Speaker 1: Welcome to Bedtime Stories for grown ups, and which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nikolay,
Speaker 1: with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Please keep sharing our
Speaker 1: podcast any way you can with any one you know
Speaker 1: who likes relaxing and good sleep. Now let me say
Speaker 1: a little about how to use this podcast. I'm about
Speaker 1: to tell you a bedtime story to help you relax
Speaker 1: and drift off into sleep. It's a simple, cozy story
Speaker 1: for you to nestle your mind down into so that
Speaker 1: instead of getting snagged on thoughts from your day, you
Speaker 1: just relax until there's nothing left to do but sleep.
Speaker 1: I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little
Speaker 1: bit slower the second time through. If you find that
Speaker 1: you're still awake at the end of the second telling,
Speaker 1: don't worry. That's fine. You could listen again or just
Speaker 1: walk your mind back through the parts of the story.
Speaker 1: But you remember, this works particularly well if you wake
Speaker 1: in the middle of the night, lean right back into
Speaker 1: the story and it will put your mind right back
Speaker 1: on track for sleep. Now it's time to turn off
Speaker 1: your light, slip on your sleep mask and slide down
Speaker 1: deep into your sheets. Set yourself up right now for
Speaker 1: the best sleep possible. Get comfortable and take a slow,
Speaker 1: deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.
Speaker 1: Good one more like that, in and out. Our story
Speaker 1: tonight is called in the kitchen during a storm, and
Speaker 1: it's a story about doing something simple with great care.
Speaker 1: It's also about the cool breeze that comes with the storm,
Speaker 1: remembering a sweet time in your past, and listening to
Speaker 1: records summer night. It was early evening and I was
Speaker 1: slipping through a case of old records Billie Holiday or
Speaker 1: Ella Oh chet Baker, That will do nicely. I slipped
Speaker 1: it out of the sleeve and tilted the surface to
Speaker 1: the light. I blew the dust off and slid it
Speaker 1: on to the turntable. I lifted the needle and let
Speaker 1: it touch down into the groove of the record. Then
Speaker 1: leaned back in my chair and put my feet up.
Speaker 1: As I listened, I hummed along, and, tucking one arm
Speaker 1: behind my head, looked out the window at the silver
Speaker 1: undersides of leaves on the trees in my back garden.
Speaker 1: The wind was picking up. It had been a gray day,
Speaker 1: but humid and still hot. Then, just in the last
Speaker 1: hour or so, I'd felt the temperature begin to drop.
Speaker 1: I stepped barefoot through my back door and stood on
Speaker 1: the still warm stones of my patio. I took a
Speaker 1: deep breath to taste the air, and I was sure
Speaker 1: rain was coming. There is a feeling of energy around
Speaker 1: a storm. At first, it might just be the relief
Speaker 1: of the cooling air, but then there is an excitement
Speaker 1: or a feeling of potential that boosts you up and
Speaker 1: clears your head. I stood awhile longer, looking out of
Speaker 1: the darkening sky and gripping the stones under my feet
Speaker 1: with my toes. I knew what I would do. I
Speaker 1: stepped back into the house and walked through the rooms,
Speaker 1: cracking windows and lighting candles. I turned the music higher
Speaker 1: and stepped into the kitchen, where I hadn't seriously been
Speaker 1: for a few days because of the heat. I had
Speaker 1: a large window over my kitchen sink, and a row
Speaker 1: of potted herbs stood on its sill. It was an
Speaker 1: old window, as it was an old house, so I
Speaker 1: had to prop it open with a short wooden block
Speaker 1: to keep it from slamming shut. The breeze blew through
Speaker 1: my tiny herb garden, and I could smell basil and
Speaker 1: a regano. I had a bottle of red wine opened
Speaker 1: from the night before, and I reached into a cupboard
Speaker 1: for a jam jar to drink from. Sometimes I was
Speaker 1: fancy and used my best stem wine glasses, but often
Speaker 1: when I was home alone and just pottering about the kitchen,
Speaker 1: drinking from an old squat jam jar seemed just about right.
