Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in Which Nothing Much Happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Katherine Nicolae.
I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio Engineering is by Bob Widdersheim.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Union of Concerned Scientists.
They work using rigorous, independent science to solve our planet's most pressing concerns.
Learn more in our show notes.
Let me take you behind the scenes for a moment.
I'm here in my recording booth, and with me at all times is a weighted pillow that I keep on my lap as I read.
The effect of the deep pressure stimulation helps me stay in my body.
And I like it so much, I called up Quiet Mind, the maker, and said, hey, let's work together.
So now available is our very own Nothing Much Happens weighted pillow.
That's the perfect holiday gift for animation fans and folks who need extra help feeling calm and grounded.
The first 100 orders will also get two months free of our Premium Plus podcast membership.
Order now through the link in our bio.
Now a wandering mind will struggle to rest, but a focused mind, one with something to tether it in place, will give over to sleep.
This is why you fall asleep when you're trying to read.
Just by listening, you'll keep your mind in one place, and falling and returning to sleep will become more automatic.
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 feel your mind starting to rev back up, turn on an episode, you'll be out again in a flash.
Our story tonight is called Pie Making, and it's a story about an evening at the bakery with ready workstations and clean aprons.
It's also about an urn of hot cocoa on the counter, pastry cutters and crimped crusts, and the stages of learning that eventually allow us to play.
OK, lights out, devices down, it's time to commit yourself to deep rest.
Snuggle into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can.
There is nothing left for you to do, or even for you to think.
You can let go of all of it now.
Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth.
Again, draw deep in and release.
Good. Pie making. In baking, details matter.
It's not like cooking up a pot of soup, where you can add one clove of garlic or three, where what constitutes a large onion is debatable and won't matter much to the final product.
In baking, a teaspoon is a teaspoon.
Dry ingredients actually do need to be sifted, and the various grinds of flour make a difference in the final bake.
When I was learning my craft, apprenticed here at the bakery, I spent a long time learning those lessons.
I baked bread, made pies and cakes, folded doughs and piped batters.
I got many things wrong before getting them consistently right.
Eventually, after I took over and became the head baker myself, I found that I finally knew the rules well enough to break them.
I could improvise, in a sense, because I knew the underlying properties of all of my ingredients, and how they would react when combined.
I think it's a bit like learning your part in a play.
You must first learn it so well that you know your cues and lines forward and backward, that you know it in your sleep, that you know everyone else's part, along with your own.
So that when the curtain finally rises, you can actually forget a bit of it, and just react to your scene partners.
Just be in the moment.
That was me now. The curtain rising was the oven door opening in the early morning.
And my scene partners were the seasonal fruits, the spices, the sweeteners and leaveners that lined my workbench.
Today, though, I was welcoming a group of beginners into the kitchen, and needed to focus on the basics.
The details and techniques that could help them take a step forward in their baking, specifically in their pie baking.
It was a new venture we'd started this year, baking classes, usually themed around a season.
A certain holiday or a ripening ingredient.
We'd had a jam donut class when the strawberries came in in June.
And everything you can bake with zucchinis in it class toward the end of summer.
A spooky cookie decorating class where students practiced their flooding skills.
On tray fills of ghost shaped sugar cookies.
And now we were heading into the holidays with pie making 101.
We'd had such a good response.
So many spots booked that we decided to move class out of the kitchen and into the cafe space.
We lined up tables, turning their clean tops into workstations, and set out ingredients and rolling pins, kitchen scales at each one.
A few bakers would have to share, but I didn't think there would be any problem with that.
Every baker moves at their own pace after all.
So they'd likely all be rolling and measuring at different moments.
I took one more look around the space as I tied on a clean apron.
We wanted this class to be fun as well as informative.
So we'd brewed out pots of coffee and my special hot chocolate.
And we're playing some festive music to add to the mood.
The rooms smelled of the drinks in their urns and the scent of baked goods that is always present here, even when nothing has been baked in hours.
After decades of fresh bread and cookies spilling from our ovens, the sweet smells had permeated the very walls and floors.
I noticed a line of eager students queuing at the door and smiled to myself as I went to unlock it.
They reminded me of school kids who passed this way on their walk home and spotted the hot donut sign turned on in the window.
