyhound. Marmalade's eyes widened comically as he trotted into the living room. She watched him from her perch on the windowsill

for as long as she could stand, then gave into her curiosity and dropped down to sneak closer. The dog, a senior, and a rescue himself, who, by my friend's account, liked nothing so much as spending nearly every hour of the day dozing in various spots around the house, had found a patch of sunlight on the rug and stretched out languorously on his side. Marmalade crept closer, inch inch, then dug her nails into the carpet and pulled herself back like a rubber band, about to be shot across the room. When the dog didn't so much as look at her, she changed tack and stepped up closer, striding through his long legs, eventually coming to nestle into the curved space behind his front paws. She sidled closer until she was pressed tight against him and promptly fell asleep.

My friend and I had left them to it, and went to have lunch at the kitchen table. When we poked our heads back in an hour later, they were just where we'd left them. And now we scheduled regular nap dates for the two of them. As the spring weather got warmer, we spent time on the screened-in porch off the kitchen. It was on the east side of the house and caught all the morning sunlight, not blocked by the trees. So it was often warmer than the house itself. This morning, I'd noticed that the forsythia shrub in the far corner of the yard was in full bloom. me as I strode out in my mud boots with my garden shears and came back a minute later with a basket full of branches lined with cheery yellow flowers.

She followed me to the kitchen and hopped up onto the counter as I pulled an old ceramic pitcher down from the cupboard. As I let the water warm, best to keep the blooms open, she reached a cautious paw out to play in the stream. I filled the pitcher and settled the branches into place. I carried it back out on a table beside my favorite chair.

I went back in and dropped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster for breakfast. As I watched her jump up beside the forsythia, she sat her jump up beside the forsythia. She sat regarding the flowers with all four paws in a row and her tail curled around them. I realized that since she'd been home, we hadn't had a vase of flowers out. She'd seen the Christmas tree and been fascinated by it, but I'd skipped buying poinsettias, afraid that she would chew on them. The vet thought she'd likely been born in early autumn, so these might be the first flowers she'd ever seen. I watched her stretch her short, furry neck out toward the blooms. She let them drape over her cheek and forehead and just stayed very still with her eyes closed.

I smiled in the kitchen. Thinking of all the moments she'd made me laugh or gasp or marvel at her, and felt so lucky that she'd picked my door that snowy day. I'd heard once that dogs don't do what-ifs, and I hoped it was the same with cats. What if I hadn't been home. What if the snow had been heavier, the night colder? She didn't worry about such things. She just sat, her face draped in tiny yellow flowers, breathing in the sweet almond scent of them, the toast about to pop up and make her jump

for the next exciting moment of her life here at home. Sweet dreams.