Speaker 1: I pulled a wooden chopping board from a drawer and
Speaker 1: laid out my chef's knife and put a wide, low
Speaker 1: skillet on the range. I was going to make spaghetti
Speaker 1: alpo modoro, the way I had been taught to years
Speaker 1: ago in Italy. It was an incredibly simple dish that
Speaker 1: used only a few ingredients and came together in no time,
Speaker 1: but its tanging, bright flavor took me straight back to
Speaker 1: afternoon meals around my family's table on the rocky southern
Speaker 1: Italian coast. I'd been a foreign exchange student, and although
Speaker 1: I didn't possess a drop of Italian blood, I felt
Speaker 1: that after a year of walking her streets and learning
Speaker 1: her language and falling in love with her people, I
Speaker 1: had earned some Italian ness. My host family had taken
Speaker 1: me in and loved me. Laughed at my funny accent
Speaker 1: and rolled their eyes at my overly independent American tendencies.
Speaker 1: But I'd become a member of the family, and even
Speaker 1: now years later, we were close. Lunch came at around
Speaker 1: two pm in Italy, and trudging home from school, I
Speaker 1: would wonder what kind of pasta my mum would be
Speaker 1: cooking that day. I'd take the stairs four flights up
Speaker 1: to our apartment, slip my house key into the lock
Speaker 1: and crack it just an inch, then stick my nose
Speaker 1: into the doorway and take a deep breath in. Now
Speaker 1: more or less a grown up in my own home,
Speaker 1: I smiled at the memory and pulled together the ingredients
Speaker 1: for my dinner. I filmed the bottom of the pan
Speaker 1: with good olive oil and took a yellow onion from
Speaker 1: the pantry. Mamma had shown me many times that less
Speaker 1: was more in her cooking, that just because you have
Speaker 1: a whole onion doesn't mean the dish needs a whole onion.
Speaker 1: I was a dutiful daughter and cut a third off
Speaker 1: the hole and sliced through the layers a few times.
Speaker 1: I slipped them into the pan and turned the heat
Speaker 1: to low. I just wanted to warm them through and
Speaker 1: give them a tiny bit of color. Back to the
Speaker 1: pantry for a large can of whole peeled tomatoes, groan
Speaker 1: and packed. Just a few miles from where I had lived.
Speaker 1: Mamma passed them through an old fashioned food mill in
Speaker 1: her kitchen, turning the crank slowly and letting the tomato
Speaker 1: skins catch in the wire weave of the filter. It
Speaker 1: made a smooth sauce that slipped over the noodles and
Speaker 1: coated them. I tipped mine into a bowl and used
Speaker 1: my fingers to break them up a bit. Instead. I
Speaker 1: didn't tell my mamma this. Everyone has their secrets. I
Speaker 1: added the tomatoes to the pan and tipped salt into
Speaker 1: the palm of my hand to measure it, then dusted
Speaker 1: it down into the tomatoes and stirred. I kept the
Speaker 1: heat on low and pinched a few basil leaves from
Speaker 1: my pot by the window to toss whole into the sauce.
Speaker 1: The rain was falling now, and I pressed my palm
Speaker 1: to the sill to check if it was raining in.
Speaker 1: It wasn't, and I was glad. The smell of the
Speaker 1: grass and trees cooling in the rain was lovely. I
Speaker 1: put a pot of water on the stove for the
Speaker 1: spaghetti and sipped from my jam jar. The record had stopped,
Speaker 1: and I wandered back into the other room to turn
Speaker 1: it over. As I set the needle on the record,
Speaker 1: I saw a flash of lightning in the darkening sky.
