Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Winter Getaway Part 3, Chef's Kitchen

Episode Date: January 16, 2023

Our story tonight is called Winter Getaway Part Three or Chef’s Kitchen and it’s a story about a humble meal cooked for a friend. It’s also about handwritten notes in the margins of a cookbook, a gift wrapped in brown paper, and the steam rising up off of a bowl of soup. Thanks to your support we donate to a new charity every week and this week we are sending some help to World Central Kitchen at wck.org. World Central Kitchen provides meals in response to humanitarian, climate, and community crises. They build resilient food systems with locally-led solutions.”Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Our premium plus feed with bonus and ad-free apps is still on sale. Go to nothingmuchhappens.com to learn more. Thanks to your support, we donate to a new charity every week. And this week we are sending some help to World Central Kitchen at wck.org. World Central Kitchen provides meals in response to humanitarian,

climate, and community crises. They build resilient food systems with locally led solutions. Find their link in our show notes. Now, your brain is like a truck with a brick on the gas pedal. It goes even when no one is there to steer it. And you can probably relate to that feeling the most when you're trying to go to sleep or when you're trying to return to sleep in the middle of the night. That constantly spinning, wandering feeling. Well, here's what doesn't work. Trying to stop the truck. Trying to stop thinking. It doesn't work. It'll probably just frustrate you.

But there is something that does work. Giving your truck a nice country road to roll along, gently directing it to someplace calm and wonderfully uneventful. The steady landscape passing by, it rocks your thinking mind to sleep. Just listen to the story, and you'll sleep. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't try to stop the truck. Just listen again, or think through the details that you can remember. Now, lights out.

Turn on Do Not Disturb, and put things down. now lights out, turn on do not disturb, and put things down, feel how good it is, to be in bed, to be about to fall asleep, breathing through your nose, and sigh through your mouth. Again, fill it up slow and let it go. Good. Our story tonight is called Winter Getaway, Part 3, or Chef's Kitchen.

And it's a story about a humble meal cooked for a friend. It's also about handwritten notes in the margin of a cookbook, a gift wrapped in brown paper, and the steam rising up off of a bowl of soup. Winter Getaway, Part 3, or Chef's Kitchen Lunch service was winding down, and I made myself a small cup of espresso from the machine in the dining room.

It was a treat I partook of most days. Before I'd become a chef, I'd worked in a coffee shop and served my fair share of lattes and Americanos. And there was something irresistible to me about taking a clean cup

and saucer from the warmer and properly making a coffee. I dropped in a cube of sugar and stirred till it dissolved then drank it down in three or four quick sips. It marked a turning point in my day, and I thought about how many people around the world did the same.

I had some small afternoon ritual, probably involving something hot to drink, that helped them to pause before the second part of the day and regroup. I looked out through the dining room windows, up at the mountain, and watched skiers and snowboarders zigzagging their way down. I wondered if my friend, the bookshop owner, had set foot out into the snow yet. I knew she was here, tucked away in her cabin, mostly because once a day I sent a basket full of danishes, or Chelsea buns, and got back yesterday's crumbs. So, like I said, I knew she was here. I guessed she was reading books and taking naps,

and I was glad she was decompressing. As grown-ups sometimes, you see your friends struggling, and you wish you could give them a good meal and tuck them into bed, like had been done for you as a child. But most of the time, all you can do is listen, though that's still pretty important. Maybe that was why I loved my job so much. I did get to feed people and send them off to bed.

I got to see the moment when they set aside whatever they'd been thinking about and unfold their napkin and let the steam of some tasty dish I'd made rise up and wrap around their face. And I was about ready to see my friend's face like that. We'd met years ago, when I first started cooking at the inn on the lake, in the little town a few hours south of here. I'd wandered into her bookshop on a day off and spent so much time looking through the cookbook section.

She'd encouraged me to take a stack over to the reading nook in the front window. Her shop had lots of new books, but what really caught my interest was a shelf of books she'd bought at garage sales or found at swap meets. They were the kind that were compiled by the Rotary Club or the local chapter of the Moose Lodge, with a plastic cover and ring binding. The recipes represented everyone's best potluck dishes, along with clever tips and sensible advice for housekeeping.

