Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on nothing Much Happens. Our audio engineer is
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. We're proud members of the Curious Cast podcast network.
Speaker 1: You can follow us on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter
Speaker 1: for pictures of cozy things and calm reminders to breathe
Speaker 1: and enjoy the small pleasures around you. If you need
Speaker 1: more nothing much in your life, go to Nothing Much
Speaker 1: Happens dot com, or you can order some lovely pieces
Speaker 1: inspired by our stories. Hoodies for the Autumn are coming soon.
Speaker 1: Has this ever happened to you? You're in bed, reading
Speaker 1: your book and maybe even scrunched up in a not
Speaker 1: so comfortable position, but you can't keep your eyes open.
Speaker 1: Then you turn off the light, get as snug as possible,
Speaker 1: and suddenly you can't sleep. What happened in those few
Speaker 1: seconds is that the narrative of the story was replaced
Speaker 1: by your thinking mind. So that's how this works. I'll
Speaker 1: provide a story, simple, relaxing and told twice, with the
Speaker 1: second reading a little slower than the first. Let your
Speaker 1: mind just follow along as your eyes would have moved
Speaker 1: across the page, and before you know it, you'll be
Speaker 1: in deep, RESTful sleep. If you wake in the middle
Speaker 1: of the night, rather than letting your brain take over,
Speaker 1: think back through any of the story that you remember,
Speaker 1: and you'll drop right back off. Now it's time to
Speaker 1: get comfortable. Switch off your light, snuggle your body down
Speaker 1: into the sheets, and feel how good it is to
Speaker 1: be in bed. Let's take a deep breath in through
Speaker 1: the nose and out through the mouth. Good once more,
Speaker 1: breathe in, sigh out. Our story tonight is called Summer Harvest,
Speaker 1: and it's a story about the result of a season's
Speaker 1: worth of hard work and planning. It's also about telling
Speaker 1: time like a farmer wood, a red popsicle eaten under
Speaker 1: a maple tree, and rows of canned tomatoes neatly lined
Speaker 1: up in the pantry. Summer Harvest. We'd gotten here early
Speaker 1: today to take advantage of the cool morning air. The
Speaker 1: sun was coming over the trees, and the dew was
Speaker 1: still thick in the grass. We were old hands by now.
Speaker 1: We knew how to weed, when to water, and mostly
Speaker 1: when to harvest. We'd had a few missteps along the way.
Speaker 1: Those potatoes had been tricky as predicted, but we'd managed
Speaker 1: to get a small crop of new potatoes and left
Speaker 1: some in the ground to grow bigger for the fall.
Speaker 1: I'd been too timid to cut the broccoli, unsure if
Speaker 1: it was ready, and came one day to find that
Speaker 1: the beautiful green florets had bloomed into even more beautiful
Speaker 1: yellow flowers. Oh well, we were learning. To day we
Speaker 1: were here to harvest. There would still be much more
Speaker 1: to come, but the plot was producing so quickly that
Speaker 1: we'd had to come up for a plan for all
Speaker 1: that we'd grown. We'd brought giant wicker baskets to fill
Speaker 1: with pounds and pounds of tomatoes. I had a laundry
Speaker 1: basket lined with an old blanket for the cabbages and
Speaker 1: cucumbers and zucchini. The runner beans and green beans were
Speaker 1: mostly finished by now, but we'd left a row of
Speaker 1: the runners to dry on the vine for winter soups.
Speaker 1: Those wouldn't be harvested until almost all their leaves had
Speaker 1: dried and turned brown. When I walked past them, I
Speaker 1: thought to myself that they would be ready about when
Speaker 1: the potatoes were. I liked thinking in these terms, instead
Speaker 1: of Tuesday or Wednesday, instead of one thirty or six o'clock.
Speaker 1: I timed things by when the potatoes would be harvested
Speaker 1: and the beans would be cut down and shelled. We
Speaker 1: started in the tomato plants, the tangy smell of the
Speaker 1: vines rubbing off on our hands as we carefully picked
Speaker 1: the fruit. We had romas for sauce, huge lopsided heirloom
Speaker 1: tomatoes for slicing and salads, giant beef steaks that would
Speaker 1: go in canning jars today, and about a million tiny
Speaker 1: crispy cherry and grape tomatoes that burst with an acidic
Speaker 1: snap in your mouth. We took a few that were
Speaker 1: yet unripe for fried green tomato sandwiches, and some that
Speaker 1: had fallen heavy and with split skins to the garden floor.
Speaker 1: We didn't mind their bruises. We set the baskets under
Speaker 1: a tree. The day was getting hotter, and as we
Speaker 1: stopped for a rest and a cool drink, the family
Speaker 1: with the allotment next to ours arrived. Their two boys
Speaker 1: ran to greet us. We were old friends by now,
Speaker 1: they told us, one talking over the other in a
Speaker 1: quick galloping rush, of words about summer camp and their
Speaker 1: new backpacks for school, and that their neighbor had a pool.
