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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 Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Proper Help Foundation.
Their purpose is to pay off student loan debt and help families receive the proper help they deserve.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
We've got new merch, hoodies, mugs, art prints of the village seal and the village map.
You can start your very own map room, just like at the village museum.
All of that, plus links to our ad-free and bonus feed.
And more at NothingMuchHappens.com.
You can regulate your system by hearing about others doing the same.
You can settle your mind, build more calm, more mindfulness and, of course, a more reliable sleep response by hearing stories about those demonstrating the same.
It's called reparative witnessing, and it's part of trauma theory.
And the good news is you don't need to understand any of that for this to work.
Just listen.
Follow the sound of my voice.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you play again.
Our story tonight is called Return to the Chalet, Part 3.
And it is, for now, the last in this series.
It's a story about a trek through the snow to the home of a friend.
It's also about French toast and roasted potatoes.
A snoring dog beside the fire, bird feeders and twinkle lights, lighted windows seen from afar and someplace safe to wait out the storm.
January used to feel like a month for total reinvention.
Now, for me, it's more about taking an honest look at what's actually working and just committing to that.
And when it comes to my skin, that has meant using one skin.
I've been really impressed with how consistent and thoughtful their products feel, so much so that I sent this collection to my mom too.
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And quick aside, I also picked up their new lip mask, paid with my own money, and I love it.
It's become one of those things I reach for without thinking.
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That's up to 15% off with code NOTHINGMUCH.
After you purchase, they'll ask where you heard about them.
Please support our show and tell them that we sent you.
So snuggle down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can.
Your work is done for the day.
Truly.
Nothing more is needed from you.
It's okay to unplug and let go.
Relax your shoulders.
Soften your tongue and your mouth.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
And sigh from your mouth.
Nice.
One more time.
In.
And out.
Good.
When we stepped out of the cabin today, the bright blue skies we'd been used to over the past few days had dimmed to a muffled pale gray.
Looking up at them, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd checked the weather forecast, which was something I did at home nearly every day.
I supposed it just didn't matter that much here.
It would snow, or it wouldn't, and either way, we would continue with our small, daily adventures.
My dog Alphabet, and I were holed up for another day or two in a small cabin tucked into the base of a mountain at a beautiful ski resort a few hours north of our regular lives.
We were here to recoup, to rest and lounge and enjoy time off after another busy holiday season at the bookshop.
Most days we went for a long walk on the cleared paths of the resort, took naps in the big bed by the fire and caught up on our to-be-read list.
Well, that was really more my thing than Alfie's.
But I did occasionally read a passage or two aloud to him and ask him if he thought my predictions on plot turns sounded likely.
I'd spent a day at the Hotel Despa, treated my tired body to a massage and time in the sauna.
I'd also ridden the funicular all the way up as far as the tracks went to the chalet on the highest point on the mountain.
The restaurant there has a menu full of cold-weather dishes, soups and stews, bean-filled cassoulettes to warm you up.
And the view from up there, it's astonishing.
Hard to describe, really.
But a bit like a sketch in a fairy tale about a castle in the clouds.
After an afternoon up there looking down the mountain from a table by the windows and filling up on an herby vegetable stew with baked dumplings on top and a warm apple cobbler for dessert.
I'd needed a long, serious nap.
There was a line I'd read in a book this year. to look on rest not as reward, but as raw material.
And this time away was carving that idea deeper into my mindset.
Each meal, slow walk, page turned by the fire, was fodder for the year ahead, for creativity and calm and better days.
And today, our relaxed adventure would be one of the best of the whole trip.
In the little village we came from, where my bookshop was a staple of Main Street, there was an old, restored inn on a lake.
It was a beautiful place three or four stories, a giant winding staircase connecting them, porches and turrets and, from what I've pieced together over the years, possibly a hidden passage and a secret room.
And all of it situated on the shores of a picturesque Blue Lake.
And the chef at that inn, an old and good friend of mine, spends their winters here cooking at the large restaurant in the hotel at the foot of the mountain.
While I'd been reading and napping and sweating in the sauna, they'd been busy in their kitchen but had sent me treats and odds and ends when they could.
Black and white cookies.
A basket of fresh English muffins.
A thermos of miso soup.
A loaf of bread coated in sesame seeds.
