Our story tonight is called Lemongrass and Ginger, and it’s a story about fresh flavors and aromas enjoyed in a cozy kitchen. It’s also about a cache of cookbooks discovered in the basement, the winter sun warming your face, a softer way to look at mistakes when you make them, and a quiet, clean house on a snowy day.
Our charity this week is Affirmations (Ferndale), a charity close to my heart and home. Affirmations works to provide a welcoming space where people of all LGBTQIA+ folks can find support and unconditional acceptance and where they can learn, grow, socialize, and feel safe.
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Welcome to bedtime stories for every one in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay. I create everything you hear a nothing much happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. New show alert. It's called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, and it brings our stories out of their sleepy nock and into the daylight with lovely soundscapes and the non sleep inducing version of my voice. I swear I have one. You can soothe anxiety, ground yourself in goodness, and finally hear the end of the story. Listen now on your favorite podcast app just search Stories from the Village of Nothing Much. Our charity this week is Affirmations of Ferndale, a charity close to my heart and my home. Affirmations works to provide a welcoming space where all lgbt QIA plus folks can find support and unconditional acceptance, and where they can learn, grow, socialize, and feel safe. We have a link to them in our show notes. Now, let me say a little about how this works. Maybe you have had this experience where you're reading in bed in maybe not even a very comfortable position, and you're not really taking in what you're reading, but you're pushing your eyes along the line of text, and you can't stay awake. The book keeps falling in your face. So finally you set your book down, turn off the light, and get as comfortable as you have ever been, and then you can't sleep. What happened in those few seconds is that your brain activity shifted from task mode to default mode. Just by listening, letting your mind follow along with the sound of my voice. With my stories, we will keep you in task mode where sleep comes readily. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night and you feel that busy brain kick back on, please don't hesitate. Just turn a story back on and you will drop right back off. Now, lights out, campers, let's set up for a good night's sleep. Get comfortable, get the right pillow in the right spot, and let your whole body relax. Let my voice be like a guardian protecting you as you sleep. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Nice again, fill it up, and let it go good. Our story tonight is called lemon, grass and ginger, and it's a story about fresh flavors and aromas enjoyed in a cozy kitchen. It's also about a cache of cookbooks discovered in the basement, the winter sun warming your face, a softer way to look at mistakes when you make them, and a quiet, clean house on a snowy day. Lemon grass and ginger. I'd spent the day packing up Christmas. Now just a few more boxes needed to be hauled down to the basement. Then the traditional vacuuming of the pine needles could begin and the living room would be more or less set to rights. I say more or less, because every year I seemed to forget to put away at least one thing, one decoration that I'd spot a few days later, after all the tidying was done and the storage room in the basement had been packed up tight. The first year, it happened when in nearly February I found a small shiny bulb hanging from a leaf on my spider plant. I'd huffed in frustration, imagining myself digging through the boxes in the basement to put this little one away. Then I realized Christmas was in just ten months and that it might be nice to keep this pretty ball bout till then the next year. It had been a stocking that stayed on the mantle all through the seasons. Once it was a lone holiday mug that must have been in the dishwasher when its fellows went into their box. But each time I poured coffee into it, even in the muggy days of August, it made me smile. So now, as I carried the last box full of the little Village that sat under my tree, carefully wrapped in newspapers, down to the basement and slid it onto a shelf, I knew I was likely missing something, but I was actually looking forward to discovering what it might be. While I was down there, pushing the boxes around, I stumbled upon an old crate full of cook books. It took me a few moments to place these where had they come from? Then I remembered the neighborhood yard sale the summer before. I'd been browsing on the sidewalks, pulling my little red wagon behind me, and I stopped at a table full of books. I'd bought a few paperbacks that were part of a new to me series that I was now devoted to, and the neighbors selling them had offered to throw in this