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 Katherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
Speaker 1: available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support.
Speaker 1: Let me say something about how to use this podcast.
Speaker 1: I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's a
Speaker 1: simple story, without much action, but full of relaxing detail.
Speaker 1: The story is like a nest, and we're enticing your
Speaker 1: fluttering mind to settle down into it. I'll tell our
Speaker 1: story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second
Speaker 1: time through. If you find yourself still awake at the
Speaker 1: end of the first or second telling, don't worry. That's
Speaker 1: a good rule of thumb in general. When you're trying
Speaker 1: to fall asleep, don't worry. Relax. Take your mind back
Speaker 1: to the beginning of the story, and walk yourself back
Speaker 1: through the details that you can remember, especially any bit
Speaker 1: that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body
Speaker 1: to wind down, and the more often you do it,
Speaker 1: the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit
Speaker 1: of patience at the beginning, and if you find yourself
Speaker 1: awake again later in the night, use the story again
Speaker 1: to go right back to sleep. Story tonight is called
Speaker 1: in the Bakery, and it's a story about a weekend
Speaker 1: morning among bagels and bread. It's also about old cookbooks
Speaker 1: full of notes, being proud of what you do, and
Speaker 1: a secret ingredient handed down from baker to baker. Now
Speaker 1: it's time to turn off the light and put away
Speaker 1: anything you've been working on or looking at. Take some
Speaker 1: time to snuggle yourself down into your preferred sleeping position.
Speaker 1: Make all the adjustments you need to feel your body
Speaker 1: relaxing into your bed. We're creating a queue for your
Speaker 1: body and brain, and the signal is it's time for sleep. Now,
Speaker 1: let's take a deep breath in through the nose and
Speaker 1: a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good, do that
Speaker 1: one more time, in and out. Good In the Bakery.
Speaker 1: I stood inside the front window of the shop and
Speaker 1: looked up and down the street. For a few moments.
Speaker 1: Morning light was cutting through the lines of the buildings,
Speaker 1: and a few of the storefront windows were lit up.
Speaker 1: The neon sign in the diner on the corner flickered
Speaker 1: and glowed steadily on. I knew they'd be down in
Speaker 1: a few minutes for their order of bags, pastries, and
Speaker 1: loaves of fresh sliced bread that they'd soon be toasting
Speaker 1: for the day's first customers. I dusted off my floury
Speaker 1: fingers on my apron and flipped our sign from closed
Speaker 1: to open, unlocked the heavy oak door, and stepped back
Speaker 1: behind the counter. Our cases were full of just baked muffins, rolls,
Speaker 1: and loaves. Our coffee was brewed, and I had a
Speaker 1: hot cup poured for myself tucked behind the register. We
Speaker 1: were ready. Saturday mornings were my favorite at the bakery.
Speaker 1: During the week customers rushed in and out, eager to
Speaker 1: get their breakfast and their coffee and get to work.
Speaker 1: We had hectic rushes and stagnant slow times, but on
Speaker 1: the week ends, all of us, bakers and customers alike
Speaker 1: were more relaxed. People lingered over coffee, turned the pages
Speaker 1: of newspapers slowly, and took the time to really enjoy
Speaker 1: the jelly doughnuts and the wedges of coffee cake that
Speaker 1: we loved to make. Each day. The bell over the
Speaker 1: door rang and I looked up to see the familiar
Speaker 1: face of a waitress from the diner, her spring coat
Speaker 1: pulled over her apron hands, ready to receive the tray
Speaker 1: of goods we had wrapped up and ready in a hurry.
Speaker 1: I asked her. No, it's Saturday, she said, with a
Speaker 1: wave of her hand. We've only got a couple regulars
Speaker 1: who pour their own coffee. Anyway, We smiled, Well, try this.
