Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nicolae.
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 -rasped and sweet dreams.
Come rest your mind on my story.
Let it catch just enough of your attention to keep the part of your brain that would otherwise chatter away at you busy.
And you will fall asleep.
As always, I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
Our story tonight is called Mornings at the Coffee Shop.
And it's a story about a cold day made warmer by a fresh cup of coffee made with care.
It's also about twinkle lights reflecting on a shop window, a well -stocked pastry case, hospitality, and the connections that grow in a community.
Now, turn out your light, set everything down, and snuggle deep into your sheets.
Make yourself as comfortable as you can.
You are exactly where you're supposed to be right now.
Take a deep breath in through your nose, and sigh through your mouth.
One more time, breathe in, and out.
Good. Mornings at the Coffee Shop.
All was dark downtown as I pulled into the alley behind the coffee shop.
Well, the Christmas lights still twinkled on the storefronts.
And there was a light on at the bakery.
But other than that, all was dark and cold.
Gosh, it was a cold morning.
We were in that part of winter when the temperature doesn't make it above freezing for weeks at a time.
And most folks don't leave their house without a good reason.
But coffee is a very good reason.
I hurried to the back door of the cafe and fumbled with my keys in my mitten hand.
I did not want to take those mittens off.
But getting the key in the lock took an unearthly degree of focus in the bitter cold.
I took a steadying breath and lined it up and twisted till the lock gave and the door opened.
I stepped through into the warm shop and locked the door again behind me.
I stood still for a moment and let the chill shake out of me.
We still had a tree up and decorated in our front window.
And in the darkness, it reflected prettily through the space.
Colored lights bounced off the white marble tables.
And I hummed a Christmas song that was still stuck in my head while I unwound my scarf.
I hung my coat and wrappings on the rack in the back room and took a clean apron from the shelf.
I wrapped it around myself, tying the strings in front and tucking a fresh towel through them.
I folded back the cuffs of my shirt and rolled them a time or two and began to feel a bit more awake, a bit more human, and a bit more hospitable.
I'd heard a news story once about a town somewhere, a little village on another continent, where they were known for something called radical hospitality.
Guests, tourists, travelers were welcomed with such earnest warmth that their time there felt like a dream.
And for the people of the village, it was a point of pride.
None of it was put on.
It wasn't a show. It was a core part of their culture.
I'd pulled my car over to listen to the story.
I'd been so gripped by it.
I felt like it was expressing something I'd always felt but hadn't had the words for.
To make someone feel so welcome and cared for when they came into your house or shop or restaurant.
Well, it felt very important to me too.
And that's why I didn't mind opening my coffee shop on a freezing, dark morning.
I'd get to welcome people, to warm their bellies and spirits with our offerings.
And that was always a pleasure and a duty I took seriously.
But first, as the philosophers say, coffee.
After all, you cannot pour from an empty cup.
So I flicked on the lights over the espresso machine.
And set about filling mine.
The sound of grinding beans filled the empty cafe.
And as I tamped the grounds and screwed the portafilter into the brewing head, I could smell the rich, roasted scent.
There was a hint of chocolate and a nuttiness like hazelnuts in the aroma.
And as that first cup brewed with a thick, pale crema on top, my mouth watered in anticipation.
Before the morning was out, I would have several cups.
Probably one as a latte, one macchiato, and an Americano near the end of my shift.
But this first one was just a plain shot that I sipped as soon as it was ready.
I felt it lighting me up with warmth and energy.
After the last sip, I slipped the cup into the washer and reset the machine for our first customer.
I looked at the clock and realized that first customer would probably be here in just a few minutes.
Luckily, closing staff did an excellent job of setting us up to open.
It was part of our hospitality.
It wasn't just for guests, but also for each other.
When you came in, you'd find the person before you had left your station neat and prepped.
The towels were clean and waiting in the dryer.
The hopper was full of beans and the cups were stocked.
So all that was left for me was to turn on the lights, add some music, and unlock the door.
We sold bagels and muffins, cornetti, plain or filled with pistachio cream from the bakery.
I used to have to bundle up and walk down there on these cold mornings, but they delivered now, and usually showed up a half hour or so after we opened.
In fact, I could see their delivery guy just now, bundled up and heading to the diner with a loaded tray in his hands.
We were a little web of connections in this town.
The bakery kept us all in fresh bread and treats.
The diner fed us waffles and sandwiches.
My coffee shop kept us all awake.
The bookshop, the record store, the place that repaired bikes, and the flower shop...we all kept each other going.
And speaking of, as I went to unlock the door, I found the man that owned the bike repair shop waiting on the doorstep.
He looked frozen, and as I pushed the door open for him, he hurried in.
Don't tell me you rode to town today, I said, certain that I already knew the answer.
He looked a bit stunned by the cold and just nodded as he tucked his hands under his arms.
I pointed to the seat closest to the radiators, told him to sit down and thaw out.
Luckily, I knew his order.
It was another point of pride for me.
I went right along with the hospitality.
If I made your coffee three times, well, I won't forget how you like it.
His was a large Americano, with an inch of steamed oat milk on top.
And on Saturdays, he got a bit of cinnamon syrup added in.
Well, it was Saturday, and I figured he'd need the extra boost either way.
As I began to make his drink, another barista came in through the back door and tied on her apron.
Customers began to shuffle in as well, and the rhythm of mourning at the coffee shop took over.
People gathered in clumps at tables and along the bar in the front window.
The bakery order came, and we stocked the pastry case by the register.
My frozen friend drained his Americano and waved a thank you before heading back into the cold.
