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Welcome to a special expanded episode of Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which slightly more happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
I often write multiple episodes as part of a bigger story.
And now we've cut them together for a lovely, long, and complete experience.
These bigger episodes are perfect for nights, when you need just a little more time to settle in and feel cozy.
I'll still tell the whole story twice, and I'll still go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake later in the night, I can almost guarantee.
So maybe just pick a point in the middle and push play.
And within a few minutes, you'll be right back to sleep.
Now, switch off your light.
Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on.
And get as comfortable as you can.
Let your muscles relax. your body drop heavy into the bed.
I'll be right here, reading even after you've fallen asleep.
I'll watch over with my voice.
Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh through the mouth.
Again, breathe in and out.
Good.
Our story tonight is called Winter Getaway and it tells from two perspectives the tale of a snowy mountain and a warm cabin and a meal shared between friends.
It's also about taking time to rest deeply.
Snowflakes and silver needle tea and a book wrapped in brown paper.
Winter Getaway, Part 1.
The Cabin, With the holiday rush over the bookshop, was quiet and I didn't mind it.
I'd been run off my feet in the best possible way in the last few weeks.
Our book clubs had all gotten together to share a holiday party, and it was fun to watch.
The romance readers Mixed with the murder mystery crew, the history fans and the sci-fi enthusiasts had turned out to have a lot in common.
And besides sharing their favorite titles for the year, they had all eaten their way through a table of appetizers and dipped ladlefuls of punch from the bowl till it was empty.
That had been a fun evening.
Every Saturday in December, the children's nook had been packed for our Clauses, with the Clauses story hour, which was the brainchild of a few of the reading teachers from the elementary school.
They dressed up in their red suits and read books to the kids, with just a few grammar lessons folded in.
There was also my annual top 100 books of the year list to curate and displays to put out.
The bell over the door had rung so much that I'd started to hear it in my sleep.
So when the bustle finally died down, I found myself in need of a bit of respite.
I often closed the shop down completely for a week or so at the beginning of the year and would just hole up in my house with a stack of books.
I never did get tired of reading.
I'd spend each day eating progressively staler Christmas cookies and falling asleep on the couch with a book on my chest.
I'd thought to do the same thing this year but had gotten an invitation from a friend of mine that had been too tempting to resist.
My friend was a chef and spent half the year cooking at the inn on the lake in our own little village and the other half traveling and working in different places every other month.
I'd gotten a postcard from them with a pretty picture on the front of a night scene on a mountain, a ski slope strung with lights and in the distance, a cozy-looking lodge whose lit windows suggested roaring fires and hot drinks.
On the back, they'd just written, Bring your books and happy Hanukkah.
I'd stuck the postcard to the front of the cash register at the bookshop.
And especially on busy days, the idea of getting away for a bit had gotten me through.
So I'd sent a card back, and we'd made some plans.
I'd never been before, but remembered from Chef's stories that they had a large hotel, a beautiful place with a spa and a big restaurant that looked out over the slopes where Chef worked most days.
But they also had chalets and cabins, and that sounded even better.
I booked myself a little cabin with a king-size bed, a fireplace, and a big clawfoot tub.
It was just a few minutes' walk from the hotel and looked like just the place to recoup for the week.
So I closed up the bookshop, hung a sign in the window advising all those having literary emergencies to please consult with the library, and drove off on a cold sunny afternoon.
The drive had been nice, too.
I took back roads most of the way, And as I got farther and farther north, the snow on farmhouse rooftops and across fields got thicker.
Finally, the mountains came into view.
And I followed the signs till I was pulling into the resort.
I checked in at the hotel. and the clerk asked if I needed help getting my bags to the funicular.
Oh, what now?
I asked, a little confused.
I was guided through the grand lobby, which was still decorated with pine trees and poinsettias, past the restaurant, where Chef must be working, and out onto a pretty covered patio where I was mesmerized for a moment, looking up at the snow-covered mountain, watching skiers expertly shushing their way down.
My guide paused with me and pointed out a grove of trees halfway up the mountain.