Speaker 1: Do we know them, we don't, and later the going swimming,
Speaker 1: and did we want popsicles because mom brought popsicles? We didn't.
Speaker 1: But as my friend headed back to the rose to work,
Speaker 1: I sat for a few minutes at the picnic table
Speaker 1: under a big maple when the youngest boy came back,
Speaker 1: popsicle in hand, and awkwardly climbed up onto my lap.
Speaker 1: He sat swinging his feet and contentedly staring into the
Speaker 1: distance while he ate and dripped his treet onto my
Speaker 1: dusty work clothes. I rested my chin on his head
Speaker 1: and hummed a little. When he was done, he handed
Speaker 1: me the red stained stick and rushed back to play
Speaker 1: in the dirt again with his brother back to work, then,
Speaker 1: I said and joined my friend in the rose of zucchini.
Speaker 1: There were so many zucchini that we were a bit overwhelmed.
Speaker 1: I'd been grilling it, sauteing it, and baking it into
Speaker 1: muffins and bread. I'd shredded zucchini on my box grater
Speaker 1: and sauteed it with olive oil and garlic, and tossed
Speaker 1: it with pasta. I'd given it to neighbors until they'd
Speaker 1: refused any more. I remembered an old joke something my
Speaker 1: uncle used to say that if you left your car
Speaker 1: unlocked in a parking lot this time of year, you'd
Speaker 1: come back to find it filled with zucchini. We weren't
Speaker 1: the only growers with an overabundance, and luckily we'd found
Speaker 1: a food pantry happy to take all that we wanted
Speaker 1: to give. They'd even set out bins at the entrance
Speaker 1: to the gardens, and we'd be leaving an awful lot
Speaker 1: of zucchini there. Today, we packed the fruits of our
Speaker 1: labor into our cars and shook hands, silly and content
Speaker 1: at the successful completion of the plans we'd made back
Speaker 1: when the snow was still on the ground. We'd done it.
Speaker 1: We were farmers now. From here, we headed back to
Speaker 1: my place to canned tomatoes until we dropped. I'd been
Speaker 1: reading up on it and had the counters lined with
Speaker 1: clean new jars and my pressure canner on the stove.
Speaker 1: There was a lot to do, but before anything else,
Speaker 1: we needed to eat. I laid out a plate of
Speaker 1: sliced cucumbers with sea salts, sprinkled over them. I had
Speaker 1: boiled some of those new potatoes the day before and
Speaker 1: cut them into chunks and drizzled them with olive oil
Speaker 1: and rosemary and salt. I'd set them out on the
Speaker 1: counter with a towel draped over the bowl before leaving
Speaker 1: the house that morning, so they'd be room temperature. When
Speaker 1: we were ready to eat, I pulled the towel off
Speaker 1: the bowl, and the smell of rosemary hit me. Then
Speaker 1: I rinsed and halved a mess of those tiny red
Speaker 1: and orange grape tomatoes. I drizzled all of oil over
Speaker 1: them and ripped basil leaves into the bowl. I added
Speaker 1: salt and a few garlic cloves, which I'd peeled and
Speaker 1: just cut in half. They were there for flavor, not
Speaker 1: for eating. Then I handed the bowl to my friend
Speaker 1: and dug out my tomato salad stirring spoon from the
Speaker 1: back of the drawer. It was old from my grandmother's
Speaker 1: kitchen and had a long handle and was plenty big
Speaker 1: and deep. I told my friend to stir without stopping
Speaker 1: for five minutes. She raised an eyebrow, but set to work.
Speaker 1: You can't be hasty with some things. Some things take
Speaker 1: a long time to cook, or combine, or ripen or grow,
Speaker 1: and all you can do is be patient. I turned
Speaker 1: the broiler on and cut a half dozen thick slice
Speaker 1: of bread. I laid them out on a sheet pan
Speaker 1: and brushed them with more olive oil and pushed them in.
Speaker 1: She stirred. I watched the toasting bread. Brusketta is meant
Speaker 1: to be well toasted, so that when you top it
Speaker 1: with the juicy tomato salad, it stays crisp. I waited
Speaker 1: for golden brown and just a little char around the edges,
Speaker 1: and took them out. She dutifully kept to her work
Speaker 1: with a spoon while I plaited up the bread and
Speaker 1: poured us glasses of tea. O K, I said, and
Speaker 1: she brought the bowl over to add to the rest
Speaker 1: of the feast. The tomatoes had given some of their
Speaker 1: juice to the oil, and the fruit was glossy and fragrant.
