Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleepOur story tonight is called Pies and Pinecones, and it’s a story about an upcoming adventure dreamt up in front of a fire. It’s also about a drawing spotted in the paper, a fence with a shared gate between yards, deep breaths, a shelf full of cookbooks, and delicious plans.
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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Witttersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the November Foundation. They are more than mustache as folks. They are taking on men's physical, emotional, and mental health globally. Learn more in our show notes. So, my listeners, I've been working on something special to help you unwind, both in mind and body. It's a weighted pillow. It's made just for us by Quiet Mind. How many times have you heard me say that busy minds need a place to rest? Quiet Mind answered, I have one on my lap right now. I use one whenever I record. The gentle pressure keeps me grounded in my body and cuse my nervous system to relax and rebuild. These are the perfect holiday gifts for nothing much happens fans. I picked the color myself, and the first one hundred orders will get two free months of our Premium Plus podcast subscription. You can order now through the link in our bio as always, I have a story to tell you, and just by listening, we'll accomplish two things. We'll send you off to dreamland now, and we'll train your brain to respond more readily to these cues over time. Sounds good, right, Just follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the tale. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, try thinking back through any bit of the story that you can remember, or just press play again. You'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Pies and pine Cones, and it's a story about an upcoming adventure dreampt up in front of a fire. It's also about a drawing spotted in the paper, a fence with a shared gait between yards, deep breaths, a shelf full of cookbooks and delicious plans. Okay, lights out, campers, It's time snuggle down and get as comfortable as you can. Like your shoulders and neck relax. Notice your feet, your hands, the muscles on your face all softening. Now, take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Nice, Do that one more time inhale and release good pies and pine cones. I read about it in the village news and the end of October, learn to make pies for the Holidays with our very own baker. The ad said there was a little illustration of a pie with a prettily trimmed top and perfectly crimped crust, and my mouth had watered just looking at it. The class was a few hours long, would be held at the bakery in the evening when they were normally closed, and promised to send us home with confidence, skills and two baked pies each. I'd been standing in my kitchen, my hip leaned against the counter as a cup of tea steeped beside me, and I quickly looked out the window into the back yard to see if my neighbor behind me was home. The lights were on in his kitchen. We'd grown up in these houses and been friends since we were kids. We went between our homes so often that we'd actually had a gate installed in the fence that separated our yards so we could skip walking around to each other's front doors. We both had a passion for food, for cooking, for eating, and for discovering new recipes. So before I phoned the bakery to reserve a spot for myself, I thought I'd better check in with him to see if I should book two rather than one. I tucked the newspaper under my arm and took the tea bag from my cup to drain in the sink. We know that old saying about how good fences make good neighbors. Well, even for neighbors who installed a shared gait, it was still true. So we usually messaged each other before we crossed into the other person's yard. I sent him one that said meet in the yard, very important issue to discuss. After a minute, I saw him stepping out of his back door and then saw his reply come through. Let me guess you saw the ad for the pie class whatever, I mumbled as I reached for my tea, honestly pleased that a friend like him knew me so well. When I slid my own door open, I called out across the yard, want tea. He shook his head, and I strolled out in my slippers to meet him at the fence. The air was full of autumn sense, dry leaves, cooling earth, and it mixed with the cinnamon scent in my cup. I handed the newspaper across to him as I sipped, though I knew he'd obviously already seen it. Mm hm, he murmured as he re read it. Well, we obviously need to sign up. The real question is what kind of pies do we aspire to create? I smiled into my cup as I'd been thinking the same thing. We had been hosting a friends giving meal together for the last several years, and one of our favorite things about it was the chance it gave us to experiment in the kitchen and try new things. We figured most thanksgivings were already full of traditional dishes, so ours didn't have to be. Our pot luck, which was by now big enough to fill the community hall on the village square, could be a showcase of different flavors, fusion recipes, and new ideas. And while pie was a traditional dish, for sure, we could certainly take the knowledge we gleaned from the baker and add in our own twist. I'll call now and save our spots, he said, and I raised my mug and toast to the idea. As he turned to go back to his home, he called over his shoulder, have fun going through all your cookbooks. I chuckled, turning back myself. Boy, he did know me well, that was my first thought. As much as I loved to invent, I found that first I liked a little bit of inspiration. I went to the books that I knew worked, the trusted recipes that I relied on to understand the basics of flavor and technique. There was a chill that followed me through the yard and up to my door, and it shivered through me as I reached for the knob. A good night for a fire, I thought, and coming in to set my mug on the kitchen table, I went into the garage for some logs. I know a lot of folks like a gas fire, so convenient and fast. You flip a switch and you've got instant warmth an atmosphere. But I prefer a wood fire. It takes some skill and time to build, but it's a satisfying chore, and nothing beats the smell of wood smoke. I usually started by sweeping out the old ashes into a can, but since this was my first fire of the year and a good fireplace cleaning was always part of my own spring cleaning, I had a blank canvas, so to speak. I took the rest of the village paper, having already read the most essential piece of news in it, and crumpled the individual pages and made a sort