Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens,
Speaker 1: you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay.
Speaker 1: I read and write all the stories you hear A
Speaker 1: Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Our
Speaker 1: premium plus feed with bonus and ad free apps is
Speaker 1: still on sale. Go to Nothing Much Happens dot com
Speaker 1: to learn more. Thanks to your support, we donate to
Speaker 1: a new charity every week, and this week we are
Speaker 1: sending some help to World Central Kitchen at WCK dot org.
Speaker 1: World Central Kitchen provides meals in response to humanitarian, climate
Speaker 1: and community crises, build resilient food systems with locally led solutions.
Speaker 1: Find their link in our show notes. Now your brain
Speaker 1: has like a truck with a brick on the gas pedal.
Speaker 1: It goes even when no one is there to steer it.
Speaker 1: And you can probably relate to that feeling the most
Speaker 1: when you're trying to go to sleep or when you're
Speaker 1: trying to return to sleep in the middle of the night.
Speaker 1: That constantly spinning, wandering feeling. Well, here's what doesn't work.
Speaker 1: Trying to stop the truck, trying to stop thinking it
Speaker 1: doesn't work. It'll probably just frustrate you. But there is
Speaker 1: something that does work. Giving your truck a nice country
Speaker 1: road to roll along, gently direct it to someplace calm
Speaker 1: and wonderfully uneventful. The steady landscape passing by it rocks
Speaker 1: your thinking mind to sleep. Just listen to the story
Speaker 1: and you'll sleep. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go
Speaker 1: a little slower the second time through. If you wake
Speaker 1: again in the night, don't try to stop the truck.
Speaker 1: Just listen again, or think through the details that you
Speaker 1: can remember. Now, lights out, turn on, do not disturb,
Speaker 1: and put things down. Feel how good it is to
Speaker 1: be in bed, to be about to fall asleep, Breathing
Speaker 1: through your nose and sigh through your mouth again, fill
Speaker 1: it up slow and let it go good. Our story tonight,
Speaker 1: it's called Winter Getaway, Part three, or Chef's Kitchen, and
Speaker 1: it's a story about a humble meal cooked for a friend.
Speaker 1: It's also about handwritten notes in the margin of a cookbook,
Speaker 1: a gift wrapped in brown paper, and the steam rising
Speaker 1: up off of a bowl of soup. Winter Getaway, Part three,
Speaker 1: or Chef's Kitchen. Lunch service was winding down, and I
Speaker 1: made myself a small cup of espresso from the machine
Speaker 1: in the dining room. It was a treat I partook
Speaker 1: of most days. Before i'd become a chef. I'd worked
Speaker 1: in a coffee shop and served my fair share of
Speaker 1: lattes and americanos, and there was something irresistible to me
Speaker 1: about taking a clean cup and saucer from the warmer
Speaker 1: and properly making a coffee. I dropped in a cube
Speaker 1: of sugar and stirred till it dissolved, then drank it
Speaker 1: down in three or four quick SIPs. It marked a
Speaker 1: turning point in my day, and I thought about how
Speaker 1: many people around the world did the same, had some
Speaker 1: small afternoon ritual, probably involving something hot to drink, that
Speaker 1: helped them to pause before the second part of the
Speaker 1: day and regroup. I looked out through the dining room
Speaker 1: windows up at the mountain and watched skiers and snowboarders
Speaker 1: zig zagging their way down. I wondered if my and
Speaker 1: the bookshop owner had set foot out into the snow.
Speaker 1: Yet I knew she was here, tucked away in her cabin,
Speaker 1: mostly because once a day I sent a basket full
Speaker 1: of danishes or Chelsea buns and got back yesterday's scrumbs. So,
Speaker 1: like I said, I knew she was here. I guessed
Speaker 1: she was reading books and taking naps, and I was
Speaker 1: glad she was decompressing. I've grown up. Sometimes you see
Speaker 1: your friends struggling, and you wish you could give them
Speaker 1: a good meal and tuck them into bed, like had
Speaker 1: been done for you as a child. But most of
Speaker 1: the time all you can do is listen. Though that's
Speaker 1: still pretty important. Maybe that was why I loved my
Speaker 1: job so much. I did get to feed people and
Speaker 1: send them off to bed. I got to see the
Speaker 1: moment when they set aside whatever they'd been thinking about
Speaker 1: and unfold their napkin and let the steam of some
Speaker 1: tasty dish i'd made rise up and wrap around their face.
Speaker 1: And I was about ready to see my friend's face
Speaker 1: like that. We'd met years ago when I first started
Speaker 1: cooking at the Inn on the Lake and the little
Speaker 1: town a few hours south of here. Had wandered into
Speaker 1: her book shop on a day off and spent so
Speaker 1: much time looking through the cook book section, she'd encouraged
Speaker 1: me to take a stack over to the reading nook
Speaker 1: in the front window. Her shop had lots of new
Speaker 1: books But what really caught my interest was a shelf
Speaker 1: of books she'd bought at garage sales or found at swapmeats.
