Speaker 1: Welcome to season eight of Bedtime Stories for Grown Ups,
Speaker 1: in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then
Speaker 1: you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read
Speaker 1: all the stories you hear A Nothing Much Happens Audio
Speaker 1: Engineering is by Bob Whittersheim. If you love the world
Speaker 1: of nothing much, I invite you to seek out my
Speaker 1: beautifully illustrated book. It's full of favorite stories, recipes, guided meditations,
Speaker 1: and tips for self care. It's available in many formats
Speaker 1: all over the world. You can learn more and join
Speaker 1: our ad free and bonus stories feed at Nothing Much
Speaker 1: Happens Now. Every episode is someone's first. So let me
Speaker 1: say a little about how this works. Your mind needs
Speaker 1: a track to run on. Without one, it's likely to
Speaker 1: run away from you and keep you up all night.
Speaker 1: The story is that track, and just by listening, you'll
Speaker 1: shift your mind onto it. It'll take you someplace simple
Speaker 1: and relaxing. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go
Speaker 1: a little slower the second time through. If you wake
Speaker 1: in the middle of the night, you can get right
Speaker 1: back on track just by thinking your way through any
Speaker 1: part of the story that you can remember. This is
Speaker 1: brain training, and it will get easier and faster the
Speaker 1: longer you practice it. Now, let's settle in, turn off
Speaker 1: the light, set down anything you're carrying even better. You
Speaker 1: can hand it to me. I'll keep watch for the night.
Speaker 1: You can let go, get comfortable and take a deep
Speaker 1: breath in through the nose and sigh from the mouth.
Speaker 1: One more in and out. Good. Our story tonight is
Speaker 1: called Back to the Bakery, and it's a story about
Speaker 1: the early morning preparation made in the kitchen before the
Speaker 1: village of Nothing Much wakes. It's also about a kittie
Speaker 1: with a crooked tail, hot doughnuts set out on the tray,
Speaker 1: and a summer picked me up made with love. Back
Speaker 1: to the Bakery. In the kitchen, behind the wall of
Speaker 1: bread baskets where we slot fresh baguettes and chia batas
Speaker 1: and pyramids of rolls into place each morning, there is
Speaker 1: a long flowery work bench and a row of deep
Speaker 1: ovens that start heating before the village is awake. There
Speaker 1: is a long row of aprons on hooks, open shelves
Speaker 1: with dozens of mixing bowls, tall pitchers full of every
Speaker 1: kind and shape of spatula and mixing spoon and dusting
Speaker 1: wand and a broad, cool slab of marble to roll
Speaker 1: pastries on. Over the years, I'd learned how to time
Speaker 1: the proving and chilling so that a lot of prep
Speaker 1: work happens in the afternoons, unless while I am still
Speaker 1: rubbing the sleep from my eyes at the crack of dawn,
Speaker 1: still I am in early riser, either by nature, perhaps
Speaker 1: I was a baker down deep in my jeans, or
Speaker 1: at this point purely from habit and never mind unlocking
Speaker 1: the door while most of the village slept. To day
Speaker 1: had been no different, a cool, quiet morning. As I
Speaker 1: walked through the back alley just before dawn, I recognized
Speaker 1: the kiddie with the crooked tail who was often stretched
Speaker 1: out in the front window of the tea shop, sitting
Speaker 1: now on a crate behind the bookstore. I think he
Speaker 1: got his breakfast there most days, and though I called
Speaker 1: out in a low voice to him, he didn't stop
Speaker 1: his morning ablutions to so much as look at me.