They often left nose prints on the glass, and I was grateful that these folks restrained themselves as they waited.
I pulled the door open, hearing the bell above it ring as I welcomed my bakers in.
Many had their own aprons on under their jackets or notebooks and pens ready for note taking.
Some were excitedly chatting.
Others looked a bit shy or nervous, but all were welcome, just the same.
I poured cups of coffee and cocoa, handing them out as they hung their coats and found their stations.
Clean bar towels sat ready on the workstations, and I noticed a few bakers tucking them into their apron strings, just like I had mine.
I wasn't nervous, really.
I knew the ins and outs of pastry crust and filling consistency like I knew my own name, but I was excited.
The room was buzzing with expectant energy.
As the bakers surveyed the ingredients laid out in front of them, the tools lined up on the tops and read the laminated recipe cards they'd be taking home.
I took a long sip of cocoa and cleared my throat, which settled the bakers instantly as they turned to look at me.
After making sure that everyone's hot beverage needs had been met, I posed a few questions about what sort of pie -related troubles they may have run into in the past.
When I mentioned tough pastry, unsaid fillings, and soggy bottoms, many raised their hands or nodded dolefully.
We talked through the importance of keeping pastry ingredients cold, and they began to make their first batch of pie crust, cutting the butter into the flour and adding the ice water, spoonful by spoonful.
I wandered through their stations, helping where I was needed.
One student had only ever rubbed butter in by hand, pinching the fat into the flour until it became crumbly like wet sand.
It was how her mother and her grandmother did it, she said.
I said that my own mother and grandmother had done the same thing, but when I brought my pies to Thanksgiving, they'd had to admit that my crust was flakier, less worked, so more tender.
She shook her head and gripped the pastry cutter, and I wondered if she'd be able to bring herself to break from tradition.
At the next table, crusts were being rolled out, and we talked about the value of rolling pins with adjustable settings for varied thickness of fancy cutters and the great food processor debate.
I told them my goal was to help them bake in a way that required nothing fancy, just the simple tools most kitchens would have.
Then, once they'd nailed that, they could start to play.
First, this, I said, pointing a flowery finger at the crust on their station.
Then that, I finished, pointing to the beautiful pies in our cases.
The ovens were heating up, and apples were being peeled everywhere I looked.
We talked about varieties and tartness, best cinnamons and latticemaking.
I circled closer to two friends who were writing notes with pencils well -coated with scraps of dough and whispering back and forth as they practiced crimping.
I leaned in over their shoulders and adjusted the fingers.
Big friends' giving plans, I asked, recognizing them for the legendary party they throw each year.
They chuckled, and one asked me what I thought about an apple peanut butter pie.
I tried to keep my expression neutral and replied that I really had never thought about it.
I did it at all, but would be very curious to see what they came up with.
Learn the rules, and then break them.
That was indeed my philosophy.
I laughed to myself and headed to help slide the first pies into the oven.
Pie -making In baking, details matter.
It's not like cooking up a pot of soup, where you can add one clove of garlic or three.
Where what constitutes a large onion is debatable.
And won't matter much to the final product.
In baking, a teaspoon is a teaspoon.
Dry ingredients actually do need to be sifted.
And the various grinds of flour make a difference in the final bake.
When I was learning my craft, apprenticed here at the bakery, I spent a long time learning those lessons.
I baked bread, made pies and cakes, folded doughs and piped batters.
I got many things wrong before getting them consistently right.
Eventually, after I took over and became the head baker myself, I found that I finally knew the rules well enough to break them.
I could improvise in a sense, because I knew the underlying properties of all my ingredients and how they would react when combined.
I think it's a bit like learning your part in a play.
You must first learn it so well that you know your cues and lines forward and backward.
That you know it in your sleep.
That you know everyone else's part along with your own.
So that when the curtain finally rises, you can actually forget a bit of it and just react to your scene partners.
Just be in the moment.
That was me now. The curtain rising was the oven door opening in the early morning.
And my scene partners were the seasonal fruits, the spices, the sweeteners and leaveners that lined my bench.
Today, though, I was welcoming a group of beginners into the kitchen and needed to focus on the basics, the details and techniques that could help them take a step forward in their baking.
Specifically, in their pie baking.
It was a new venture we'd started this year.