Speaker 1: We piled it on to the warm toasts, picking out
Speaker 1: the garlic and crunching away with the satisfaction that comes
Speaker 1: from eating food you've grown yourself. We made our way
Speaker 1: through the potatoes and cucumbers, and when she sat back
Speaker 1: with a sigh, I filled her tea glass and broke
Speaker 1: the last cookie in the jar in half to share.
Speaker 1: We looked around the kitchen, taking in the baskets of tomatoes,
Speaker 1: the rows of jars, and all the work yet to do.
Speaker 1: But we didn't mind. We'd turn on some music, tidy
Speaker 1: up the dishes and start. We'd chat or work in
Speaker 1: comfortable quiet as we cored and scored the fruit. We'd
Speaker 1: blanch and shock it to take off the skins, then
Speaker 1: stew them and sterilize the jars. Finally, the jars would
Speaker 1: go into the canner, and as they came out we
Speaker 1: would set them top down on towels till they cooled.
Speaker 1: We'd split them up and set them neatly on our
Speaker 1: pantry shelves for soups and sauces in the winter. We
Speaker 1: were farmers and now canners as well. Summer harvest. We'd
Speaker 1: gotten here early today to take advantage of the cool
Speaker 1: morning air. The sun was just coming over the trees,
Speaker 1: and the dew was still thick in the grass. We
Speaker 1: were old hands by now. We knew how to weed,
Speaker 1: when to water, and mostly when to harvest. We'd had
Speaker 1: a few missteps along the way. Those potatoes had been
Speaker 1: tricky as predicted, but we'd managed to get a small
Speaker 1: crop of new potatoes and some in the ground to
Speaker 1: grow bigger for the fall. I'd been too timid to
Speaker 1: cut the broccoli, unsure if it was ready, and came
Speaker 1: one day to find that the beautiful green florets had
Speaker 1: bloomed into even more beautiful yellow flowers. Oh well, we
Speaker 1: were learning today we were here to harvest. There would
Speaker 1: still be much more to come, but the plot was
Speaker 1: producing so quickly that we'd had to come up with
Speaker 1: a plan for all we'd grown. We'd brought giant wicker
Speaker 1: baskets to fill with pounds and pounds of tomatoes. I
Speaker 1: had a laundry basket lined with an old blanket for
Speaker 1: the cabbages and cucumbers and zucchini. The runner beans and
Speaker 1: green beans were mostly finished by now, but we'd left
Speaker 1: a row of the runners to dry on the vine
Speaker 1: for winter soups. Those wouldn't be harvested until almost all
Speaker 1: their leaves had dried and turned brown. When I walked
Speaker 1: past them, I thought to myself, but they would be
Speaker 1: ready about when the potatoes were. I liked thinking in
Speaker 1: those terms, instead of Tuesday or Wednesday, instead of one
Speaker 1: thirty or six o'clock. I time things by when the
Speaker 1: potatoes would be harvested and the beans would be cut
Speaker 1: down and shelled. We started in the tomato plants, the
Speaker 1: tangy smell of the vines rubbing off on our hands
Speaker 1: as we carefully picked the fruit. We had romas for sauce,
Speaker 1: huge lopsided heirloom tomatoes for slicing and salads, giant beef
Speaker 1: steaks that would go in canning jars today, and about
Speaker 1: a million tiny crispy cherry and grape tomatoes that burst
Speaker 1: with an acidic snap in your mouth. We took a
Speaker 1: few that were yet unripe for fried green tomato sandwiches,
Speaker 1: and some that had fallen heavy and with split skins
Speaker 1: to the garden floor. We didn't mind their bruises. We
Speaker 1: set the baskets under a tree. But day was getting hotter,
Speaker 1: and as we stopped for a rest and a cool drink,
Speaker 1: the family with the allotment next to ours arrived. Their
Speaker 1: two boys ran to greet us. We were old friends
Speaker 1: by now, they told us, one talking over the other
Speaker 1: in a quick galloping rush of words about summer camp
Speaker 1: and their new backpacks for school, and that their neighbor
Speaker 1: had a pool. Do we know them? We don't, and
Speaker 1: laid their going swimming? And did we want popsicles because
Speaker 1: mom brought popsicles? We didn't. But as my friend headed
Speaker 1: back to the rose to work, I sat for a
Speaker 1: few minutes at the picnic table under a big maple,
Speaker 1: and the youngest boy came back, popsicle in hand, and
Speaker 1: awkwardly climbed up onto my lap. He sat swinging his
Speaker 1: feet and contentedly staring into the distance while he ate
Speaker 1: and dripped his treat on to my dusty work clothes.
Speaker 1: I rested my chin on his head and hummed a little.