Half a dozen log cabins were nestled in among the pines, and I was delighted to hear that one of them was mine.
It turned out.
A funicular is a sort of diagonal train that carries you in a comfortable little carriage up a mountain.
The view from inside was fantastic.
It only got more amazing as it climbed.
The sun was dropping steadily down the horizon, and its rosy orange light was reflected on the snow.
When the funicular stopped and my guide helped me out onto the platform with my roller bag mostly full of books and a duffel with my clothes.
He handed me my key, and I trundled down a short path to my door.
I eagerly fitted the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
What a dream I was in.
The little place was cozy and warm with a fire already going in the grate.
I locked the door behind me and wheeled my bag toward the giant bed and let myself just flop down for a few moments.
Now, I've tried, and I've even watched YouTube videos to learn more, but I just can't make a bed as well as a housekeeper in a hotel does.
And this one had crisp white sheets and was piled with fluffy blankets.
Besides the bathroom with its beautiful tub, the cabin was all one room with plenty of space for me to stretch out and relax.
There was a small kitchenette tucked along one wall, and I got up to explore it.
I found a coffee pot. and a bag of fresh grounds for my mornings.
The usual mini-bar with drinks and sweets.
And under a glass dome on the counter, a dozen black and white cookies with a note from my friend.
Rest up.
Eat.
Read books.
Come by the restaurant later. and I'll fix you something special.
That all sounded like the best medicine.
I lifted the dome and took a cookie and stepped over to the window to look out while I nibbled at it.
The hotel was lit up like a Christmas tree and people were skiing and snowboarding under the clear, dark sky, with a sliver of moon rising over the mountain.
I took in a deep breath and let out a sigh.
Part 2.
The Chalet For the first day or two, I didn't leave my little cabin.
I went to bed early and slept late.
It felt so wonderful and absolutely necessary.
When I finally got out of bed in the mornings, I turn on the gas fireplace and brew a pot of coffee and climb right back into bed with a cup.
Sometimes I read.
Sometimes I just stared out the front window and looked at the mountains.
Chef kept my little kitchenette stocked with pastries and fruit for breakfast which again, I ate in bed.
I took long, steaming hot baths in the clawfoot tub.
I listened to music and read.
When I got hungry I ordered room service, which was brought in covered dishes all the way from the hotel up the funicular and to my door.
I changed from one pair of pajamas into another and just enjoyed the quiet and solitude.
My friend who'd invited me here, the chef who'd been sending down pastries from their kitchen, had given me space, knowing that I needed rest more than company.
They'd invited me for dinner when I was up to it, or a snowshoe along some of the gentler paths.
What a gift friends like that are.
The kind that you don't have to explain yourself to, who take you as you are and want your own well-being as much as you do.
It reminded me of the way Italians say, I love you.
They have a romantic way and a platonic way of expressing it.
The platonic way simply said, I want you to be well.
Ti voglio bene.
Chef wanted me to be well.
And it felt very good to be loved by a friend like that.
Today, I had an urge to finally step out of my little sanctuary and explore a bit.
I wasn't a skier, though I'd enjoyed watching the brave souls on the mountain cutting through the fresh powder each day.
I thought today I might prefer to bundle up and take the funicular down to the hotel, poke around through their shops and lobbies and see if Chef would make me a tasty dinner in their restaurant.
The resort made its own fresh snow each day.
To make the skiing and snowboarding as good as it could be.
But Mother Nature had been no slouch in that department either.
There was a solid foot and a half on the ground around my cabin, and more falling by the minute.
I layered on my thermals, powder pants, heavy coat and boots, and stepped out the door.
The funicular traveled up and down the mountains every few minutes, so I only had to wait a minute on the platform.
And while I did, I looked across the slopes and saw more cabins and groves of trees on the other side.
People were riding ski lifts up into the sky, their skis dangling in the air.
And I thought the whole endeavor must be exhilarating. just standing here in the cold air.
I felt energized and awake in a way I hadn't in quite a while.
The funicular arrived in front of me and I realized that the tracks didn't stop at my little platform.