Baking classes, usually themed around the season.
A certain holiday or a ripening ingredient.
We'd had a jam donut class.
When the strawberries came in in June.
And everything you can bake with zucchinis in it class toward the end of summer.
A spooky cookie decorating class where students practice their flooding skills on trayfuls of ghost shaped sugar cookies.
And now we were heading into the holidays with pie making 101.
We'd had such a good response.
So many spots booked that we decided to move class out of the kitchen.
And into the cafe space.
We lined up tables, turning their clean tops into workstations.
And set out ingredients and rolling pins, kitchen scales at each one.
A few bakers would have to share, but I didn't think there would be any problem with that.
Every baker moves at their own pace after all.
So they'd likely I'll be rolling and measuring at different moments.
And I took one more look around the space as I tied on a clean apron.
We wanted this class to be fun, as well as informative.
So we'd brewed up pots of coffee and my special hot chocolate.
And we're playing some festive music to add to the mood.
The rooms smelled of the drinks and their urns on the fresh scent of baked goods that is always present here, even when nothing has been baked for hours.
After decades of fresh bread, cookies spilling from our ovens, the sweet smells had permeated the very walls and floors.
I noticed a line of eager students queuing at the door and smiled to myself as I went to unlock it.
And they reminded me of school kids who passed this way on their walk home and spotted the hot doughnut sign turned on in the window.
They often left nose prints on the glass.
And I was grateful that these folks restrained themselves as they waited.
I pulled the door open, hearing the bell above it ring as I welcomed my bakers in.
Many had their own aprons on under their jackets or notebooks and pens ready for note -taking.
Some were excitedly chatting, others looked a bit shy or nervous, but all were welcome, just the same.
I poured cups of cocoa and coffee, handing them out as they hung their coats and found their stations.
Clean bar towels sat ready on their tables.
And I noticed a few bakers tucking them into their apron strings, just like I had mine.
I wasn't nervous, really.
I knew the ins and outs of pastry crust and filling consistency like I knew my own name.
But I was excited. The room was buzzing with expectant energy as the bakers surveyed the ingredients laid out in front of them.
The tools lined up on the table tops and read the laminated recipe cards they'd be taking home.
I took a long sip of cocoa and cleared my throat, which settled the bakers instantly as they turned to look at me.
After making sure that everyone's hot beverage needs had been met, I posed a few questions about what sort of pie -related troubles they may have run into in the past.
When I mentioned tough pastry, unsaid fillings, and soggy bottoms, many raised their hands or knotted dolefully.
We talked through the importance of keeping pastry ingredients cold, and they began to make their first batch of pie crust.
Cutting the butter into the flour and adding the ice water, spoonful by spoonful.
I wandered through their stations, helping where I was needed.
One student had only ever rubbed butter in by hand, pinching the fat into the flour until it became crumbly, like wet sand.
It was how her mother and grandmother did it, she said.
I said that my own mother and grandmother had done the same thing.
But when I brought my pies to Thanksgiving, they'd had to admit that my crust was flakier, less worked, so more tender.
She shook her head and gripped the pastry cutter.
And I wondered if she'd be able to bring herself to break from tradition.
At the next table, crusts were being rolled out, and we talked about the value of rolling pins with adjustable settings for varied thickness, of fancy cutters, and the great food processor debate.
I told them my goal was to help them bake in a way that required nothing fancy, just the simple tools most kitchens would have.
Then, once they'd nailed that, they could start to play.
First this, I said, pointing a flowery finger at the crust on the station.
Then that, I finished, pointing to the beautiful pies.
In our cases, the ovens were heating up and apples were being peeled everywhere I looked.
We talked about varieties and tartness, best cinnamons, and latticemaking.
I circled closer to two friends who were writing notes with pencils well -coated in scraps of dough and whispering back and forth as they practiced crimping.
I leaned in over their shoulders and adjusted their fingers.
Big friends giving plans, I asked, recognizing them for the legendary party they throw each year.
They chuckled. And one asked me what I thought about an apple peanut butter pie.
I tried to keep my expression neutral and replied that I really had never thought about it at all but would be very curious to see what they came up with.
Learn the rules and then break them was indeed my philosophy.
I laughed to myself and headed to help slide the first pies into the oven.
Sweet dreams.