whole box of cookbooks for free. How could I say no? Who knew what culinary delights were described in their pages? So I'd plunked the box down into my wagon and carted them home, where apparently I'd set them on a shelf in the basement and promptly forgot and all about them. In the shadowy light of the hanging bulb, I couldn't make out their titles very clearly, but one in particular felt hefty, and its cover had a woven feel that I liked. So I plucked it from the box and took it back upstairs with me. I laid it on the kitchen table and boiled the kettle for a fresh cup of tea. When I sat down, dunking my tea bag and spooning in a bit of sugar, I took a closer look at the cover. I did look a bit familiar, gold letters on a red background, an embossed image of a knife, fork and spoon. When I thought maybe my grandmother had had this book on her kitchen shelf. I sipped my tea and began to page through it. As per usual, the holidays had been full of wonderful meals, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself, but my taste buds felt a little overworked. So many rich flavors and heavy dishes that I was craving simplicity. Now a literal palate lenser, I looked through some recipes for salads and dive and grilled verdicio, shaved carrots, and thin sliced apples and pears. That all sounded lovely, But what I really needed was something that would warm me from the inside out. I flipped to the soup section and paged past the chowders and heavy cream varieties. Then there it was a winner of a recipe whose top corner had been folded over by its previous owner. A good sign in a hand me down cook book, a lemon grass and ginger soup with a few vegetables and a warming but light broth. I set down my tea and ran my finger down the list of ingredients and found I had everything I needed. Lemon grass wasn't a constant staple in my kitchen, but I must have had a flash of intuition when I'd been at the corner store the day before, I'd seen it beside a big hand of ginger, which I thought looked a bit like reindeer antlers. I'd reached for the ginger and then the lemon grass dogs and noticed how fragrant they were. After months of nutmeg and cinnamon, I was ready for a change, and these seemed like just the ticket. So they'd come home with me now. As I washed my hands and tied on my apron, I took them from the fridge and set them out on my big chopping block. I took my stock pot from the cupboard, propped my recipe book beside the stove, and began to cook. I bruised the lemon grass with the side of my knife to help release the flavor, and peeled the ginger with the edge of a spoon. I could get lost and chopping and dicing. The steadiness of the task eased the chatter in my head, and time passed peacefully. As the kitchen began to smell of this delicious soup. I added a few vegetables to the broth, brought it to a boil, then down to a simmer, and set my spoon on my spoon rust at the sink. I washed my cutting board and the few dishes I dirtied along the way. Then I stood my hip against the counter and looked out through the window into the back yard. The afternoon sunshine was slanting over the the snow drifts, and when I moved a few inches to my right and turned my face a bit more, there the light hit me. I closed my eyes and I could feel the warmth on my face. I just soaked it in for a bit, listening to one of the best sounds in the world, a simmering pot, and felt my shoulders softening on my back. The light changed and I blinked my eyes open to see a layer of clouds spreading out over the sky. Within a few minutes, flakes were falling and the wind was picking up. Ah to be home, tucked in, snug and safe. As the snow fell outside a freshly cleaned house and a pot of soup, I felt a blooming warmth in my chest, gratitude for what I had. The wind blew again and I heard a faint jingle from the front door. I chuckled, realizing what piece of holiday decor had been left out this year. The long strand of jingle bells now dancing in the wind well all year long, we'd be ringing in the days lemon grass and ginger. I'd spent the day packing up Christmas. Now just a few more boxes needed to be hauled down to the basement. Then the traditional vacuuming of the pine needles could begin, and the living room would be more or less set to rights. I say more or less, because every year I seemed to forget to put away at least one thing, one decoration that I'd spot a few days later, after all the tidying was done and the storage room in the basement had been packed up tight. The first year, it had happened when in nearly February I found a small, shiny bulb hanging from a leaf on my spider plant. I'd huffed in frustration, imagining myself digging through the boxes in the basement to put this little one away. Then I realized Christmas was only ten months off, and that it might be nice to just keep this pretty bulb out till then the next year. It had been a stocking that stayed on the mantel all through the seasons. Once it was a lone holiday