They went further up the mountain and I suddenly decided I wanted to go up rather than down.
I stepped inside and sat down on a cushioned bench.
I'd always wanted to take one of those winter train trips where the tracks wind through snowy landscapes while tea is served in fancy cups in the dining car.
And this was close.
It was only a few minutes' ride up the mountain.
But it was an extraordinary view and I had the presence of mind to really take it all in.
Sometimes life happened so fast, I felt like I missed the details.
And maybe this was one of the reasons I loved to read.
I could take in each scene as slowly as I liked, reread favorite passages, change moods by flipping to a different chapter.
Now I realized I was in a beautiful verse that I would want to re-read.
So I kept my eyes open.
I noticed the way the snowflakes landed on the window.
How there was a split second while they were intact.
And I could see their tiny symmetrical patterns. before they seemed to go out of focus.
They turned blurry and melted and were gone.
I caught my own reflection in the glass and looked through it to the sloping land all around me.
I smiled at that.
Don't we often look through ourselves when we look out a layer of self imperceptibly shading the view?
The funicular bumped to a stop, the doors slid open and the true, unimpeded view of the mountains was even sweeter.
I stepped out to find a building with broad overhanging eaves and a tall stone chimney wood smoke rising from it.
I'd felt a few times here that I was in a fairy tale, and this seemed to cement the idea.
Here was a real-life chalet, and I wondered if the funicular had somehow delivered me in a split second to the Alps.
There was a broad stone patio wrapping around the chalet, a fire pit roaring in the center and small tables with a few bundled-up guests sitting here and there.
I wandered up to the door and stepped through.
I hadn't felt cold, but my cheeks burned as the warm air circled around me.
The place was a long open room with a giant fireplace along one wall.
Deep chairs were pulled up around it and people were sitting with drinks in their hands, looking out the floor to ceiling windows at the slopes.
Across from the fire was a long bar when I could hear the hiss of an espresso machine.
I unsnapped the neck of my coat and pulled away my scarf.
As I stepped up to the bar, I thought I might want to stay a while.
I asked the bartender if they had hot tea, and she stepped away for a moment and brought back a large wicker basket which she set before me as she opened it.
It was divided into 20 or more little cubbies, each with a canister of loose-leaf tea nestled inside.
I practically clapped my hands in excitement as I read the labels.
Mint in the winter always felt like a natural choice and I was reaching for it when the bartender leaned in and tapped her finger against a different flavor.
I read the label.
Orange blossoms, rose petals, and silver needle tea.
You think, I said.
She just nodded and watched and waited for me to nod back.
When I did, she smiled and swept the box away to set me up with a pot and a cup.
I thought for a moment that I wished I'd brought my book. but maybe this was even better.
I'd take in every detail my senses could show me, as if I were writing this moment down in a story.
Part 3.
Chef's Kitchen Lunch service was winding down and I made myself a small cup of espresso from the machine in the dining room.
It was a treat I partook of most days.
Before I'd become a chef, I'd worked in a coffee shop and served my fair share of lattes and Americanos when there was something irresistible to me about taking a clean cup and saucer from the warmer and properly making a coffee.
I dropped in a cube of sugar and stirred till it dissolved, then drank it down in three or four quick sips.
It marked a turning point in my day and I thought about how many people around the world did the same.
I had some small afternoon ritual, probably involving something hot to drink, that helped them to pause before the second part of the day and regroup.
I looked out through the dining room windows up at the mountains and watched skiers and snowboarders zigzagging their way down.
I wondered if my friend, the bookshop owner, had set foot out into the snow yet.
I knew she was here tucked away in her cabin Mostly because once a day I sent a basket full of danishes or Chelsea buns and got back yesterday's crumbs.
So, like I said, I knew she was here.
I guessed she was reading books and taking naps.
And I was glad she was decompressing.
As grown-ups.
Sometimes you see your friends struggling and you wish you could give them a good meal and tuck them into bed, like had been done for you as a child.
But most of the time, all you can do is listen, though that's still pretty important.
Maybe that was why I loved my job so much.