Speaker 1: I waited, sitting back on my heels by the record player,
Speaker 1: as the rumbling thunder grew louder. What a perfect night
Speaker 1: for pasta and wine. My water was boiling, and I
Speaker 1: spun the spaghetti into the pot, so it spread out
Speaker 1: and began to sink. Some people stand over the pot
Speaker 1: and test the noodles every few minutes, or do some
Speaker 1: other nonsense about throwing pieces against the wall. But if
Speaker 1: you want properly cooked al dente pasta, it's simple. Buy
Speaker 1: good pasta made in Italy and cook it for the
Speaker 1: length of time it says on the package. They know
Speaker 1: what they're doing. I set out a place for myself
Speaker 1: where I could look at the storm and hear the music,
Speaker 1: and filled my jam jar again. I drained my pasta
Speaker 1: and tipped it into the sauce, coating the noodles, and
Speaker 1: with mouth watering plaited it up. I set my plate
Speaker 1: down and sat myself at the table. I raised my
Speaker 1: jam jar to chet Baker and my Mamma, and to lightning,
Speaker 1: and to bare feet on patio stones and fresh pasil.
Speaker 1: I took my nose down to my plate and let
Speaker 1: the sweet, tangy steam cover my face. It was early evening,
Speaker 1: and I was flipping through a case of old records
Speaker 1: Billie Holiday or Ella, Oh, chet Baker, that will do nicely.
Speaker 1: I slipped it out of the sleeve and tilted the
Speaker 1: surface to the light. I blew the dust off and
Speaker 1: slid it on to the turn table. I lifted the
Speaker 1: needle and let it touch down into the groove of
Speaker 1: the record. I leaned back in my chair and put
Speaker 1: my feet up. As I listened, I hummed along, and,
Speaker 1: tucking one arm behind my head, looked out the window
Speaker 1: at the silver undersides of leaves on the trees in
Speaker 1: my back garden. The wind was picking up. It had
Speaker 1: been a gray day, but humid and still hot. Then,
Speaker 1: just in the last hour or so, I had felt
Speaker 1: the temperature begin to drop. I stepped barefoot through my
Speaker 1: back door and stood on the still warm stones of
Speaker 1: my patio. I took a deep breath to taste the air,
Speaker 1: and I was sure rain was coming. There is a
Speaker 1: feeling of energy around a storm. At first, it might
Speaker 1: just be the relief of the cooling air, but then
Speaker 1: there is an excitement or a feeling of potential that
Speaker 1: boosts you up and clears your head. I stood a
Speaker 1: while longer, looking out at the darkening sky and gripping
Speaker 1: the stones under my feet with my toes. I knew
Speaker 1: what I would do. I stepped back into the house
Speaker 1: and walked through the rooms, cracking windows and lighting candles.
Speaker 1: I turned the music higher and stepped into the kitchen,
Speaker 1: where I hadn't seriously been for a few days because
Speaker 1: of the heat. I had a large window over my
Speaker 1: kitchen sink, and a row of potted herbs stood on
Speaker 1: its sill. It was an old window, as it was
Speaker 1: an old house, so I had to prop it open
Speaker 1: with a short wooden block to keep it from slamming shut.
Speaker 1: The breeze blew through my tiny herb garden, and I
Speaker 1: could smell basil and a regonel. I had a bottle
Speaker 1: of red wine open from the night before, and I
Speaker 1: reached into a cupboard for a jam jar to drink from.
Speaker 1: Sometimes I was fancy and used my best stemmed wine glasses,
Speaker 1: but often when I was home alone and just pottering
Speaker 1: about the kitchen, drinking from an old squat jam jar
Speaker 1: seemed just about right. I pulled a wooden shopping board
Speaker 1: from a drawer and laid out my chef's knife and
Speaker 1: put a wide, low skillet on the range. I was
Speaker 1: going to make spaghetti al pomodoro, the way I had
Speaker 1: been taught to years ago in Italy. It was an
Speaker 1: incredibly simple dish that used only a few ingredients and
Speaker 1: came together in no time, but its tangy, bright flavor
Speaker 1: took me straight back to afternoon meals around my family's
Speaker 1: table on the rocky southern Italian coast. I'd been a
Speaker 1: foreign exchange student, and although I didn't possess a drop
Speaker 1: of Italian blood, I felt that after a year of
Speaker 1: walking her streets and learning her language and falling in
Speaker 1: love with her people, I had earned some Italian ness.