I loved those old books. Lots of the recipes, while often comprising just a half dozen ingredients and very simple methods were downright delicious. I loved thinking about the time when they were compiled, what was happening in the world, and then to read the handwritten notes in the margins that said things like, good hot dish for Sunday,

used lima beans instead, worked fine, or Christmas party, 1971. So I'd gone back to the shop often, and she'd find new cookbooks for me whenever she could. She'd stop by the inn sometimes when the breakfast rush was over, and I'd bring up a couple plates of my signature cinnamon coffee cake, pour us cups of coffee from the urn on the back patio, and we'd chat about books and food and this little village both of us loved. Once I told her about one of the first chapter books I'd read as a child,

a book I couldn't remember the name of, but had been so beloved that I'd read it till the cover had come off. I described a bit of the story, two cousins, an evil governess, and secret passages through the walls of a giant Gothic country house. I'd forgotten about the conversation soon after, but that new year, while I was settling into the kitchens at the ski lodge, I'd gotten a package wrapped in brown paper with her

shop as the return address. She'd found the book, even found the edition I'd read so many times when I was little. The cover, the little line illustrations that I hadn't seen in so long, were suddenly there, exactly as I remembered. And they brought with them more memories of reading in the back seat on my way to Grandpa's house, of hiding the book inside my math text to read during class. I was taking the last sip of my espresso and smiling at the memory

when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. She must have heard me thinking about her. She'd sent a picture that showed the fireplace inside the chalet. The restaurant where I was standing at the moment was a small, glinting dot in the distance. She lives, I typed back. She does, and she's had a lovely cup of tea, but now she's hungry. I smiled.

I had the perfect meal in mind. Come down to the hotel, I said. I'll meet you at the restaurant, and we'll cook something up. On my way, she sent. I thought of a humble meal that was so delicious, so comforting, the kind of home cooking that we never really make in restaurants. In fact, it was a dish often made when someone was under the weather, but I loved it any time it was cold outside. Ten minutes later, we were giving each other a big hug at the entrance to the restaurant. I noticed that she looked well

rested. Her eyes were bright, but her hands were cold from the funicular ride down the mountain. We set her up in the warmth of the kitchen, where we had a little table, where staff took breaks or wrote out lists. What are you making me?' she asked, "'rubbing her hands together in excitement. "'Pastina,' I said. "'It's a little pasta soup made with... "'But she cut me off. "'Oh, my grandmother used to make it for me when I was sick. "'That's the one,' I said,

"'though mine is a little fancied up. We chatted while I chopped shallots and minced garlic. The key to really nice pastina is to dice the vegetables really small and uniformly. It makes the texture of the finished dish so smooth and consistent. A good mouthfeel, we would say. It takes some time, but after all, I am a chef. I can chop like the best of them.

I added zucchini and carrots. We had some purple, some a pale yellow, and some a deep reddish orange. So the mix in the pot was like a rainbow. I added homemade broth and poured us each a tall glass of mineral water while it came to a boil. She told me about her cabin, her latest read, and the ride up the mountain. I told her about the new dishes I was working on, a funny call I'd had with the innkeeper the day before, and a trip I was planning for the time between the lodge and the inn in the spring.

I added the tiny pasta noodles to the pot, acini di pepe, which means something like pepper seeds, and they were indeed as small as seeds, but squared off like the diced vegetables in the pot. Soon it was cooked down, the pasta absorbing the rich broth, and I ladled healthy bowlfuls up for both of us and added a good pinch of fresh parsley and a drizzle of my best olive oil on top.

The kitchen was quiet between meals, just a few prep cooks working at their stations, and we clinked our glasses and sighed and dug in. Winter Getaway, Part 3, or Chef's Kitchen. Lunch service was winding down, and I'd made myself a small cup of espresso from the machine in the dining room. It was a treat I partook of most days. Before I'd become a chef, I'd worked in a coffee shop and served my fair share of lattes and Americanos. And there was something irresistible to me about taking a clean cup and saucer from the warmer and properly making a coffee. I dropped in a cube of sugar and

stirred till it dissolved, then drank it down in three or four quick sips. It marked a turning point in my day. And I thought about how many people around the world did the same. Had some small ritual in the afternoon, probably involving something hot to drink that helped them to pause before the second part of the day and regroup. I looked out through the dining room windows, up at the mountain, and watched skiers and snowboarders zigzagging their way down. I wondered if my friend, the bookshop owner, had set foot out into the snow yet.

I knew she was here, tucked away in her cabin, mostly because once a day I sent her a basket full of danishes or Chelsea buns and just got back yesterday's crumbs. So, like I said, I knew she was here. I guessed she was reading books and taking naps, and I was glad she was decompressing. As grown-ups, sometimes you see your friends struggling, and you wish you could give them a good meal and tuck them into bed,

like had been done for you as a child. But most of the time, all you can do is listen, which is still pretty important. Maybe that's why I loved my job so much. I did get to feed people and send them off to bed. I got to see the moment when they set aside whatever they'd been thinking about, and unfold their napkin and let the steam of some tasty dish I'd made rise up and wrap around their face. And I was about ready to see my friend's face like that.