I did get to feed people and send them off to bed.
I got to see the moment when they set aside whatever they'd been thinking about and unfold their napkin and let the steam of some tasty dish I'd made rise up and wrap around their face.
And I was about ready to see my friend's face like that.
We'd met years ago when I first started cooking at the inn on the lake in the little town a few hours south of here.
I'd wandered into her bookshop on a day off and spent so much time looking through the cookbook section.
She'd encouraged me to take a stack over to the reading nook in the front window.
Her shop had lots of new books, but what really caught my interest was a shelf of books she'd bought at garage sales or found at swap meets.
They were the kind that were compiled by the Rotary Club or the local chapter of the Moose Lodge, with a plastic cover and ring bindings.
The recipes represented everyone's best potluck dishes, along with clever tips and sensible advice for housekeeping.
I loved those old books.
Lots of the recipes, while often comprising Just a half dozen ingredients and very simple methods, were downright delicious.
I loved thinking about the time when they were compiled what was happening in the world and then to read the handwritten notes in the margins that said things like Good hot dish for Sunday.
Used lima beans instead worked fine.
Or Christmas Party, 1971.
So I'd gone back to the shop often, and she'd find new cookbooks for me whenever she could.
She'd stop by the inn sometimes when the breakfast rush was over And I'd bring up a couple plates of my signature cinnamon coffee cake, pour us cups of coffee from the urn on the back patio and we'd chat about books and food and this little village both of us loved.
Once I told her about one of the first chapter books I'd read as a child.
A book I couldn't remember the name of, but had been so beloved that I'd read it till the cover had come off.
I described a bit of the story two cousins, an evil governess and secret passages through the walls of a giant Gothic country house.
I'd forgotten about the conversation soon after, but that new year, while I was settling into the kitchens at the ski lodge, I'd gotten a package wrapped in brown paper with her shop as the return address.
She'd found the book, even found the edition I'd read so many times when I was little.
The cover, the little line illustrations that I hadn't seen in so long were suddenly there, exactly as I remembered.
And they brought with them more memories of reading in the backseat on my way to Grandpa's house, of hiding the book inside my math text to read during class.
I was taking the last sip of my espresso and smiling at the memory when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.
She must have heard me thinking about her.
She'd sent a picture that showed the fireplace inside the chalet.
The restaurant where I was standing at the moment was a small, glinting dot in the distance.
She lives, I typed back.
She does, and she's had a lovely cup of tea, but now she's hungry.
I smiled.
I had the perfect meal in mind.
Come down to the hotel, I said.
I'll meet you at the restaurant, and we'll cook something up.
On my way, she sent.
I thought of a humble meal that was so delicious, so comforting.
The kind of home cooking that we never really make in restaurants.
In fact, it was a dish often made when someone was under the weather.
But I loved it any time it was cold outside.
Ten minutes later, we were giving each other a big hug at the entrance to the restaurant.
I noticed that she looked well-rested.
Her eyes were bright. but her hands were cold from the funicular ride down the mountain.
I set her up in the warmth of the kitchen where we had a little table where staff took breaks or wrote out lists.
What are you making me? she asked, rubbing her hands together in excitement.
Pastina, I said.
It's a little pasta soup made with... but she cut me off.
Oh, my grandmother used to make it for me when I was sick.
That's the one, I said, though mine is a little fancied up.
We chatted while I chopped shallots and minced garlic.
Key to really nice pastina is to dice the vegetables really small and uniformly.
It makes the texture of the finished dish so smooth and consistent.
A good mouthfeel, we would say.
It takes some time, but after all, I am a chef.
I can chop like the best of them.
I added zucchini and carrots.
We had some purple, some a pale yellow and some a deep reddish orange, so the mix in the pot was like a rainbow.
I added homemade broth, and poured us each a tall glass of mineral water while it came to a boil.
She told me about her cabin, her latest read, and the ride up the mountain.
I told her about the new dishes I was working on A funny call I'd had with the innkeeper the day before.
And a trip I was planning for the time between the lodge and the inn in the spring.
