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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 Katherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.
It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.
And since I'm a person... and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.
But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.
Now, just by listening to my voice, by following along with the general shape of the story, you'll engage your mind enough to keep it from wandering.
And it's often the wandering that keeps us up.
So instead, you will sleep.
And this response will get stronger with practice, will become conditioned.
So be patient if you are new to this.
I'll read the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on.
Most folks fall back to sleep within seconds.
Our story tonight is called Chef and Sycamore and it's the second part of last week's story called Pickle Season.
It's a story about an afternoon in the kitchens at the inn as jars of pickles are lowered into the canner.
It's also about sheets of labels ready to add to the jars, the view of the hammocks in the side yard and a kitty waiting, not so patiently, to play.
Now, switch off your light.
Get comfortable.
You have done enough today.
Whatever it was, it was enough.
Now nothing remains but that you rest.
Draw a slow, deep breath in through your nose.
And sigh from your mouth.
Do it again.
Inhale.
And sigh it out.
Good.
Chef and Sycamore.
We'd been hard at work all afternoon and the jars of pickles, still warm, from the canner were lined up in neat rows on the table.
For years we'd just labeled them with a piece of masking tape torn from the roll and one of the Sharpies that Chef perpetually kept in their apron pocket.
But this year, I'd gotten some proper labels made for us.
One of the benefits of being an innkeeper is that you get to meet all kinds of people.
And one day early this summer I'd noticed one of our guests with a sketch pad sitting on the bench by the lake.
It was a misty, cool morning.
And when I'd spotted her from the porch, I'd guessed she might need a fresh cup of coffee to keep the chill at bay, and I'd carried down a thermos and a slice of coffee cake to her.
She was sketching the rowboats rope to the edge of the dock and I marveled at the way it seemed They were bobbing serenely in her drawing.
She traded me her notebook for the cup and the plate.
And as I sat beside her turning the pages I saw she'd captured so many of the pretty details of our inn.
There was the bell hanging from the doorframe on the porch, which I rang at five each evening to announce cocktail hour.
There was the cool sleeping porch up on the second floor, the grand winding staircase in the entryway, and I smiled as I spotted him, my black cat Sycamore, stretched out in the bay window of the library.
It had given me an idea and, as she had sipped from her cup and eventually cleaned her plate, we talked about it.
A few weeks later, a box had arrived and I'd surprised Chef with it, sending it down through the dumbwaiter after lunch.
I'd listened at the top of the stairs and smiled as I heard them chuckling and flipping through the collection of labels and stickers for our pickles.
These are fantastic, they'd called, and I'd rushed down to look at them again.
Our artist guest had designed us more than a single logo to go on our homemade wares.
There were a dozen different images on the brown craft stickers and a hand-drawn font spelling out chef's dill spears, chef's bread and butter pickles, sycamore's spicy cauliflower and so on.
Right now, we didn't have any plans to sell our pickles.
They were for our guests. for ourselves, and to take to the autumn fair.
But even if only a few would ever see these labels, it mattered to me that they were beautiful and said something about who we were.
I especially loved the ones with sycamore on them and thought the artist had perfectly captured his personality.
He loved our guests, loved the inn, loved Chef, and loved me.
I think he'd lived alone outdoors for a while before we found him, but he seemed to have had enough of wild, lonely living and now couldn't get enough of snuggles and his new luxurious life.
As Chef lowered the next batch of pickled Brussels sprouts into the canning pot, I sat at the big kitchen table where our staff ate family meals and slowly stuck labels onto jars.
I liked the methodical work of it.
It took some focus and a little skill to line up the edge of each label in the right place and smooth it over the glass, but I was getting more confident with each one.
And they really did look fantastic once they were done.
Just then, I heard a tapping at the door at the top of the stairs.
Thinking it might be a guest in need of something, I sat down the jar I'd just finished and started to climb the steps.
Halfway up I spotted a black furry paw sticking out through the gap at the bottom of the door and chuckled.
Sycamore would like to know what we are up to, I called to Chef.
They walked over, wiping their hands on a towel and looking up at the reaching flailing paw swiping through the air.