Speaker 1: My host family had taken me in and loved me,
Speaker 1: laughed at my funny accent and rolled their eyes at
Speaker 1: my overly independent American tendencies. But I'd become a member
Speaker 1: of the family, and even now, years later, we were close.
Speaker 1: Lunch came at a round two p m. In Italy,
Speaker 1: and trudging home from school, I would wonder what kind
Speaker 1: of pasta my mamma would be cooking that day. I'd
Speaker 1: take the stairs four flights up to our apartment, slip
Speaker 1: my house key into the lock and crack it just
Speaker 1: an inch, then stick my nose into the doorway and
Speaker 1: take a deep breath in. Now more or less a
Speaker 1: grown up in my own home, I smiled all at
Speaker 1: the memory and pulled together the ingredients for my dinner.
Speaker 1: I filmed the bottom of the pan with good olive
Speaker 1: oil and took a yellow onion from the pantry. Mamma
Speaker 1: had shown me many times that less was more in
Speaker 1: her cooking, that just because you have a whole onion
Speaker 1: doesn't mean the dish needs a whole onion. I was
Speaker 1: a dutiful daughter and cut a third off the hole
Speaker 1: and sliced through the layers a few times. I slipped
Speaker 1: them into the pan and turned the heat to low.
Speaker 1: I just wanted to warm them through and give them
Speaker 1: a tiny bit of color. Back to the pantry for
Speaker 1: a large can of whole peeled tomatoes, groan and packed
Speaker 1: just a few miles from where I had lived. Mamma
Speaker 1: passed them through an old fashioned food mill in her kitchen,
Speaker 1: turning the crank slowly and letting the tomato skins catch
Speaker 1: in the wire weave of the filter. It made a
Speaker 1: smooth sauce that slipped over the noodles and coated them.
Speaker 1: I tipped mine into a bowl and used my fingers
Speaker 1: to break them up a bit. I didn't tell my
Speaker 1: mamma this. Everyone has their secrets. I added the tomatoes
Speaker 1: to the pan and tipped salt into the palm of
Speaker 1: my hand to measure it, then dusted it down into
Speaker 1: the tomatoes and stirred. I kept the heat on the
Speaker 1: low end of medium, and pinched a few basil leaves
Speaker 1: from my pot by the window to toss whole into
Speaker 1: the sauce. The rain was falling now, and I pressed
Speaker 1: my palm to the sill to check if it was
Speaker 1: raining in. It wasn't, and I was glad. The smell
Speaker 1: of the grass and the trees cooling in the rain
Speaker 1: was lovely. I put a pot of water on the
Speaker 1: stove for the spaghetti and sipped from my jam jar.
Speaker 1: The record had stopped, and I wandered back into the
Speaker 1: other room to turn it over. As I set the
Speaker 1: needle on the record, I saw a flash of lightning
Speaker 1: in the darkening sky. I waited, sitting back on my
Speaker 1: heels by the record player, as the rumbling thunder grew louder.
Speaker 1: What a perfect night for pasta and wine. My water
Speaker 1: was boiling, and I spun the spaghetti into the pot,
Speaker 1: so it spread out and began to sink. Some people
Speaker 1: stand over the pot and test the noodles every few minutes,
Speaker 1: nor do some other nonsense about throwing pieces against a wall.
Speaker 1: But if you want properly cooked, I'll dente pasta. It's
Speaker 1: simple by good pasta made in Italy, and cook it
Speaker 1: for the length of time it says on the package.
Speaker 1: They know what they're doing. I set out a place
Speaker 1: for myself where I could look out at the storm
Speaker 1: and hear the music, and filled my jam jar again.
Speaker 1: I drained my pasta and tipped it into the sauce,
Speaker 1: coating the noodles, and with mouth watering plaited it up.
Speaker 1: I set my plate down and sat myself at the table.
Speaker 1: I raised my jam jar to chet baker and my mamma,
Speaker 1: and to lightning, and to bare feet on pattio stones
Speaker 1: and a fresh basil. I tipped my nose down to
Speaker 1: my plate and let the sweet, tangy steam cover my face.
Speaker 1: Borne Petito and sweet dreams.