Speaker 1: When he was done, he handed me the red stained
Speaker 1: stick and rushed back to play in the dirt again
Speaker 1: with his brother back to work, then, I said and
Speaker 1: joined my friend in the rows of zucchini. There were
Speaker 1: so many zucchini that we were a bit overwhelmed. I'd
Speaker 1: been grilling it, sauteing it, and baking it into muffins
Speaker 1: and bread. I'd shredded zucchini on my box grater and
Speaker 1: sauteta with olive oil and garlic, and tossed it with pasta.
Speaker 1: I'd given it to neighbors until they'd refused any more.
Speaker 1: I remembered an old joke something my uncle used to
Speaker 1: say that if you left your car unlocked in a
Speaker 1: parking lot this time of year, you'd come back to
Speaker 1: find it filled with zucchini. We weren't the only growers
Speaker 1: with an overabundance, and luckily we've found a food pantry
Speaker 1: happy to take all that we wanted to give. They'd
Speaker 1: even set out bins at the entrance to the gardens,
Speaker 1: and we'd be leaving an awful lot of zucchini there
Speaker 1: to day. We packed the fruits of our labor into
Speaker 1: our cars and shook hands, silly and content at the
Speaker 1: successful completion of the plan we'd made back when the
Speaker 1: snow was still on the ground. We'd done it. We
Speaker 1: were farmers now. From there, we headed back to my
Speaker 1: place to canned tomatoes until we'd dropped. I had been
Speaker 1: reading up on it and had the counters lined with
Speaker 1: clean new jars and my pressure canner on the stove.
Speaker 1: There was a lot to do, but before anything else,
Speaker 1: we needed to eat. I laid out a plate of
Speaker 1: sliced cucumbers with sea salt sprinkled over them. I'd boiled
Speaker 1: some of those new potatoes the day before cut them
Speaker 1: into chunks and drizzled them with olive oil and fresh
Speaker 1: rosemary and salt. I'd set them out on the counter
Speaker 1: with a towel draped over the bowl before leaving the
Speaker 1: house that morning, so they'd be room temperature. When we
Speaker 1: were ready to eat, I pulled the towel off the bowl,
Speaker 1: and the smell of rosemary hit me. Then I rinsed
Speaker 1: and halved a mess of those tiny red and orange
Speaker 1: grape tomatoes. I drizzled alive oil over them and ripped
Speaker 1: basil leaves into the bowl. I added salt and a
Speaker 1: few garlic cloves, which I had peeled and just cut
Speaker 1: in half. They were for flavor, not for eating. Then
Speaker 1: I handed the bowl to my friend and dug out
Speaker 1: my tomato salad stirring spoon from the back of the drawer.
Speaker 1: It was old from my grandmother's kitchen. It had a
Speaker 1: long handle and was plenty big and deep. I told
Speaker 1: my friend to stir without stopping for five minutes. She
Speaker 1: raised an eyebrow, but set to work. You can't be
Speaker 1: hasty with some things. Some things take a long time
Speaker 1: to cook or combine, or ripen or grow, and all
Speaker 1: you can do is be patient. I turned the broiler
Speaker 1: on and cut a half dozen thick slices of bread.
Speaker 1: I laid them out on a sheet pan and brushed
Speaker 1: them with more olive oil and pushed them in. She stirred.
Speaker 1: I watched the toasting bread. Brusketta is meant to be
Speaker 1: well toasted, so that when you top it with a
Speaker 1: juicy tomato salad, it stays crisp. I waited for golden
Speaker 1: brown and just a little char around the edges, and
Speaker 1: then took them out. She dutifully kept to her work
Speaker 1: with the spoon while I plaited it up the bread
Speaker 1: and poured us glasses of tea. Okay, I said. When
Speaker 1: she brought the bowl over to add to the rest
Speaker 1: of the feast, the tomatoes had given some of their
Speaker 1: juice to the oil, and the fruit was glossy and fragrant.
Speaker 1: We piled it onto the warm toasts, picking out the
Speaker 1: garlic and crunching away with the satisfaction that comes from
Speaker 1: eating food you've grown yourself. We made our way through
Speaker 1: the potatoes and cucumbers, and when she sat back with
Speaker 1: a sigh, I filled her tea glass and broke the
Speaker 1: last cookie in the jar and half to share. We
Speaker 1: looked around the kitchen, taking in the baskets of tomatoes,
Speaker 1: the rows of jars, and all the work yet to do.
Speaker 1: But we didn't mind. We'd turn on some music, tidy
Speaker 1: up the dishes and start. We'd chat or work and
Speaker 1: comfortable quiet as we cord and scored the fruit. We'd
Speaker 1: blanch and shock it to take off the skins, then
Speaker 1: stew them and sterilize the jars. Finally, the jars would
Speaker 1: go into the canter, and as they came out we
Speaker 1: set them down on towels till they cooled. We'd split
Speaker 1: them up and set them neatly on our pantry shelves
Speaker 1: for soups and sauces in the winter. We were farmers,
Speaker 1: now canners as well. Sweet Dreams