Well, no kitties in the kitchen, especially right now.
Maybe it's time for a break then?
We looked around the space.
I had more labels to stick, but there was no rush there.
We had two fresh batches in the canners, but those would need 10 to 15 minutes.
Chef picked up a kitchen timer and twisted the dial to set it. and tucked it into a pocket.
We hung our aprons on a hook, took a couple of cold sodas from the fridge and trooped up the stairs.
When we slid the pocket door back, Sycamore looked up at us with a mix of shock and frustration.
How dare we?
How dare we lock him out?
He jumped to his feet and strolled away as if we'd waited too long.
He didn't even want to hang out anymore.
Chef and I pulled out chairs at one of the tables on the porch that looked out at the water.
And within a minute or two, Cy was weaving through our ankles and purring at full force.
I knew he couldn't stay away.
Chef, being chef, had brought up a dish of green beans for Cy, which was one of his favorite treats.
Now we'd finished the pickled green beans earlier in the day, which meant Chef had set these aside for him hours ago.
They set the dish down under the table, and Sycamore cozied up to it and started to eat.
Smells like rain, I said, and Chef nodded.
Clouds had been moving through the skies all day, sometimes letting the sun peek through and sometimes making the day seem nearly like night.
But now they were a thick, low blanket, and it made me sigh with a bit of relief.
It felt like tucking into a blanket fort, and I found it comforting.
It also meant that when I rang the bell in a couple of hours, we'd probably not have many takers for cocktail hour.
Our guests would likely stay in town shopping in the stores on Main Street watching the rain come down from a booth at the cafe.
Sycamore had finished his treat. and jumped up onto the sill beside Chef.
He cleaned his paws and let Chef scratch his ears.
I knew that now that he had a full tummy, a nap would be in order.
So I scooped him up and carried him down the hall to a small room that looked out at a row of hammocks in our side yard.
Chef had fixed him one of his own, strung from hooks on either side of the window.
I plopped him down into it, and he wriggled happily against the soft fabric.
I read somewhere that it can help to give your animals a little job to do when you left them alone.
To speak it aloud to them and to keep it to three words if possible.
Often I told him to watch the birds or just generally protect the inn.
Now I leaned in, kissed his forehead, and said, take a nap.
As I stepped out, leaving the door ajar behind me, I heard our timer going off on the porch.
Next up, watermelon rind, Chef said excitedly, rubbing their hands together.
I followed happily down into the kitchen, knowing this meant I'd get to eat watermelon while they worked.
Chef and Sycamore.
We'd been hard at work all afternoon on the jars of pickles still warm from the canner or lined up in neat rows on the table.
For years we'd just labeled them with a piece of masking tape torn from the roll and one of the Sharpies that Chef perpetually kept in their apron.
But this year, I'd gotten some proper labels made for us.
One of the benefits of being an innkeeper is that you get to meet all kinds of people.
And one day early this summer I'd noticed one of our guests with a sketch pad sitting on the bench by the lake.
It had been a misty, cool morning.
And when I'd spotted her from the porch I'd guessed she might need a fresh cup of coffee to keep the chill at bay.
So I'd carried down a thermos and a slice of coffee cake to her.
She was sketching the rowboats, roped to the edge of the dock.
And I marveled at the way it seemed they were bobbing serenely in her drawing.
She traded me her notebook for the cup and the plate.
And as I sat beside her turning the pages I saw she'd captured so many of the pretty details of our inn.
There was the bell hanging from the doorframe on the porch, which I rang at five each evening to announce cocktail hour.
There was the cool sleeping porch up on the second floor, the grand winding staircase in the entryway, and I smiled as I spotted him, my black cat Sycamore, stretched out in the bay window of the library.
It had given me an idea and, as she'd sipped from her cup and eventually cleaned her plate, we'd talked it through.
A few weeks later, a box had arrived and I'd surprised Chef with it, sending it down through the dumbwaiter after lunch.
I'd listened at the top of the stairs and smiled as I heard them chuckling and flipping through the collection of labels and stickers for our pickles.
These are fantastic, they'd called.