mug that must have been in the dishwasher when its fellows went into the box. But each time I poured coffee into it, even in the muggy days of August, it had made me smile. So now, as I carried the last box full of the little Village that sat under my tree, carefully wrapped in newspapers, down to the basement and slid it on to a shelf, I knew I was likely missing something, but I was actually looking forward to discovering what it might be. While I was down there, pushing the boxes around, I stumbled upon an old crate full of cook books. It took me a few moments to place these. Where had they come from? Um? Then I remembered the neighborhood yard sail from the summer before. I'd been browsing on the sidewalks, pulling my little red wagon behind me, and I'd stopped at a table full of books. I'd bought a few paper backs that were part of a new to me series that I was now devoted to, and the neighbor selling them had offered to throw in this whole box of cook books for free. How could I say no? Who knew what culinary delights were described in their pages? So I'd plunked the box down into my wagon and carted them home, where apparently I'd set them on a shelf in the basement and promptly forgotten all about them. In the shadowy light of the hanging bulb, I couldn't make out their titles very clearly, but one in particular felt hefty, and its cover had a woven feel that I liked, so I plucked it from the box and took it back upstairs with me. I laid it on the kitchen table and boiled the kettle for a fresh cup of tea. When I sat down, dunking my tea bag and spooning in a bit of sugar, I took a closer look at the cover. I did look a bit familiar, gold letters on a red background, an embossed image of a knife, fork and spoon. I thought maybe my grandmother had had this book on her kitchen shelf. I sipped my tea and began to page through it. As per usual, the holidays had been full of wonderful meals, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself, but my taste buds felt a little overworked. So many rich flavors and heavy dishes that I was craving simplicity, now a literal palate cleanser. I looked through some recipes for salads and dive and grilled ridicio shaved carrots, and thin sliced apples and pears. That all sounded lovely, but what I really needed was something that would warm me from the inside out. I flipped to the soup section and paged past the chowders and heavy cream varieties. Then there it was a winner of a recipe whose top corner had been folded over by its previous owner. A good sign in a hand me down cookbook, a lemon grass and ginger soup with a few vegetables and a warming but light broth. I set down my tea and ran my finger down the list of ingredients and found I had everything I needed. Lemon grass wasn't a constant staple in my kitchen, but I must have had a flash of intuition when i'd been at the corner store the day before. I'd seen it beside a big hand of ginger, which I thought looked a bit like reindeer antlers. I'd reached for the ginger and then the lemon grass stocks and noticed how fragrant they were. After months of nutmeg and cinnamon, I was ready for a change, and these seemed like just the ticket. So they'd come home with me now. As I washed my hands and tied on my apron, I took them from the fridge and set them out on my big chopping block. I took my stock pot from the cupboard, propped my recipe book beside the stove, and began to cook. I bruised the lemon grass with the side of my knife to help release the flavor, and peeled the ginger with the edge of a spoon. I could get lost in chopping and dicing. The steadiness of the task eased the chatter in my head, and time passed peacefully. As the kitchen began to smell of this delicious soup. I added a few vegetables to the broth, brought it to a boil, then down to a simmer, and set my spoon on my spoon rest at the sink. I washed my cutting board and the few dishes I dirtied along the way. Then I stood my hip against the counter and looked out through the window into the backyard. The afternoon sunshine was slanting over the snow drifts, and when I moved a few inches to my right and turned my face a bit more, there the light hit me. I closed my eyes and I could feel the warmth on my face. I just soaked it in for a bit, listening to one of the best sounds in the world, a simmering pot. It felt my shoulders softening on my back. The light changed and I blinked my eyes open to see a layer of clouds spreading out over the sky. Within a few minutes, flakes were falling and the wind was picking up. Ah to be home, tucked in, snug and safe as the snow fell outside a freshly cleaned house and a pot of soup. I felt a blooming warmth in my chest, gratitude for what I had. The wind blew again, and I heard a faint jingle from the front door. I chuckled, realizing what piece of holiday decor had been left out this year, the long strand of jingle bells now dancing in the wind. Well, all year long, we'd be ringing in the days. Sweet dreams