The big table against the back was filled up with the neighborhood grandpas, with their newspapers and corny jokes.
When I leaned in with a fresh carafe to fill their cups, one of them whispered to me, Do you ever wonder why you don't see hippos hiding in the trees?
I sighed and waited.
That's because they're really good at it.
Oh boy, I chuckled and went back to work.
Yes, one way or another, we all kept each other going through the winter.
Mornings at the coffee shop All was dark downtown as I pulled into the alley behind the coffee shop.
Well, the Christmas lights still twinkled on the storefronts, and there was a light on at the bakery.
But other than that, all was dark and cold.
Gosh, it was a cold morning.
We were in that part of the winter when the temperature doesn't make it above freezing for weeks at a time.
And most folks don't leave their house without a good reason.
But coffee? Coffee is a very good reason.
I hurried to the back door of the cafe and fumbled with my keys in my mitten hand.
I did not want to take those mittens off, but getting the key in the lock took an unearthly degree of focus in the bitter cold.
I took a steadying breath and lined it up and twisted till the lock gave and the door opened.
I stepped through into the warm shop and locked the door again behind me.
I stood for a moment and let the chill shake out of me.
We still had a tree up and decorated in our front window.
And in the darkness, it reflected prettily through the space.
The colored lights bounced off the white marble tables, and I hummed a Christmas song that was still stuck in my head while I unwound my scarf.
I hung my coat and wrappings on the rack in the back room and took a clean apron from the shelf.
I wrapped it around myself, tying the strings in front and tucking a fresh towel through them.
I folded back the cuffs of my shirt and rolled them a time or two, and began to feel a bit more awake, a bit more human, and a bit more hospitable.
I'd heard a news story once about a town somewhere, a little village on another continent.
They were known for something they called radical hospitality.
Guests, tourists, travelers, were welcomed with such earnest warmth that their time there felt like a dream.
And for people of the village, it was a point of pride.
None of it was put on.
It wasn't to show. It was a core part of their culture.
I'd pulled my car over to listen to the story.
I'd been so gripped by it, and felt like it was expressing something I'd always felt, but hadn't had the words for.
To make someone feel welcome and cared for when they come into your house or shop or restaurant.
Well, that felt very important to me too.
And that's why I didn't mind opening my coffee shop on a phrasing, dark warning.
I'd get to welcome people, to warm their bellies and spirits with our offerings.
And that was always a pleasure, and a duty I took seriously.
But first, as the philosophers say, coffee.
After all, you cannot pour from an empty cup.
So I flicked on the lights over the espresso machine and set about filling mine.
The sound of grinding beans filled the empty café.
And as I tamped the grounds and screwed the portafilter into the brewing head, I could smell the rich, roasted scent.
There was a hint of chocolate and a nuttiness like hazelnuts in the aroma.
And as that first cup brewed with a thick, pale crema on top, my mouth watered in anticipation.
Before the morning was out, I would have several cups, probably one latte, one macchiato, and an Americano near the end of my shift.
But this first one was just a plain shot that I sipped as soon as it was ready.
I felt it lighting me up with warmth and energy.
After that last sip, I slid the cup into the washer and reset the machine for our next customer.
I looked at the clock and realized that that first customer would probably be here in just a few minutes.
Luckily, closing staff did an excellent job of setting us up to open.
It was part of our hospitality.
It wasn't just for guests, but also for each other.
When you came in, you'd find that the person before you had left your station neat and prepped.
The towels were clean and waiting in the dryer.
The hopper was full of beans and the cups were stocked.
So all that was left for me was to turn on all the lights, add some music, and unlock the door.
We sold bagels and muffins, corneti, plain or filled with pistachio cream from the bakery.
I used to have to bundle up and walk down there on these cold mornings, but they deliver now and usually show up a half hour or so after we open.
In fact, I could see their delivery guy just now bundled up and headed to the diner with a loaded tray in his hands.
We were a little web of connections in this town.
The bakery kept us all in fresh bread and treats.
The diner fed us waffles and sandwiches.
My coffee shop kept us all awake.
The bookshop, the record store, the place that repaired bikes, the flower shop.
We all kept each other going.
And speaking of, as I went to unlock the door, I found the man that owned the bike repair shop waiting on the doorstep.
He looked frozen, and as I pushed the door open for him, he hurried in.
Don't tell me you rode to town today, I said, certain I already knew the answer.
He looked a bit stunned by the cold and just nodded as he tucked his hands under his arms.
I pointed to the seat closest to the radiators and told him to sit down and thaw out.
Luckily, I knew his order.
It was another point of pride for me.
It went right along with the hospitality.
If I've made your coffee three times, well, I won't forget how you like it.
His was a large Americano with an inch of steamed oat milk on top.
And on Saturdays, he got a bit of cinnamon syrup added in.
Well, it was Saturday.
And I figured he'd need the extra boost either way.
As I began to make his drink, another barista came in through the back door and tied on her apron.
Customers began to shuffle in as well, and the rhythm of a morning at the coffee shop took over.
People gathered in clumps at tables and along the bar in the front window.
The bakery order came, and we stocked the pastry case by the register.
My frozen friend drained his Americano and waved a thank you before heading back into the cold.
The big table against the back was filled up with the neighborhood grandpas with their newspapers and corny jokes.
When I leaned in with a fresh carafe to fill their cups, one of them whispered to me, Do you ever wonder why you don't see hippos hiding in the trees?
I sighed and waited.
It's because they're really good at it.
Oh boy, I chuckled and went back to work.
Yes, one way or another, we all kept each other going through the winter.
Sweet dreams.