And one night a plate of mashed potatoes with shallot gravy, perfect bright green beans with almonds and a slice of chef's homemade mushroom loaf with a tangy glaze that they'd had delivered all the way up to my cabin in the special box to keep it hot.
Today, they had the day off.
And we'd started with a plan to just have coffee together.
Maybe up at the chalet.
But as we kept going back and forth with ideas, we realized that neither of us really wanted to be out among the skiers and guests.
I'd suggested they come to me.
But after a pause in which I imagined Chef shaking their head at their phone, they'd simply pointed out that my cabin didn't have a real kitchen.
I chuckled at that.
Here I'd been thinking they might want a day off from cooking, thinking about food.
But who was I kidding?
That would be like me wanting a day off from books.
For both of us, these things were more than professions.
They were passions.
So coffee and light breakfast at their cabin it was.
I asked what I could bring.
And with no hesitation, they'd simply replied, Alphabet.
And now Elfie and I were in our coats, under that low gray sky, on our way to spend the morning with Chef and no doubt be fed something delicious, and then followed a shoveled path into a stretch of woods.
Snow was beginning to fall in thick, heavy flakes.
These were staff accommodations and I was glad to see that they were beautifully kept, if a bit more lived in.
One cabin had Christmas lights lining each window.
Another had bird feeders filled to the brim with oily black seeds.
In front of another, a pair of snowmobiles sat, and I guessed they must work on ski patrol.
Chef's cabin had a simple pine wreath on the door and a cheerful glow in the windows.
Before we even made it to the door, Elf must have smelled a familiar scent and began tugging at the leash and barking.
So much for sneaking up on them, I chuckled.
The door swung open, and there was Chef.
Their bright eyes, an open, honest smile.
I let the leash drop, and Elphabet rushed to them, jumping with snowy paws on their apron.
Elf's mood was contagious.
We laughed as he zoomed around the cabin until my cheeks ached.
How good it is to see a face you know and love when you are away from home, even when you are glad to be away.
It tethers you back to the familiar, and makes the new feel exciting rather than overwhelming.
Chef's cabin was cozy, with a crackling fire going in the grate and simmering pots on the stove.
I could smell something cinnamony and sweet baking and crossed my fingers that it was coffee cake.
I hung our coats on hooks by the door and stepped out of my boots.
Glad I'd worn the thick socks without holes in them today.
We settled on the sofa in front of the fire, fresh cups of coffee in our hands as we caught up.
We hadn't seen each other since the end of October, but we had that lovely ability to pick right back up wherever we'd left off, no matter how much time had passed.
Alphabet had clearly worn himself out on the way over, and soon began to snore on the rug.
Eventually, Chef got up to plate our brunch, and I set the small table by the kitchen window.
I looked out, noticing how thick and fast the snow was falling.
And when I mentioned it to Chef, they joined me with a platter of French toast triangles in one hand and a bowl of roasted potatoes in the other.
We stood there looking into the whirling white together, barely able to make out the other cabins or trees on the landscape, and I wondered which of us would say it first.
I think, Chef murmured, and I smiled and added, we might be snowed in.
Return to the Chalet, Part 3.
When we stepped out of the cabin today, the bright blue skies we'd been used to over the past few days had dimmed to a muffled pale gray.
Looking up at them, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd checked the weather forecast.
Something I did at home nearly every day.
I supposed it just didn't matter that much here.
It would snow, or it wouldn't.
And either way, we would continue with our small, daily adventures.
My dog Alphabet, and I were holed up for another day or two in a small cabin tucked into the base of a mountain at a beautiful ski resort a few hours north of our regular lives.
We were here to recoup, to rest and lounge and enjoy time off after another busy holiday season at the bookshop.
Most days, we went for a long walk on the cleared paths of the resort.
Took naps in the big bed by the fire and caught up on our to-be-read list.
Well, that was really more my thing than Elfie's.
But I did occasionally read a passage or two aloud to him and ask if he thought my predictions on plot turns sounded likely.
I'd spent a day at the hotel day spa, treated my tired body to a massage and time in the sauna.
I'd also ridden the funicular all the way up as far as the tracks went to the chalet on the highest point of the mountain.
The restaurant there has a menu full of cold weather dishes, soups and stews and bean-filled cassoulet to warm you up.
The view from up there is astonishing.
Hard to describe, really.
But a bit like a sketch in a fairy tale about a castle in the clouds.