of bed of them to lay my kindling on. I'd been collecting pine cones through the year and had a milk crate full of them beside the grate. They were dry, and their thin, woody scales made for excellent fire starters. I set them strategically on the paper, then carefully propped the smaller, thinner logs into a frame over all of it. Fires need air. If you pile everything too densely, it will suffocate the flames. It was a comparison my yoga teacher often sighted during class, especially on cold days, as we worked to build some heat in our bodies. That fires need oxygen, so to breathe deeply as we moved. Just thinking of it led me to take some deeper breaths, and I stopped with a long match in my hand, pausing before striking it, just to drink. In this moment, the daylight was going and I had a few small lamps on. It made the room feel cozy and soft. I could see through the kitchen window the light on in my friend's home. We had an adventure to look forward to, and in a few minutes my living room would be full of flickering light and the scent of burning logs. I'd brew a fresh cup of tea, take a stack of cook books down from the shelf, and curl up on the couch, ready to be inspired pies and pine cones. I read about it in the village news at the end of October. Learn to make pies for the Holidays with our very own baker. The ad said there was a little illustration of a pie with a prettily trimmed top and perfectly crimped crust, and my mouth had watered just looking at it. The class was a few hours long, would be held at the bakery in the evening when they were normally closed, and promised to send us home with confidence, skills and two baked pies each. I'd been standing in my kitchen, my hip leaned against the counter as a cup of tea steeped beside me, and I'd quickly looked out the window into the backyard to see if my neighbor behind me was home. The lights were on in his kitchen. We'd grown up in these houses and been friends since we were kids. We went between our homes so often that we'd actually had a gate installed in the fence that separated our yards so we could skip walking around to each other's front doors. We both had a passion for food, for cooking, for eating, and for discovering new recipes. So before I phoned the bakery to reserve a spot for myself, I thought i'd better check in with him to see if I should book two rather than one. I tucked the newspaper under my arm and took the tea bag from my cup to drain in the sink. You know that old saying about how good fences make good neighbors. Well, even for neighbors who installed a shared gait, it was still true. So we usually messaged each other before we crossed into the other person's yard. I sent him one that said meet in the yard. Very important issue to discuss. After a minute, I saw him stepping out of his back door and saw his reply come through. Let me guess you saw the ad for the pie class. Whatever I mumbled as I reached for my teacup honestly pleased that a friend like him knew me so well. When I slid my own door open. I called out across the yard, want tea. He shook his head, and I strolled out in my slippers to meet him at the fence. The air was full of autumn scents, dry leaves, cooling earth, and it mixed with the cinnamon scent in my cup. I handed the newspaper across to him as I sipped, though I knew he'd obviously already seen it. Mm hm, he murmured as he reread it. Well, we obviously need to sign up. The real question is what kind of pies do we aspire to create? I smiled into my cup as I'd been thinking the same thing. We'd been hosting a friends giving meal together for the last several years, and one of our favorite things about it was the chance it gave us to experiment in the kitchen and try new things. We figured most Thanksgivings were already full of traditional dishes, so ours didn't have to be. Our pot luck, which was by now big enough to fill the community hall on Village Square, could be a showcase of different flavors, fusion recipes, and new ideas. While pie was a traditional dish, for sure, we could certainly take the knowledge we gleaned from the baker and add in our own twist. I'll call now and save our spots, he said, and I raised my mug to toast the idea. As he turned back to his home, he called over his shoulder, have fun going through all your cook books, I chuckled, turning back myself. Boy, he did know me well, that was my first thought. As much as I loved to invent, I found that first, I liked a little inspiration. I went to the books that I knew worked, the trusted respies that I relied on to understand the basics of flavor and technique. There was a chill that followed me through the yard and up to my door, and it shivered through me as I reached for the knob. A good night for a fire, I thought, and coming in, set my mug on the kitchen table and went into the garage for some logs. I know a lot of folks like a gas fire, so convenient and fast. Flip a switch and you've got instant warmth an atmosphere. But I prefer a wood fire. It takes some skill and time to build, but it can be a satisfying chore, and nothing beats the smell of wood smoke. I usually started by sweeping out the old ashes into a can, but since this was my first fire of the year and a good fireplace cleaning was always part of my spring cleaning, I had a blank canvas, so to speak. I took the rest of the village paper, having already read the most essential piece of news in it, and crumpled the individual pages and made a sort of bed of them delay my kindling on. I'd been collecting pine cones through the year, then had a milk crate full of them beside the grate. They were dry, and their thin, woody scales made for excellent fire starters. I set them strategically on the paper, then carefully propped the smaller, thinner logs into a frame over all of it. Fires need air. If you pile everything too densely, it will suffocate the flames. It was a comparison my yoga teacher often sighted during class, especially on cold days, as we worked to build some heat into our bodies. The fires need oxygen, so to breathe deeply as we moved. Just thinking of it led me to take some deeper breaths. I stopped with a long match in my hand, pausing before striking it, just to drink. In this moment, the daylight was going when I had a few small lamps on, It made the rooms feel cozy and soft. I could see through the kitchen window the lights on in my friend's home. We had an adventure to look forward to, and in a few minutes my living room would be full of flickering light and the scent of burning logs. I'd brew a fresh cup of tea, take a stack of cook books down from the shelf, and curl up on the couch, ready to be inspired. Sweet dreams