Speaker 1: I laughed, thinking of that old Nan Porter line that
Speaker 1: if cats could talk, they wouldn't. I found my key
Speaker 1: on the ring and jiggled it into the old lock
Speaker 1: until it turned, and stepped into the kitchen. I had
Speaker 1: a routine coffee first. Luckily, the me from the day
Speaker 1: before had been looking out for the me of this morning,
Speaker 1: so the drip machine was ready, fresh grounds in the basket,
Speaker 1: and the reservoir filled with water waiting to become something
Speaker 1: even more vital. I pushed the button and tied on
Speaker 1: my apron and went hunting for my favorite cup while
Speaker 1: the pot perked companionably on the counter. When my cup
Speaker 1: was full, I pulled up on a stool by the
Speaker 1: register with a pad of paper and a sturdy black
Speaker 1: marker to make my morning punch list. It was a Friday,
Speaker 1: I was nearly sure, and I pulled my calendar closer
Speaker 1: to confirm Yes, Friday, so we'd need plenty of bagels
Speaker 1: and muffins for the breakfast crowd as they bustled in
Speaker 1: before work. I had trays of bagels in the fridge,
Speaker 1: formed and risen, ready to be pulled out, and when
Speaker 1: they'd reached room temperature, briefly poached before being slid into
Speaker 1: the oven. I'd make some with sesame seeds, some with
Speaker 1: the crust of crunchy salt, and some with swirls of
Speaker 1: cinnamon and raisins spaked inside the muffins I could mix
Speaker 1: with my eyes closed. The fresh strawberries had run out
Speaker 1: the week before, but now we had blueberries from a
Speaker 1: farm outside of town, and I thought they'd go perfectly
Speaker 1: with the candied yuzu zest and ginger syrup I had
Speaker 1: in the pantry. I always made a tray of lemon
Speaker 1: poppy seed. They were classics and the go too for
Speaker 1: lots of morning regulars. In a few more weeks, the
Speaker 1: cases of zucchini would start showing up, and I'd be
Speaker 1: making loaves and muffin tins full of the sweet, dense bread.
Speaker 1: They lent themselves to so well. I check my shelves
Speaker 1: over the dark chocolate chunks I liked to fold in
Speaker 1: with the grated zucchini. Along with the fruit itself would
Speaker 1: come a few precious boxes of the flowers, which we
Speaker 1: dip in batter and fry off, wrapping them in wax paper,
Speaker 1: and handing them out for afternoon snacks. Oh, I'd gotten
Speaker 1: distracted thinking of zucchini. I tapped my marker on the pad.
Speaker 1: What came after muffins bread always bread sour dough and pumpernickel,
Speaker 1: and soft sweet wheat baguettes and chiabada that made such
Speaker 1: good toasted sandwiches and the rolls people bought to go
Speaker 1: with their salads at lunch, and a good lot of
Speaker 1: pastries as well, some filled with jam and others with
Speaker 1: warm chocolate. When I'd taken over this place from the
Speaker 1: previous owner, a man whose baking had inspired me for years,
Speaker 1: he'd encouraged me to push our customers toward new flavors
Speaker 1: and textures. He'd told me that when we started, no
Speaker 1: one wanted anything other than white bread, birthday cakes and
Speaker 1: a chess pie on Sunday. It took time, he said,
Speaker 1: but soon his rye and pumpernickel were best sellers. His
Speaker 1: pretzels and sesame cookies became parts of traditions for lots
Speaker 1: of people in the village. No one even contemplated getting
Speaker 1: through New Year's without a box of his flaky cardamom buns.
Speaker 1: It had been the same for me and the pastries.
Speaker 1: No one bought any for the first month. They didn't
Speaker 1: know how to eat them when and with what. But
Speaker 1: slowly I found myself wrapping more and more in bakery paper,
Speaker 1: passing them across the counter to watch customers take immediate bites,
Speaker 1: not wanting to waste a moment of their still warm,
Speaker 1: flaky deliciousness, and nowadays they were sold out by ten am.