Speaker 1: They were the kind that were compiled by the Rotary
Speaker 1: Club or the local chapter of the Moose Lodge. With
Speaker 1: a plastic cover and ring binding, the recipe is represented
Speaker 1: everyone's best pot luck dishes, along with clever tips and
Speaker 1: sensible advice for housekeeping. I loved those old books. Lots
Speaker 1: of the recipes, while often comprising just a half dozen
Speaker 1: ingredients and very simple methods, were downright delicious. I loved
Speaker 1: thinking about the time when they were compiled, what was
Speaker 1: happening in the world, Then to read the handwritten notes
Speaker 1: in the margins that said things like good hot dish
Speaker 1: for Sunday, used Lima beans instead, worked fine, or Christmas
Speaker 1: Party nineteen seventy one. So I'd gone back to the
Speaker 1: shop often, and she'd find new cook books for me.
Speaker 1: Whenever she could. She'd stop by the inn sometimes when
Speaker 1: the breakfast rush was over, and I'd bring up a
Speaker 1: couple plates of my signature cinnamon coffee cake, pour us
Speaker 1: cups of coffee from the urn on the back patio,
Speaker 1: and we'd chat about books and food and this little
Speaker 1: village both of us loved. Once, I told her about
Speaker 1: one of the first chapter books i'd read as a child,
Speaker 1: a book I couldn't remember the name of, but had
Speaker 1: been so beloved that i'd read it till the cover
Speaker 1: had come off. I described a bit of the story,
Speaker 1: two cousins, an evil governess, and secret passages through the
Speaker 1: walls of a giant Gothic country house. I'd forgotten about
Speaker 1: the conversation soon after, but that new year, while I
Speaker 1: was settling into the kitchens at the ski Lodge, I'd
Speaker 1: gotten a package wrapped in brown paper with her shop
Speaker 1: as the return address. She'd found the book, even found
Speaker 1: the addition I'd read so many times when I was little.
Speaker 1: The cover, the little lying illustrations that I hadn't seen
Speaker 1: in so long were suddenly there, exactly as I remembered,
Speaker 1: and they brought with them more memories of reading in
Speaker 1: the back seat on my way to Grandpa's house, of
Speaker 1: hiding the book inside my math text to read during class.
Speaker 1: I was taking the last sip of my espresso and
Speaker 1: smiling at the memory when I felt my phone buzz
Speaker 1: in my pocket. She must have heard me thinking about her.
Speaker 1: She'd send a picture that showed the fireplace inside the chalet.
Speaker 1: The restaurant where I was standing at the moment was
Speaker 1: a small glinting dot in the distance. She lives, I
Speaker 1: typed back, She does, and she's had a lovely cup
Speaker 1: of tea, but now she's hungry, I smiled. I had
Speaker 1: the perfect meal in mind. Come down to the hotel,
Speaker 1: I said, I'll meet you at the restaurant and we'll
Speaker 1: cook something up. On my way, she said, I thought
Speaker 1: of a humble meal that was so delicious, so comforting,
Speaker 1: the kind of home cooking that we never really make
Speaker 1: in restaurants. The fact it was a dish often made
Speaker 1: when someone was on to the weather, but I loved
Speaker 1: it anytime it was cold outside. Ten minutes later, we
Speaker 1: were giving each other a big hug at the entrance
Speaker 1: to the restaurant, and I noticed that she looked well arrested.
Speaker 1: Her eyes were bright, but her hands were cold from
Speaker 1: the funicular ride down the mountain. We set her up
Speaker 1: in the warmth of the kitchen, where we had a
Speaker 1: little table where staff took breaks or rode out lists.