Speaker 1: Then I passed her over a slice of still warm
Speaker 1: piscati in a wax paper wrap. I'm trying new recipes
Speaker 1: and I need an opinion I can trust. She took
Speaker 1: it gratefully, and I poured her a quick cup of
Speaker 1: coffee to go with it. It's orange and pistachio, and
Speaker 1: you might want to dunk it, I said, sliding the
Speaker 1: cup across the counter. I don't trust people who don't dunk,
Speaker 1: she observed. This is why I'm asking your opinion, I said,
Speaker 1: tapping my finger to my nose. She held the slice
Speaker 1: up close to her nose and smelled. She looked at
Speaker 1: it all over, and I saw her taking in the
Speaker 1: ratio of pistachio pieces to ribbon of orange zest. Sometimes
Speaker 1: when I hand someone a sample and ask them for feedback.
Speaker 1: They gobble it down in two bites and say it's
Speaker 1: great and move on, which is not very helpful. This
Speaker 1: woman knew what she was about. She had a bite
Speaker 1: without dunking, first, chewed slowly, then thoughtfully dipped it into
Speaker 1: her coffee and took a second bite. She looked up
Speaker 1: at me, ran her tongue over her teeth, nodding slowly.
Speaker 1: I think the orange should be a bit stronger, but
Speaker 1: the bake is right on. It's crispy and a pleasure
Speaker 1: to dunk. But if you want to eat it as
Speaker 1: it is, it's not going to break your teeth like
Speaker 1: some biscatie will. I'd say it's a winner, pleased down
Speaker 1: to my clogs, as any baker is when something she
Speaker 1: makes is properly appreciated. I slid the coffee thermous back
Speaker 1: onto its warmer and went to fetch the order she'd
Speaker 1: come in for. I handed it over to her. She
Speaker 1: thanked me for the treat, and we said see you tomorrow,
Speaker 1: and she headed back to her customers. For the next
Speaker 1: few hours we had a steady stream of patrons. Some
Speaker 1: were regulars whose orders we knew by heart, and some
Speaker 1: were new faces who stood staring at the cases, biting
Speaker 1: their lips and asking for recommendations. We brewed pots and
Speaker 1: pots of coffee, packed dozens of doughnuts into paper boxes
Speaker 1: tied with string, handed over plate after plate of muffins
Speaker 1: and scones, and toasted bagels. We handed out soft salty
Speaker 1: pretzels wrapped in wax paper. We sliced loaves and wrapped
Speaker 1: them up for afternoon sandwiches. We put pies into boxes
Speaker 1: and piped names onto birthday cakes. We wiped crumbs from
Speaker 1: the counter and the tables and started to deliver the
Speaker 1: sad news that this or that had sold out for
Speaker 1: the day. As the day moved on and the bell
Speaker 1: rang less and less, I pulled out a few of
Speaker 1: my favorite cookbooks from the shelf in the office and
Speaker 1: poured a fresh cup of coffee. I sat up at
Speaker 1: the counter, where the spring sun was shining, and flipped
Speaker 1: through the pages of a book that was older than
Speaker 1: I was, with pages stained and creased and filled with
Speaker 1: hand written notes. It was a gift from the baker
Speaker 1: who'd first opened this shop, who I'd bought it from
Speaker 1: when he retired. A kind man with a quiet voice
Speaker 1: and flower in his eyebrows. I remembered coming in for
Speaker 1: my daily bread and one day taking a bite of
Speaker 1: something and saying to him that I could always tell
Speaker 1: his bakes from any others, but he seemed to have
Speaker 1: a sort of signature flavor. He'd smiled and leaned his
Speaker 1: elbows on the counter, and turning his head side to
Speaker 1: side to make sure his secret wouldn't be heard by
Speaker 1: any one else. He whispered, cram flour. We'd been friends
Speaker 1: from that day, and I came to work for him
Speaker 1: soon after. Looking through his book of recipes made my
Speaker 1: stomach grumble, and I stepped behind the counter and took
Speaker 1: a baguette from the shelf. I sliced off a good
Speaker 1: long bit and slid it open. I had a bottle