Speaker 1: I just started to sneak pistachio into the mix. We'd
Speaker 1: see how that went. I stood up and refilled my
Speaker 1: coffee and went into the kitchen. I washed my hands
Speaker 1: and started pulling trays out of the fridge and heating
Speaker 1: the ovens. There was an ancient radio, old enough to
Speaker 1: have a tape deck but still working, propped up on
Speaker 1: the shelf over the sink, and I reached up on
Speaker 1: tiptoes to twist the knob. When I was younger, this
Speaker 1: station had played the newest music, music that came out
Speaker 1: on the tapes that would probably still work in the deck,
Speaker 1: the kind that every now and then had to be
Speaker 1: rewound into their cases with a carefully angled pencil. But
Speaker 1: as the years went by, the playlists had stayed the same.
Speaker 1: Now I guessed these were oldies. I didn't mind. I
Speaker 1: liked knowing the words, the drum beats, and the spots
Speaker 1: where the bridge flowed into the chorus. Soon the bagels
Speaker 1: were coming out, the muffins and bread loaves going in.
Speaker 1: I was a few minutes away from flipping the sign
Speaker 1: on the front door, and my morning helpers would be
Speaker 1: here in a minute, tying on their aprons and pouring
Speaker 1: their own cups of coffee to keep close to their stations.
Speaker 1: Each morning, we filled a few orders for local cafes
Speaker 1: and diners, and I set about laying out their trays.
Speaker 1: I had scraps of paper tacked up on the board
Speaker 1: above my station with each spot's order, though they rarely
Speaker 1: changed and I knew them by heart. As I set
Speaker 1: out the sliced sandwich, bread and bagels, my first assistant
Speaker 1: of the morning appeared behind me with a tray of
Speaker 1: hot donuts. Time always got away from me in the mornings,
Speaker 1: and I blessed my staff for paying attention to the
Speaker 1: clock and added the donuts to the tray. I was
Speaker 1: about to wrap up the last order, the one for
Speaker 1: the diner kitty corner from our front door, when I
Speaker 1: remember heard something special i'd made the day before. I
Speaker 1: often slipped a little treat into this order. The waitress
Speaker 1: who came to fetch it each morning was a friend
Speaker 1: and the best test taster we had. It had been
Speaker 1: a week of hot, sunny days and I'd had Teerramy
Speaker 1: sue on my mind, served chilled with plenty of espresso,
Speaker 1: soaked lady fingers and a dusting of cocoa powder on top.
Speaker 1: It was the perfect summer boost. In fact, its name
Speaker 1: meant pick me up. I took a tray of it
Speaker 1: from the freezer and used my sharp chef's knife to
Speaker 1: cut out a perfect square. It was frozen hard, so
Speaker 1: the layers showed perfectly along the sides, and I knew
Speaker 1: a moment of baker's pride as I slid the square
Speaker 1: into a paper container, which I folded closed and took
Speaker 1: my marker to write across the top. Let sit for
Speaker 1: ten minutes, then have the perfect summer breakfast, A dash
Speaker 1: and a scribbled heart, and I popped it on to
Speaker 1: the tray with the rest. I heard the bell over
Speaker 1: the front door ring. Another day at the bakery had begun.
Speaker 1: Back to the bakery. In the kitchen, behind the wall
Speaker 1: of bread baskets where we slot fresh baguettes and chiabadas
Speaker 1: and pyramids of rolls into place each morning, there is
Speaker 1: a long flowery work bench and a row of deep
Speaker 1: ovens that start heating before the village is awake. There's
Speaker 1: a long line of aprons on hooks, open shelves with
Speaker 1: dozens of mixing bowls, tall pitchers full of every kind
Speaker 1: and shape of spatula and mixing spoon and dusting wand
Speaker 1: and abroad cool slab of marble to roll pastries on.