After an afternoon up there looking down the mountain from a table by the windows and filling up on an herby vegetable stew with baked dumplings on top and a warm apple cobbler for dessert.
I'd needed a long, serious nap.
It was a line I'd read in a book this year.
To look on rest not as reward, but as raw material.
And this time away was carving that idea deeper into my mindset.
Each meal, slow walk, page turned by the fire, was fodder for the year ahead, for creativity and calm and better days.
And today our relaxed adventure would be one of the best of the whole trip in the little village we came from, where my bookshop was a staple of Main Street.
There was an old restored inn on a lake.
It was a beautiful place.
Three or four stories.
A giant, winding staircase connecting them.
Porches and turrets.
And from what I've pieced together over the years, possibly a hidden passage and a secret room, and all of it situated on the shores of a picturesque blue lake.
And the chef at that inn, an old and good friend of mine, spends their winters here cooking at the large restaurant in the hotel at the foot of the mountain.
While I'd been reading and napping and sweating in the sauna, they'd been busy in their kitchen but had sent me treats and odds and ends when they could.
Black and white cookies, a basket of fresh English muffins, a thermos of miso soup, a loaf of bread coated in sesame seeds and, one night, a plate of mashed potatoes with shallot gravy, perfect bright green beans with almonds and a slice of chef's homemade mushroom loaf with a tangy glaze that they'd had delivered all the way up to my cabin in a special box to keep it hot.
Today, they had the day off.
And we'd started with the plan to just have coffee together. maybe up at the chalet.
But as we kept going back and forth with ideas, we realized that neither of us really wanted to be out among the skiers and guests.
I'd suggested they come to me.
But after a pause in which I imagined Chef shaking their head at their phone, they'd simply pointed out that my cabin didn't have a real kitchen.
I chuckled at that.
Here I'd been thinking they might want a day off from cooking and thinking about food.
But who was I kidding?
That would be like me wanting a day off from books.
For both of us, these things were more than professions.
They were passions.
So coffee and late breakfast at their cabin it was.
I asked what I could bring, and with no hesitation, they'd simply replied, Alphabet.
And now Elfie and I were in our coats under that low gray sky on our way to spend the morning with Chef and no doubt be fed something delicious up one stop and then followed a shoveled path into a stretch of woods.
Snow was beginning to fall in thick, heavy flakes.
These were staff accommodations and I was glad to see that they were beautifully kept, if a bit more lived in.
One cabin had Christmas lights lining each window.
Another had bird feeders filled to the brim with oily black seeds.
In front of another, a pair of snowmobiles sat, and I guessed they must work on ski patrol.
Chef's cabin had a simple pine wreath on the door and a cheerful glow in the windows.
Before we even made it to the door, Alf must have smelled a familiar scent and began tugging at the leash and barking.
So much for sneaking up on them, I chuckled.
The door swung open.
And there was Chef, their bright eyes, an open, honest smile.
I let the leash drop.
An alphabet rushed to them, jumping with snowy paws onto their apron.
Alf's mood was contagious.
We laughed as he zoomed around the cabin until my cheeks ached.
How good it is to see a face you know and love when you are away from home.
Even when you, It tethers you back to the familiar and makes the new feel exciting rather than overwhelming.
Chef's cabin was cozy with a crackling fire going in the grate and simmering pots on the stove.
I could smell something cinnamony and sweet baking and crossed my fingers that it was coffee cake.
I hung our coats on hooks by the door and stepped out of my boots.
Glad I'd worn the thick socks without holes in them today.
We settled on the sofa in front of the fire, fresh cups of coffee in our hands.
As we caught up, we hadn't seen each other since the end of October.
But we had that lovely ability to pick right back up wherever we'd left off, no matter how much time had passed.
Alphabet had clearly worn himself out on the way over and soon began to snore on the rug.
Eventually, Chef got up to plate our brunch and I set the small table by the kitchen window.
I looked out, noticing how thick and fast the snow was falling.
And when I mentioned it to Chef, they joined me with a platter of French toast triangles in one hand and a bowl of roasted potatoes in the other.
We stood there looking into the whirling white together, barely able to make out the other cabins or trees on the landscape.
And I wondered which of us would say it first.
I think Chef murmured, and I smiled and added, we might be snowed in.
Sweet dreams.
Sweet dreams.