We'd met years ago, when I first started cooking at the inn on the lake in a little town a few hours south of here. I'd wandered into her bookshop on a day off and spent so much time looking through the cookbook section. She'd encouraged me to take a stack over to the reading nook in the front window. Her store had lots of new books, but what really caught my interest

was a shelf of books she'd bought at garage sales or found at swap meets. They were the kind that were compiled by the Rotary Club or the local chapter of the Moose Lodge, with a plastic cover and ring binding. The recipes represented everyone's best potluck dishes, along with clever tips and sensible advice for housekeeping. I love those old books. Lots of the recipes, while often only comprising a half-dozen ingredients and very simple methods,

were downright delicious. I loved thinking about the time when they were compiled, what was happening in the world, and to read the handwritten notes in the margin that said things like Good hot dish for Sunday. Used lima beans instead. Worked fine. Or Christmas party, 1971. So I'd gone back to the shop often. And she'd find new cookbooks for me whenever she could. She'd stop by the inn sometimes

when the breakfast rush was over and I'd bring up a couple plates of my signature cinnamon coffee cake. Porous cups of coffee from the urn on the back patio. And we'd chat about books and food and this little village

both of us loved. Once I told her about one of the first chapter books I'd read as a child, a book I couldn't remember the name of, but had been so beloved that I'd read it till the cover had come off. I described a bit of the story. Two cousins, an evil governess, and secret passages through the walls of a giant Gothic country house. I'd forgotten about the conversation soon after, but that new year, while I was

settling into the kitchens at the ski lodge, I'd gotten a package wrapped in brown paper, with her shop as the return address. She'd found the book, even the edition I'd read so many times when I was little. The cover, the little line illustrations that I hadn't seen in so long were suddenly there, exactly as I remembered. And they brought with them more memories of reading in the back seat on my way to Grandpa's house, of hiding the book inside my math text to read during class. I was taking the last sip of my espresso and smiling at the memory when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. She must have heard me thinking about her. She'd sent a picture that showed the fireplace inside the chalet. The restaurant where I was standing at that moment

was just a small glinting dot in the distance. She lives, I typed back. She does, and she's had a lovely cup of tea, but now she's hungry. I smiled. I had the perfect meal in mind. Come down to the hotel, I said. I'll meet you at the restaurant and we'll cook something up. On my way, she sent back.

I thought of a humble meal that was so delicious, so comforting. The kind of home cooking that we never really make in restaurants. In fact, it was a dish often made when someone was under the weather. But I loved it any time it was cold outside. Ten minutes later, we were giving each other a big hug at the entrance to the restaurant, and I noticed that she looked well-rested. Her eyes were bright, but her hands were cold from the funicular ride down the mountain. I set her up in the warmth of the kitchen,

where we had a little table, where staff took breaks or wrote out lists. What are you making me? she asked, rubbing her hands together in excitement. Pastina, I said. It's a little pasta soup made with, but she cut me off. Oh, my grandmother used to make it for me when I was sick. That's the one, I said, though mine is a little fancied up. We chatted while I chopped shallots and minced garlic. The key to really nice pastina is to dice the vegetables really small

and uniformly. It makes the texture of the finished dish really small and uniformly. It makes the texture of the finished dish so smooth and consistent. A good mouthfeel, we would say. It takes some time, but after all, I am a chef. I can chop like the best of them. I added zucchini and carrots.

We had some purple, some a pale yellow, and some a deep reddish orange, so the mix in the pot was like a rainbow. I added homemade broth and poured each of us a tall glass of mineral water while it came to a boil. She told me about her cabin, her latest read, and the ride up the mountain.

I told her about the new dishes I was working on, a funny call I'd had with the innkeeper the day before. On a trip I was planning for the time between the lodge and the inn in the spring. I added the tiny pasta noodles to the pot,

a cini di pepe, which meant something like pepper seeds. And they were indeed as small as seeds, but squared off like the diced vegetables in the pot. Soon it was cooked down, the pasta absorbing the rich broth, and I ladled healthy bowlfuls up for both of us and added a good pinch of fresh parsley

and a drizzle of my best olive oil on top. The kitchen was quiet between meals, just a few prep cooks working at their stations, and we clinked our glasses inside and dug in. Sweet dreams.