Speaker 1: Over the years, I'd learned how to time the proving
Speaker 1: and chilling so that a lot of prayer up happens
Speaker 1: in the afternoon, unless while I am still rubbing the
Speaker 1: sleep from my eyes at the crack of dawn. Still
Speaker 1: I am an early riser, either by nature, perhaps I
Speaker 1: was a baker down deep in my jeans, or at
Speaker 1: this point purely from habit and never mind unlocking the
Speaker 1: door while most of the village slept. Today had been
Speaker 1: no different, a cool, quiet morning. As I've walked through
Speaker 1: the back alley just before dawn, I recognized the kittie
Speaker 1: with the crooked tail who often stretched out in the
Speaker 1: front window of the tea shop, sitting now on a
Speaker 1: crate behind the bookstore. I think he got his breakfast
Speaker 1: there most days, and though I called out in a
Speaker 1: low voice to him, he didn't stop his morning ablutions
Speaker 1: to so much as look at me. I laughed, thinking
Speaker 1: of that old Nan Porter line that if cats could talk,
Speaker 1: they wouldn't. I found my key on the ring and
Speaker 1: jiggled it into the old lock until it turned, and
Speaker 1: stepped into the kitchen. I had a routine coffee first. Luckily,
Speaker 1: the me from the day before had been looking out
Speaker 1: for the me of this morning, so the drip machine
Speaker 1: was ready, fresh grounds in the basket and the reservoir
Speaker 1: filled with water waiting to become something even more vital.
Speaker 1: I pushed the button and tied on my apron and
Speaker 1: went hunting for my favorite cup while the pot perked
Speaker 1: companionably on the counter. When my cup was full, I
Speaker 1: pulled up on a stool by the register with a
Speaker 1: pad of paper and a sturdy black marker to make
Speaker 1: my morning punch list. It was a Friday, I was
Speaker 1: nearly sure, and I pulled my calendar closer to confirm Yes, Friday,
Speaker 1: so we'd need plenty of bagels a muffins for the
Speaker 1: breakfast crowd as they bustled in before work. I had
Speaker 1: trays of bagels in the fridge, formed and risen, ready
Speaker 1: to be pulled out, and when they reached room temperature,
Speaker 1: briefly poached before being slid into the oven. I'd made
Speaker 1: some with sesame seeds, some with a crust of crunchy salt,
Speaker 1: and some with swirls of cinnamon and raisins baked inside.
Speaker 1: The muffins I could mix with my eyes closed. The
Speaker 1: fresh strawberries had run out the week before, but now
Speaker 1: we had blueberries from a farm outside of town, and
Speaker 1: I thought they'd go perfectly with the candied yuzu zest
Speaker 1: and ginger syrup I had in the pantry. I always
Speaker 1: made a tray of lemon poppy seed. They were classics
Speaker 1: and the go too for lots of morning regulars. In
Speaker 1: a few more weeks, the cases of zucchini would start
Speaker 1: showing up, and I'd be making loaves and muffin tins
Speaker 1: full of the sweet, dense bread they lent themselves to
Speaker 1: so well. I'd check my shelves for the dark chocolate
Speaker 1: chunks I liked to fold in with the great It's zucchini.
Speaker 1: Along with the fruit itself would come a few precious
Speaker 1: boxes of the flowers, which we dip in batter and
Speaker 1: fry off, wrapping them in wax paper, and handing them
Speaker 1: out for afternoon snacks. I'd gotten distracted thinking of zucchini.
Speaker 1: I tapped my marker on the pad. What came after
Speaker 1: muffins bread always bread, sour dough and pumpernickel, and soft
Speaker 1: sweet wheat baguettes and shiabada that made such good toasted sandwiches,
Speaker 1: and the rules people bought to go with their salads
Speaker 1: at lunch. And a good lot of pastries as well,
Speaker 1: some filled with jam and others with warm chocolate. When
Speaker 1: I'd taken over this place from the previous owner, a
Speaker 1: man who's baking had inspired me for years, He'd encouraged
Speaker 1: me to push our customers toward new flavors and textures.