I added the tiny pasta noodles to the pot.
Acini di pepe, which means something like pepper seeds, and they were indeed as small as seeds but squared off like the diced vegetables in the pot.
Soon.
It was cooked down, the pasta absorbing the rich broth, and I ladled healthy bowlfuls up for both of us and added a good pinch of fresh parsley and a drizzle of my best olive oil on top.
The kitchen was quiet between meals, just a few prep cooks working at their stations, and we clinked our glasses and sighed and dug in.
Winter Getaway, Part One the cabin.
With the holiday rush over, the bookshop was quiet, and I didn't mind it.
I'd been run off my feet in the best possible way in the last few weeks.
Our book clubs had all gotten together to share a holiday party.
And it was fun to watch the romance readers mix with the murder mystery crew.
The history fans and the sci-fi enthusiasts had turned out to have a lot in common.
And besides sharing their favorite titles for the year, they had all eaten their way through a table of appetizers and dipped ladlefuls of punch from the bowl till it was empty.
That had been a fun evening.
Every Saturday in December, the children's nook had been packed for our clauses, with the clauses story hour, which was the brainchild of a few of the reading teachers from the elementary school.
They dressed up in their red suits and read books to the kids, with just a few grammar lessons folded in.
Then there was also my annual top 100 books of the year list to curate and displays to put out.
The bell over the door had rung so much that I'd started to hear it in my sleep.
So when the bustle finally died down, I found myself in need of a bit of respite.
I often closed the shop down completely for a week or so at the beginning of the year and would just hole up in my house with a stack of books.
I never did get tired of reading.
I'd spend each day eating progressively staler Christmas cookies and falling asleep on the couch with a book on my chest.
I'd thought to do the same thing this year but had gotten an invitation from a friend of mine that had been too tempting to resist.
My friend was a chef and spent half of the year cooking at the inn on the lake in our own little village and the other half traveling and working in different places every other month.
I'd gotten a postcard from them with a pretty picture on the front of a night scene on a mountain.
A ski slope strung with lights and, in the distance, cozy-looking lodge whose lit windows suggested roaring fires and hot drinks.
On the back, they'd just written, Bring your books on Happy Hanukkah.
I'd stuck the postcard to the front of the cash register at the bookshop.
And especially on the busy days, the idea of getting away for a bit had gotten me through.
So I'd sent a card back when we'd made some plans.
I'd never been before, but remembered from Chef's stories that they had a large hotel.
A beautiful place with a spa and a big restaurant that looked out over the slopes where Chef worked most days, but they also had chalets and cabins and that sounded even better.
I'd booked myself a little cabin with a king-size bed, a fireplace, and a big clawfoot tub.
It was just a few minutes' walk from the hotel and looked like just the place to recoup for the week.
So I closed up the bookshop, hung a sign in the window advising all those having literary emergencies to please consult with the library, and drove off on a cold sunny afternoon.
And the drive had been nice, too.
I took back roads most of the way and as I got farther and farther north, The snow on farmhouse rooftops and across fields got thicker.
Finally, mountains came into view.
And I followed the signs till I was pulling into the resort.
I checked in at the hotel. and the clerk asked if I needed help getting my bags to the funicular.
What now?
I asked, a little confused.
I was guided through the grand lobby, which was still decorated with pine trees and poinsettias, past the restaurant, where Chef must be working, and out onto a pretty covered patio where I was mesmerized for a moment, looking up at the snow-covered mountain, watching skiers expertly shushing their way down.
My guide paused with me and pointed out a grove of trees halfway up the mountain.
Half a dozen log cabins were nestled in among the pines, and I was delighted to hear that one of them was mine.
It turned out that a funicular is a sort of diagonal train that carries you in a comfortable little carriage up a mountain.
The view from inside was fantastic and only got more amazing as I climbed.
The sun was dropping steadily down the horizon, and its rosy orange light was reflected on the snow.
When the funicular stopped and my guide helped me out onto the platform with my roller bag, mostly full of books, on a duffel with my clothes.
He handed me my key, and I trundled down a short path to my door.