And I rushed down to look at them again.
Our artist guest had designed us more than a single logo to go on our homemade wares.
There were a dozen different images on the brown craft stickers and a hand-drawn font spelling out Chef's Dill Spears, Chef's Bread and Butter Pickles, Sycamore's Spicy Cauliflower and so on.
Right now, we didn't have any plans to sell our pickles.
They were for our guests and for ourselves to take to the autumn fair.
But even if only a few would ever see these labels, It mattered to me that they were beautiful and said something about who we were.
I especially loved the ones with sycamore on them and thought the artist had perfectly captured his personality.
He loved our guests, loved the inn, loved Chef, and he loved me.
I think he'd lived alone outdoors for a while before we'd found him, and he seemed to have had enough of that wild, lonely life.
I now couldn't get enough snuggles, his new, luxurious life.
As Chef lowered the next batch of pickled Brussels sprouts into the canning pot, I sat at the big kitchen table where our staff ate family meals and slowly stuck labels onto jars.
I liked the methodical work of it.
It took some focus and a little skill to line up the edge of each label in the right place and smooth it over the glass.
But I was getting more confident with each one.
And they really did look fantastic once they were done.
Just then I heard a tapping at the door at the top of the stairs, thinking it might be a guest in need of something.
I sat down the jar I'd just finished and started to climb the steps.
Halfway up, I spotted a black, furry paw sticking out through the gap at the bottom of the door.
One chuckled.
Sycamore would like to know what we are up to, I called to Chef.
They walked over wiping their hands on a towel and looked up at the reaching flailing paw swiping through the air.
Well, no kitties in the kitchen, especially right now.
Maybe it's time for a break then?
We looked around the space.
I had more labels to stick, but there was no rush there.
We had two fresh batches in the canners. but those would need 10 to 15 minutes.
Chef picked up a kitchen timer and twisted the dial to set it and tucked it into a pocket.
We hung our aprons on a hook, took a couple of cold sodas from the fridge and trooped up the stairs.
When we slid the pocket door back, Sycamore looked up at us with a mix of shock and frustration.
How dare we?
How dare we lock him out?
He jumped to his feet and strolled away as if...
No, we'd waited too long.
He didn't even want to hang out anymore.
Chef and I pulled out chairs at one of the tables on the porch that looked out toward the water.
And within a minute or two, a sigh was weaving through our ankles and purring at full force.
I knew he couldn't stay away.
Chef, being chef, had brought up a dish of green beans for Sai, which was one of his favorite treats.
We'd finished the pickled green beans earlier in the day, which meant Chef had set these aside for him hours ago.
They set the dish down under the table, and Sycamore cozied up to it and started to eat.
Smells like rain, I said, and Chef nodded.
Clouds had been moving through the skies all day, sometimes letting the sun peek through and sometimes making the day seem nearly like night.
But now they were a thick low blanket and it made me sigh with a bit of relief.
It felt like tucking into a blanket fort and I found it comforting.
It also meant that when I rang the bell in a couple of hours, we'd probably not have many takers for cocktail hour.
Our guests would likely stay in town, shopping in the stores on Main Street and watching the rain come down from a booth at the cafe.
Sycamore had finished his treat and jumped up onto the sill beside Chef.
He cleaned his paws and let Chef scratch his ears.
I knew that now that he had a full tummy, a nap would be in order.
So I scooped him up and carried him down the hall to a small room that looked out at the row of hammocks in our side yard.
Chef had fixed him one of his own, strung from hooks on either side of the window.
I plopped him down into it, and he wriggled happily against the soft fabric.
I'd read somewhere that it can help to give your animals a little job to do when you left them alone, to speak it aloud to them and to keep it to three words if possible.
Often I told him to watch the birds, or just generally protect the inn.
Now I leaned in and kissed his forehead and said, Take a nap.
As I stepped out, leaving the door open a few inches behind me, I heard our timer going off on the porch.
Next up, watermelon rind, Chef said, excitedly rubbing their hands together.
I followed happily down into the kitchen, knowing this meant I'd get to eat watermelon while they worked.
Sweet dreams.