Speaker 1: of olive oil, green and fruity, the kind that catches
Speaker 1: you in the back of the throat, and I drizzled
Speaker 1: it all over the bread. In the fridge, I found
Speaker 1: some artichow carts and a jar of capers, and in
Speaker 1: the pantry a container of soft sun dried tomatoes. I
Speaker 1: layered them all over the oiled bread, cracked black pepper
Speaker 1: on top, and took my place back to the sunny
Speaker 1: spot at the counter. My bread was delicious, and I
Speaker 1: proudly enjoyed every bite. As I flipped through more biscotti recipes,
Speaker 1: I took the pen from my pocket and added a
Speaker 1: note more orange flavor. Maybe add marmalade. My next plan
Speaker 1: was for hazelnut and chocolate piscati and something for spring
Speaker 1: strawberry and rhubarb. I carried my cup back to the
Speaker 1: window where i'd stood that morning. Before flipping the sign,
Speaker 1: I looked up and down the street. Saturdays were my
Speaker 1: favorite in the bakery. I stood inside the front window
Speaker 1: of the shop and looked up and down the street
Speaker 1: for a few moments. Morning light was cutting through the
Speaker 1: lines of the buildings, and a few of the storefront
Speaker 1: windows were lit up. The neon sign in the diner
Speaker 1: on the corner flickered and glowed steadily on. I knew
Speaker 1: they'd be down in a few minutes for their order
Speaker 1: of bagels, pastries, and loaves of fresh sliced bread that
Speaker 1: they'd soon be toasting for the day's first customers. I
Speaker 1: dusted off my flowery fingers on my apron and flipped
Speaker 1: our sign from closed to open, unlocked the heavy oak door,
Speaker 1: and stepped back behind the counter. Our cases were full
Speaker 1: of just baked muffins, rolls, and loaves. Our coffee was brewed,
Speaker 1: and I had a hot cup poured from myself tucked
Speaker 1: behind the register. We were ready. Saturday mornings were my
Speaker 1: favorite at the bakery. During the week customers rushed in
Speaker 1: and out, eager to get their breakfast and their coffee
Speaker 1: and get to work. We had hectic rushes and stagnant
Speaker 1: slow times, but on the weekends, all of us, bakers
Speaker 1: and customers alike were more relaxed. People lingered over coffee,
Speaker 1: turned the pages of newspapers slowly, and took their time
Speaker 1: to really enjoy the jelly doughnuts and wedges of coffee
Speaker 1: cake that we loved to make each day. The bell
Speaker 1: over the door rang and I looked up to see
Speaker 1: the familiar face of a waitress from the diner, her
Speaker 1: spring coat pulled over her apron, hands ready to receive
Speaker 1: the tray of goods we had wrapped up and ready.
Speaker 1: In a hurry, I asked her, No, it's Saturday, she said,
Speaker 1: with a wave of her hand. We've only got a
Speaker 1: couple regulars who pour their own coffee. Anyway, Well, try this.
Speaker 1: Then I passed her over a slice of still warm
Speaker 1: biscotti in a wax paper wrap. I'm trying new recipes
Speaker 1: and I need an opinion I can trust. She took
Speaker 1: it gratefully, and I poured her a quick cup of
Speaker 1: coffee to go with it. It's orange and pistachio, and
Speaker 1: you might want to dunk it, I said, sliding the
Speaker 1: cup across the counter. And I don't trust people who
Speaker 1: don't dunk, she observed. This is why I am asking
Speaker 1: your opinion, I said, tapping my finger to my nose.
Speaker 1: She held the slice up close to her nose and smelled.
Speaker 1: She looked at it all over, and I saw her
Speaker 1: taking in the ratio of pistachio pieces to ribbons of
Speaker 1: orange zest. Sometimes when I hand someone a sample and
Speaker 1: ask them for feedback, they gobble it down in two
Speaker 1: bites and say it's great, then move on, which is
Speaker 1: not very helpful. This woman knew what she was about.
Speaker 1: She had a bite without dunking. First, chewed slowly, then
Speaker 1: thoughtfully dipped it in her coffee and took a second bite.