I eagerly fitted the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
What a dream I was in.
The little place was cozy and warm, with a fire already going in the grate.
I locked the door behind me and wheeled my bag toward the giant bed.
I just let myself flop down for a few moments.
Now, I've tried, and I've even watched YouTube videos to learn more, but I can't make a bed as well as a housekeeper in a hotel does.
And this one had crisp white sheets and was piled with fluffy blankets.
Besides the bathroom with its beautiful tub.
The cabin was all one room with plenty of space for me to stretch out and relax.
There was a small kitchenette along one wall, and I got up to exploring.
I found a coffee pot and a bag of fresh grounds for my mornings.
The usual mini bar with drinks and sweets.
And under a glass dome on the counter, a dozen black and white cookies with a note from my friend.
Rest up, eat, read books.
Come by the restaurant later, and I'll fix you something special.
Oh, that all sounded like the best medicine.
I lifted the dome and took a cookie and stepped over to the window to look out while I nibbled at it.
The hotel was lit up like a Christmas tree and people were skiing and snowboarding under the clear sky, with a sliver of moon rising over the mountains.
I took a deep breath in and let it out with a sigh.
Part Two The Chalet For the first day or two, I didn't leave my cabin.
I went to bed early and slept late.
It felt so wonderful and absolutely necessary.
When I finally got out of bed in the mornings, I'd turn on the gas fireplace and brew a pot of coffee and climb right back into bed with a cup.
Sometimes I read.
Sometimes I just stared out the front window and looked at the mountains.
Chef kept my little kitchenette stocked with pastries and fruit for breakfast which again, I ate in bed.
I took long, steaming hot baths in the clawfoot tub.
I listened to music and read.
When I got hungry I ordered room service, which was brought in covered dishes all the way from the hotel up the funicular and to my door.
I changed from one pair of pajamas into another and just enjoyed the quiet and the solitude.
My friend who'd invited me here.
The chef who'd been sending up the pastries from their kitchen had given me space, knowing that I needed rest more than I needed company.
They'd invited me for dinner when I was up to it, or a snowshoe along some of the gentler paths.
What a gift friends like that are.
The kind that you don't have to explain yourself to.
Who take you as you are and want your well-being as much as you do.
It reminded me of the way Italians say, I love you.
They have a romantic way and a platonic way of expressing it.
The platonic way simply said, I want you to be well.
Ti voglio bene.
Chef wanted me to be well.
And it felt very good to be loved by a friend like that.
Today, I had an urge. to finally step out of my little sanctuary and explore a bit.
I wasn't a skier, though I'd enjoyed watching the brave souls on the mountain cutting through the fresh powder each day.
I thought today I might prefer to bundle up and take the funicular down to the hotel, poke through their shops and lobby and see if Chef would make me a tasty dinner in their restaurant.
The resort made its own fresh snow each day to make the skiing and snowboarding as good as it could be.
But Mother Nature had been no slouch in that department either.
There was a solid foot and a half on the ground around my cabin, and more falling by the minute.
I layered on my thermals powder pants, heavy coat and boots and stepped out the door.
The funicular traveled up and down the mountain every few minutes.
So I only had to wait a minute on the platform.
And while I did, I looked across the slopes and saw more cabins and groves of trees on the other side.
People were riding ski lifts up into the sky, their skis dangling in the air, and I thought the whole endeavor must be exhilarating, just standing here in the cold air.
I felt energized and awake in a way I hadn't in quite a while.
The funicular arrived in front of me and I realized that the tracks didn't stop at my little platform.
They went farther up the mountain, and I suddenly realized I wanted to go up rather than down.
I stepped inside and sat down on a cushioned bench.
I've always wanted to take one of those winter train trips where the tracks wind through snowy landscapes while tea is served in fancy cups in the dining car.
This was close.
It was only a few minutes' ride up the mountain.
But it was an extraordinary view.
And I had the presence of mind to really take it all in.
Sometimes life happened so fast.
I felt like I missed the details.
And maybe this was one of the reasons I loved to read.
I could take in each scene as slowly as I liked.