Speaker 1: What are you making me, she asked, rubbing her hands
Speaker 1: together in excitement. Pastina I said, it's a little pasta
Speaker 1: soup made with but she cut me off. Oh, my
Speaker 1: grandmother used to to make it for me when I
Speaker 1: was sick. That's the one, I said, though mine is
Speaker 1: a little fancied up. We chatted while I chopped shallots
Speaker 1: and minced garlic. The key to really nice postina is
Speaker 1: to dice the vegetables really small and uniformly. It makes
Speaker 1: the texture of the finished dish so smooth and consistent,
Speaker 1: a good mouth feel. And we would say it takes
Speaker 1: some time, but after all, I am a chef. I
Speaker 1: can chop like the best of him. I added zucchini
Speaker 1: and carrots. We had some purple, some a pale yellow,
Speaker 1: and some a deep reddish orange, so the mix in
Speaker 1: the pot was like a rainbow. I added home made
Speaker 1: broth and poured us each a tall glass of mineral
Speaker 1: water while it came to a boil. She told me
Speaker 1: about her cabin, her latest reed, and the ride up
Speaker 1: the mountain. I told her about the new dishes. I
Speaker 1: was working on a funny call i'd had with the
Speaker 1: innkeeper the day before, and a trip I was planning
Speaker 1: for the time between the lodge and the inn in
Speaker 1: the spring. I added the tiny pasta noodles to the
Speaker 1: pot atchim pepe, which means something like pepper seeds, and
Speaker 1: they were indeed as small as seeds, but squared off
Speaker 1: like the diced vegetables in the pot. Soon it was
Speaker 1: cooked down, the pasta absorbing the rich broth, and I
Speaker 1: ladled healthy bowlfuls up for both of us, and added
Speaker 1: a good pinch of fresh parsley and a drizzle of
Speaker 1: my best style of oil on top. The kitchen was
Speaker 1: quiet between meals, just a few prep cooks working at
Speaker 1: their stations, and we clinked our glasses on side and
Speaker 1: dug in Winter Getaway, Part three, or Chef's Kitchen. Lunch
Speaker 1: service was winding down, and I'd made myself a small
Speaker 1: cup of espresso from the machine in the dining room.
Speaker 1: It was a treat I partook of most days. Before
Speaker 1: I'd become a chef, I had worked in a coffee
Speaker 1: shop and served my fair share of lattes an americanos,
Speaker 1: and there was something irresistible to me about taking a
Speaker 1: clean cup saucer from the warmer and properly making a coffee.
Speaker 1: I dropped in a cube of sugar and stirred till
Speaker 1: it dissolved, then drank it down in three or four
Speaker 1: quick SIPs. It marked a turning point in my day,
Speaker 1: and I thought about how many people around the world
Speaker 1: did the same, had some small ritual in the afternoon,
Speaker 1: probably involving something hot to drink that helped them to
Speaker 1: pause before the second part of the day and regroup.
Speaker 1: I looked out through the dining room windows up at
Speaker 1: the mountain and watched skiers and snowboarders zig zagging their
Speaker 1: way down. I wondered if my friend, the bookshop owner
Speaker 1: had set foot out into the snow. Yet I knew
Speaker 1: she was here, tucked away in her cabin, mostly because
Speaker 1: once a day I sent her a basket full of
Speaker 1: danishes for Chelsea buns and just got back yesterday's crumbs. So,
Speaker 1: like I said, I knew she was here. I guessed
Speaker 1: she was reading books and taking naps, and I was
Speaker 1: glad she was decompressing. As grown ups, sometimes you see
Speaker 1: your friends struggling and you wish you could give them
Speaker 1: a good meal and tuck them into bed, like had
Speaker 1: been done for you as a child. But most of
Speaker 1: the time all you can do is listen, which is
Speaker 1: still pretty important, and maybe that's why I loved my
Speaker 1: job so much. I did get to feed people and
Speaker 1: send them off to bed. I got to see the
Speaker 1: moment when they set aside whatever they'd been thinking about
Speaker 1: and unfold their napkin and let the steam of some
Speaker 1: tasty dish i'd made rise up and wrap around their face.
Speaker 1: And I was about ready to see my friend's face
Speaker 1: like that. We'd met years ago when I first started
Speaker 1: cooking at the Inn on the Lake in the little
Speaker 1: town a few hours south of here, and wandered into
Speaker 1: her bookshop on a day off and spent so much
Speaker 1: time looking through the cookbook section, she'd encouraged me to
Speaker 1: take a stack over to the reading in the front window.