Speaker 1: She looked up at me, ran her tongue over her teeth,
Speaker 1: nodding slowly. I think the orange should be a bit stronger,
Speaker 1: but the bake is right on. It's crispy and a
Speaker 1: pleasure to dunk. But if you want to eat it
Speaker 1: as it is, it's not going to break your teeth
Speaker 1: like some biscottie will. I'd say it's a winner, pleased
Speaker 1: down to my clogs, as any baker is when something
Speaker 1: she makes is properly appreciated. I slid the coffee thermos
Speaker 1: back onto its warmer and went to fetch the order
Speaker 1: she'd come in for. I handed it over to her.
Speaker 1: She thanked me for the treat, and we said see
Speaker 1: you tomorrow, and she headed back to her customers. For
Speaker 1: the next few hours we had a steady stream of patrons.
Speaker 1: Some were regulars whose orders we knew by heart, and
Speaker 1: some were new faces who stood staring at the cases,
Speaker 1: biting their lips and asking for recommendations. We brewed pots
Speaker 1: and pots of coffee, packed dozens of doughnuts into paper
Speaker 1: boxes tied with string, handed over plait after plate of
Speaker 1: muffins and scones, and toasted bagels. We handed out soft
Speaker 1: salty pretzels wrapped in wax paper. We sliced loaves and
Speaker 1: wrapped them up for afternoon sandwiches. We put pies into
Speaker 1: boxes and piped names onto birthday cakes. We wiped crumbs
Speaker 1: from the counter and the tables, and started to deliver
Speaker 1: the sad news that this or that had sold out
Speaker 1: for the day. As the day moved on and the
Speaker 1: bell rang less and less, I pulled out a few
Speaker 1: of my favorite cook books from the shelf in the
Speaker 1: office and poured a fresh cup of coffee. I set
Speaker 1: up at the counter where the spring sun was shining,
Speaker 1: and flipped through the pages of a book that was
Speaker 1: older than I was, with pages stained and creased and
Speaker 1: filled with hand written notes. It was a gift from
Speaker 1: the baker who'd first opened the shop, who I'd bought
Speaker 1: it from when he retired, A kind man with a
Speaker 1: quiet voice and flower in his eyebrows. I remembered coming
Speaker 1: in for my daily bread and one day, taking a
Speaker 1: bite of something and saying to him that I could
Speaker 1: always tell his bakes from any others, that he seemed
Speaker 1: to have a sort of signature flavor. He'd smiled and
Speaker 1: leaned his elbows on the counter and turning his head
Speaker 1: side to side to make sure his secret wouldn't be
Speaker 1: heard by any one else. He whispered graham flower. We'd
Speaker 1: been friends from that day, and I came to work
Speaker 1: for him soon after. Looking through his book of recipes
Speaker 1: made my stomach crumble when I stepped behind the counter
Speaker 1: and took a baguette from the shelf. I sliced off
Speaker 1: a good long bit and slid it open. I had
Speaker 1: a bottle of olive oil, green and fruity, the kind
Speaker 1: that catches you in the back of the throat, and
Speaker 1: I drizzled it all over the bread. In the fridge,
Speaker 1: I found some artichoke carts and a jar of capers,
Speaker 1: and in the pantry a container of soft sun dried tomatoes.
Speaker 1: I layered them all over the oiled bread, cracked black
Speaker 1: pepper on top, and took my plate back to the
Speaker 1: sunny spot at the counter. My bread was delicious, and
Speaker 1: I proudly enjoyed every bite. As I flipped through more
Speaker 1: biscotty recipes, I took the pen from my pocket and
Speaker 1: added a note more orange flavor. Maybe add marmalade. My
Speaker 1: next plan was for hazel nut and chocolate piscati and
Speaker 1: something for spring strawberry and rhubarb. I carried my cup
Speaker 1: back to the window where I had stood that morning.
Speaker 1: Before flipping the sign, I looked up and down the street.
Speaker 1: Saturdays were my favorite sweet dreams.