Reread favorite passages.
Change moods by flipping to a different chapter.
Now I realized I was in a beautiful verse I would want to reread.
So I kept my eyes open.
I noticed the way the snowflakes landed on the window, how there was a split second while they were intact and I could see their tiny symmetrical patterns before they seemed to go out of focus.
They turned blurry and melted and were gone.
I caught my own reflection in the glass and looked through it to the sloping land all around me.
I smiled at that.
Don't we often look through ourselves when we look out?
A layer of self imperceptibly shading the view.
The funicular bumped to a stop.
The doors slid open.
And the true, unimpeded view of the mountain was even sweeter.
I stepped out to find a building with broad overhanging eaves and a tall stone chimney wood smoke rising from it.
I'd felt a few times here that I was in a fairy tale, and this seemed to cement the idea.
Here was a real-life chalet, and I wondered if the funicular had somehow delivered me in a split second to the Alps.
There was a broad stone patio wrapped around the chalet, a fire pit roaring in the center and small tables with a few bundled-up guests sitting here and there.
I wandered up to the door and stepped through.
I hadn't felt cold, but my cheeks burned as the warm air circled around me.
The place was a long, open room with a giant fireplace along one wall.
Deep chairs were pulled up around it and people were sitting with drinks in their hands looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the slopes.
Across from the fire was a long bar, and I could hear the hiss of an espresso machine.
I unsnapped the neck of my coat and pulled away my scarf as I stepped up to the bar.
I thought, I might want to stay a while.
I asked the bartender if they had hot tea, and she stepped away for a moment and brought back a large wicker basket which she set before me as she opened it.
It was divided into 20 or more little cubbies, each with a canister of loose leaf tea nestled inside.
I practically clapped my hands in excitement as I read the labels.
Mint in the winter. always felt like a natural choice.
And I was reaching for it when the bartender leaned in and tapped her finger against a different flavor.
I read the label.
Orange blossoms.
Rose petals. and silver needle tea.
You think, I said.
She just nodded and watched and waited for me to nod back.
When I did, she smiled and swept the box away to set me up with a pot and cup, thought for a moment that I wished I'd brought my book.
But maybe this was even better.
I'd take in every detail my senses could show me.
As if I were writing this moment down in a story.
Part 3 chef's kitchen.
Lunch service was winding down and I'd made myself a small cup of espresso from the machine in the dining room.
It was a treat I partook of most days.
Before I'd become a chef, I'd worked in a coffee shop and served my fair share of lattes and Americanos.
And there was something irresistible to me about taking a clean cup and saucer from the warmer and properly making a coffee.
I dropped in a cube of sugar and stirred till it dissolved, then drank it down in three or four quick sips.
It marked a turning point in my day.
And I thought about how many people around the world did the same.
Had some small ritual in the afternoon, probably involving something hot to drink, that helped them to pause before the second part of the day and regroup.
I looked out through the dining room windows up at the mountain and watched skiers and snowboarders zigzagging their way down.
I wondered if my friend, the bookshop owner, had set foot out into the snow yet.
I knew she was here tucked away in her cabin mostly because once a day I sent her a basket full of danishes or Chelsea buns and just got back yesterday's crumbs.
So, like I said, I knew she was here.
I guessed she was reading books and taking naps and I was glad she was decompressing.
As grown-ups.
Sometimes you see your friends struggling and you wish you could give them a good meal and tuck them into bed, like had been done for you as a child.
But most of the time, all you can do is listen, which is still pretty important.
Maybe that's why I loved my job so much.
I did get to feed people and send them off to bed.
I got to see the moment when they set aside whatever they'd been thinking about and unfold their napkin and let the steam of some tasty dish I'd made rise up and wrap around their face.
And I was about ready to see my friend's face like that.
We'd met years ago when I first started cooking at the inn on the lake in a little town a few hours south of here.
We'd wandered into her bookshop on a day off and spent so much time looking through the cookbook sections.
She'd encouraged me to take a stack over to the reading nook in the front window.