Speaker 1: He'd told me that when he started, no one wanted
Speaker 1: anything other than white bread, birthday cakes and a chess
Speaker 1: pie on Sunday. I took time, he said, but soon
Speaker 1: his rye and pumpernickel were best sellers. His pretzels and
Speaker 1: sesame cookies became parts of traditions for lots of people
Speaker 1: in the village. No one even contemplated getting through New
Speaker 1: Year's without a box of his flaky cardamom buns. It
Speaker 1: had been the same for me and the pastries. No
Speaker 1: one bought any for the first month. They didn't know
Speaker 1: how to eat them when and with what, But slowly,
Speaker 1: I found myself wrapping more and more in bakery paper
Speaker 1: and pass them across the counter to watch customers take
Speaker 1: immediate bites, not wanting to waste a moment of their
Speaker 1: still warm, flaky deliciousness. And nowadays they were always sold
Speaker 1: out by ten am. I just started to sneak pistachio
Speaker 1: into the mix, and we'd see how that went. I
Speaker 1: stood up and refilled my coffee and went into the kitchen,
Speaker 1: washed my hands, and started pulling trays out of the
Speaker 1: fridge and heating the ovens. There was an ancient radio,
Speaker 1: old enough to have a tape deck in it, but
Speaker 1: still working, propped up on the shelf over the sink,
Speaker 1: and I reached up on tiptoes to twist the knob.
Speaker 1: When I was younger, this station had played the newest music,
Speaker 1: music that came out on the tapes that would probably
Speaker 1: still work in the deck, the kind that every now
Speaker 1: and then had to be rewound into their cases with
Speaker 1: a carefully angled pencil. But as the years went by,
Speaker 1: the playlists had stayed the same. Now, my guest, these
Speaker 1: were oldies. I didn't mind. I liked knowing the words,
Speaker 1: the drum beats and the spots with a bridge flow
Speaker 1: into the chorus. Soon the bagels were coming out, the
Speaker 1: muffins and bread loaves going in. I was a few
Speaker 1: minutes away from flipping the sign on the front door,
Speaker 1: and my morning helpers would be here in a minute,
Speaker 1: tying on their aprons and pouring their own cups of
Speaker 1: coffee to keep close to their stations. Each morning, we
Speaker 1: filled a few orders for local cafes and diners, and
Speaker 1: I set about laying out their trays. I had scraps
Speaker 1: of paper tacked up on the board above my station
Speaker 1: with each spot's order, though they rarely changed and I
Speaker 1: knew them all by heart. As I set out the
Speaker 1: sliced sandwich, bread and bagels, my first assistant of the
Speaker 1: morning appeared behind me with a tray of hot doughnuts.
Speaker 1: Time always got away from me in the mornings, and
Speaker 1: I blessed my staff for paying attention to the clock
Speaker 1: and added the doughnuts to the tray. I was about
Speaker 1: to wrap up the last order, the one for the
Speaker 1: diner kitty corner from our front door, when I remembered
Speaker 1: something special i'd made the night before. I often slipped
Speaker 1: a little treat into this order. The waitress who came
Speaker 1: to fetch it each morning was a friend and the
Speaker 1: best test taster we had. It had been a week
Speaker 1: of hot, sunny days and I'd had Tiramisus on my mind.
Speaker 1: Served chilled with plenty of espresso, soaked lady fingers and
Speaker 1: a dusting of cocoa powder on top. It was the
Speaker 1: perfect summer boost. In fact, its name meant pick me up.
Speaker 1: I took a tray of it from the freezer and
Speaker 1: mused my sharp chef's knife to cut out a perfect square.
Speaker 1: It was frozen hard, so the layers showed perfectly along
Speaker 1: the sides, and I knew a moment of baker's pride
Speaker 1: as I slid the square into a paper container, which
Speaker 1: I folded closed and took out my marker to write
Speaker 1: across the top. Let sit for ten minutes, then have
Speaker 1: the perfect summer breakfast. A dash and a scribbled heart,
Speaker 1: and I popped it on to the tray with the rest.
Speaker 1: I heard the bell over the door ring. Another day
Speaker 1: at the bakery had begun. Sweet dreams