Speaker 1: Her store had lots of new books, but what really
Speaker 1: caught my interest was a shelf of books she'd bought
Speaker 1: at garage sales were found at swapmeats. They were the
Speaker 1: kind that were compiled by the Rotary Club or the
Speaker 1: local chapter of the Moose Lodge, with a plastic cover
Speaker 1: and ring binding. The recipes represented everyone's best pot luck dishes,
Speaker 1: along with clever tips and sensible advice for housekeeping. I
Speaker 1: love those old books. Lots of the recipes, while often
Speaker 1: only comprising a half dozen ingredients and very simple methods
Speaker 1: were downright delicious. I loved thinking about the time when
Speaker 1: they were compiled, what was happening in the world, and
Speaker 1: to read the handwritten notes in the margin that said
Speaker 1: things like good hot dish for Sunday, used Lima beans instead,
Speaker 1: worked fine, or Christmas Party nineteen seventy one. So I'd
Speaker 1: gone back to the shop often, and she'd find new
Speaker 1: cookbooks for me whenever she could. She'd stop by the end,
Speaker 1: sometimes when the breakfast rush was over, and I'd bring
Speaker 1: up a couple of plates of my signature cinnamon coffee cake,
Speaker 1: pour us cups of coffee from the urn on the
Speaker 1: back patio, and we'd chat about books and food and
Speaker 1: this little village both of us loved. Once I told
Speaker 1: her about one of the first chapter books i'd read
Speaker 1: as a child, a book I couldn't remember the name of,
Speaker 1: but had been so beloved that I'd read it till
Speaker 1: the cover had come off. I described a bit of
Speaker 1: the story, two cousins, an evil governess, and secret passages
Speaker 1: through the walls of a giant Gothic country house. I'd
Speaker 1: forgotten about the conversation soon after, but that new year
Speaker 1: while I was settling into the kitchens at the ski lodge,
Speaker 1: I'd gotten a package wrapped in brown paper with her
Speaker 1: shop as the return address. She'd found the book, even
Speaker 1: the addition I had read so many times when I
Speaker 1: was little over the little lying illustrations that I hadn't
Speaker 1: seen in so long were suddenly there, exactly as I remembered,
Speaker 1: and they brought with them more memories of reading in
Speaker 1: the back seat on my way to Grandpa's house, of
Speaker 1: hiding the book inside my math text to read during class.
Speaker 1: I was taking the last sip of my espresso and
Speaker 1: smiling at the memory when I felt my phone buzz
Speaker 1: in my pocket. She must have heard me thinking about her.
Speaker 1: She'd sent a picture that showed the fireplace inside the chalet.
Speaker 1: The restaurant where I was standing at that moment was
Speaker 1: just a small glinting dot in the distance. She lives,
Speaker 1: I typed back, She does, and she's had a lovely
Speaker 1: cup of tea, but now she's hungry. I smiled. I
Speaker 1: had the perfect meal in mind. Come down to the hotel,
Speaker 1: I said, I'll meet you at the restaurant and we'll
Speaker 1: cook something up on my way. She sent back. I
Speaker 1: thought of a humble meal that was so delicious, so comforting,
Speaker 1: the kind of home cooking that we never really make
Speaker 1: in restaurants. In fact, it was a dish often made
Speaker 1: when someone was under the weather, but I loved it
Speaker 1: anytime it was cold outside. Ten minutes later, we were
Speaker 1: giving each other a big hug at the entrance to
Speaker 1: the restaurant, and I noticed that she looked well rested.
Speaker 1: Her eyes were bright, but her hands were cold from
Speaker 1: the funicular ride down the mountain. I set her up
Speaker 1: in the warmth of the kitchen, where we had a
Speaker 1: little table where staff took breaks or wrote out lists.
Speaker 1: What are you making me, she asked, rubbing her hands
Speaker 1: together in excitement. Pastina. I said, it's a little pasta
Speaker 1: soup made with but she cut me off. Oh, my
Speaker 1: grandmother used to make it for me when I was sick.
Speaker 1: That's the one, I said, though mine is I'm a
Speaker 1: little fancied up. We chatted while I chopped shallots and
Speaker 1: minced garlic. The key to really nice pastina is to
Speaker 1: dice the vegetables really small and uniformly. It makes the
Speaker 1: texture of the finished dish so smooth and consistent, a
Speaker 1: good mouth feel. We would say it takes some time,
Speaker 1: but after all, I am a chef. I can chop
Speaker 1: like the best of them. I added zucchini and carrots.
Speaker 1: We had some purple, some a pale yellow, and some
Speaker 1: a deep reddish orange, so the mix in the pot
Speaker 1: was like a rainbow. I added homemade broth and poured
Speaker 1: each of us a tall glass of mineral water while
Speaker 1: it came to a boil. She told me about her cabin,
Speaker 1: her latest read. On the ride up the mountain, I
Speaker 1: told her about the new dishes. I was working on,
Speaker 1: a funny call i'd had with the innkeeper the day before,
Speaker 1: and a trip I was planning for the time between
Speaker 1: the lodge and the inn in the spring. I added
Speaker 1: the tiny pasta noodles to the pot, a chinidi peppe,
Speaker 1: which meant something like pepper seeds, and they were indeed
Speaker 1: as small as seeds, but squared off like the diced
Speaker 1: vegetables in the pot. Soon it was cooked down, the
Speaker 1: pasta absorbing the rich broth, and I ladled healthy bowlfuls
Speaker 1: up for both of us, and added a good pinch
Speaker 1: of fresh parsley and a drizzle of my best olive
Speaker 1: oil on top. The kitchen was quiet between meals, just
Speaker 1: a few prep cooks working at their stations, and we
Speaker 1: clinked our glasses and sighed and dug in sweet dreams.