Her store had lots of new books, but what really caught my interest was a shelf of books she'd bought at garage sales or found at swap meets.
They were the kind that were compiled by the Rotary Club or the local chapter of the Moose Lodge, with a plastic cover and ring binding.
The recipes represented everyone's best potluck dishes, along with clever tips and sensible advice for housekeeping.
I love those old books.
Lots of the recipes, while often only comprising a half-dozen ingredients and very simple methods, were downright delicious.
I loved thinking about the time when they were compiled, what was happening in the world, and to read the handwritten notes in the margin that said things like good hot dish for sundae.
Used lima beans instead.
Worked fine.
Or Christmas party, 1971.
So I'd gone back to the shop often.
And she'd find new cookbooks for me whenever she could.
She'd stop by the inn sometimes when the breakfast rush was over and I'd bring up a couple plates of my signature cinnamon coffee cake, pour us cups of coffee from the urn on the back patio and we'd chat about books and food and this little village both of us loved.
Once I told her about one of the first chapter books I'd read as a child, a book I couldn't remember the name of but had been so beloved that I'd read it till the cover had come off.
I described a bit of the story two cousins, an evil governess and secret passages through the walls of a giant Gothic country house.
I'd forgotten about the conversation soon after, but that new year, while I was settling into the kitchens at the ski lodge, I'd gotten a package wrapped in brown paper with her shop as the return address.
She'd found the book, even the edition I'd read so many times when I was little.
The cover, the little line illustrations that I hadn't seen in so long were suddenly there, exactly as I remembered.
And they brought with them more memories of reading in the back seat on my way to Grandpa's house, of hiding the book inside my math text to read during class.
I was taking the last sip of my espresso and smiling at the memory when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.
She must have heard me thinking about her.
She'd sent a picture that showed the fireplace inside the chalet.
The restaurant where I was standing at that moment was just a small glinting dot in the distance.
She lives, I typed back.
She does, and she's had a lovely cup of tea, but now she's hungry.
I smiled.
I had the perfect meal in mind.
Come down to the hotel, I said.
I'll meet you at the restaurant, and we'll cook something up.
On my way, she sent back.
I thought of a humble meal that was so delicious.
So comforting.
The kind of home cooking that we never really make in restaurants.
In fact, it was a dish often made when someone was under the weather.
But I loved it any time it was cold outside.
Ten minutes later, we were giving each other a big hug at the entrance to the restaurant and I noticed that she looked well-rested.
Her eyes were bright, but her hands were cold from the funicular ride down the mountain.
I set her up in the warmth of the kitchen where we had a little table where staff took breaks or wrote out lists.
What are you making me? she asked, rubbing her hands together in excitement.
Pastina, I said.
It's a little pasta soup made with, but she cut me off.
Oh, my grandmother used to make it for me when I was sick.
That's the one, I said, though mine is a little fancied up.
We chatted while I chopped shallots and minced garlic.
The key to really nice pastina is to dice the vegetables really small and uniformly.
It makes the texture of the finished dish so smooth and consistent.
A good mouthfeel, we would say.
It takes some time, but after all, I am a chef.
I can chop like the best of them.
I added zucchini and carrots.
We had some purple, some a pale yellow and some a deep reddish-orange, so the mix in the pot was like a rainbow.
I added homemade broth and poured each of us a tall glass of mineral water while it came to a boil.
She told me about her cabin, her latest read, and the ride up the mountain.
I told her about the new dishes I was working on, a funny call I'd had with the innkeeper the day before and a trip I was planning for the time between the lodge and the inn in the spring.
I added the tiny pasta noodles to the pot.
Acini di pepe, which meant something like pepper seeds.
And they were indeed as small as seeds, but squared off like the diced vegetables in the pot.
Soon.
It was cooked down, the pasta absorbing the rich broth, and I ladled healthy bowlfuls up for both of us and added a good pinch of fresh parsley and a drizzle of my best olive oil on top.
The kitchen was quiet between meals.
Just a few prep cooks working at their stations.
And we clinked our glasses inside and dug in.
Sweet dreams.
Sweet dreams.
