The Corner Store (Encore)

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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 Nikolai.

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, let me say a little about how this podcast works.

I'm going to read you a simple, soothing story.

It's mostly about mood and feeling.

So you don't have to keep track of anything as you listen.

Just let your mind follow along with the sound of my voice.

This will keep it from wandering, and before you know, you'll be dropping off to sleep.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll slow down a bit with the second telling.

If you wake wake again later in the night, you could just start the story over

or think back to any part of the story you can remember, especially any part that felt particularly cozy or relaxing.

The more you use this technique, the more your sleep will improve.

Our story tonight is called The Corner Store.

And it's a story about the aisles of a neighborhood grocery,

where there are always interesting things to discover.

It's also about a display of school supplies, a recipe from a neighbor,

and the feeling of belonging in a particular place.

Now,

turn out your light.

Slip down into your sheets

and feel how cool and soft they are around you.

Get your pillow in just the right spot

and let your whole body relax.

Maybe you've been

kind of on

all day and maybe you needed to be.

Okay,

but now you don't.

Now I'm taking the next watch.

I'll be here

keeping watch with my voice.

Let's take a deep breath in through the nose

and out through the mouth

just as deep in

and all the way out.

Good.

The corner store.

There was a big supermarket near the interstate,

outside of town,

and it was a good one.

I could find nearly anything I was looking for there.

And probably once a month, I went and stocked up on all my staples.

My pantry was full of the cartons of broth and tiny cans of tomato paste that I bought there.

Because of that nice big store, I always had packets of yeast for baking,

sleeves of saltines for my soup,

and rolls of parchment paper to line my cookie cookie sheets.

And

I was glad for it all.

But

my true love

was my corner store.

One block up and one over from my house.

It had been there for ages.

In fact, my dad had stocked shelves there while he was in high school.

I'd bought candy necklaces and puzzle books there when I was a child.

And now,

at least twice a week, I stopped in to see what they had.

The corner store was always a bit of a surprise.

It was a family business.

And there were usually a few generations present on any given Tuesday.

Unlike the big supermarket, whose seasonal inventory rotated on a tight schedule,

it seemed they had their own system for deciding what to order and when.

And it was a bit capricious, and while never completely reliable,

was always interesting.

Last winter, after days of snow and gray skies,

I'd tromped in to find a big display of pineapples, mangoes, and flip-flops.

And while I'd passed on the flip-flops,

the fruit was brilliant.

The whole thing had brightened my day.

They had a corner for toys and magazines,

a shelf of light bulbs, and spare fuses,

a well-stocked section of spices and teas,

and plenty of hidden treasures.

If you took the time to really scour the shelves.

Today I strolled in after work,

hoping to find something to fix for dinner.

I was never so foolish as to come with a list in hand

of recipes requirements written out.

You had to back into an idea

based on what you found, not the other way around.

But to be honest, that was the kind of cook I was, anyway.

I barely ever planned ahead.

I liked to just improvise.

The sliding door was open to the late summer air as I walked up to the shop.

Their front windows were decorated for the back to school season, with stacks of books lining the bottom edge.

There was an old desk,

the kind with the seat attached,

and a small groove dug into the top of the wooden surface to hold your pencil, centered in one window,

with a display of spiral notebooks and juice boxes and kid-friendly snacks.

Just inside the door, I bent down for a basket and started down a long aisle toward the back.

I usually browsed the fruits and vegetables first.

If they could could get things from local farms, they did.

And I found a big bin of sweet corn that still had some decent ears in it.

The peak of tomato season had passed,

but now they had a couple boxes of the big,

slightly bruised ones that had ripened last

and would be best for canning.

The first squashes were out,

butternut and acorn,

spaghetti and delicata.

And beside them was a row of large green cabbages.

Oh, such a versatile vegetable.

I loved a cabbage.

I could chop it for slaw,

make a gallon of soup,

and still have some to roast to a golden brown in the oven.

I hefted one into my basket.

Beside the produce, was a small section of bread and baked goods,

most of which came from from the bakery downtown.

By the early evening, there were only a few things left,

but I got lucky

and found a soft, herby fugas.

It was a bit like focaccia,

but baked on a hot stone

rather than in an oiled pan, so it was crispy on the outside and chewy and soft inside.

It would go perfectly with a chopped green goddess cabbage salad

when I added it to the cart.

One of my favorite sections was the beverage section.

Someone in this family business loved interesting sodas and fizzy waters.

And so did I.

Now I've always been a fan of a good ginger ale or root beer.

But what a treat it was to bring home a bottle of something I'd never tried before.

There was a passion fruit drink from New Zealand,

another with lychee and raspberry from Pakistan,

and one flavored with guarana fruit from Brazil.

I turned each bottle over in my hands,

reading what I could of the labels and sounding out their names.

Finally, I decided to go with the lychee and raspberry soda,

wedging it in beside the cabbage.

In the next aisle, I saw my neighbor with a couple packets of ramen noodles in his hand

as he read through the flavors.

I sidled up beside him and asked, What's for dinner?

He smiled as he recognized me and gestured at the dozens of options on the shelf.

My world is an oyster, he laughed.

We caught up a bit over the noodles.

He'd opened a bicycle shop in downtown a few months ago,

and business was going well.

I joined in on a few of the group rides the shop sponsored over the summer

and had my three speed in for a tune-up a while back.

He told me how he liked to doctor up his ramen

with a homemade peanut sauce

and fresh sliced scallions.

And soon I found myself reaching for a few packets of the ginger garlic variety.

I promised to see him at the next bike ride

and headed up to the register.

Now, if you think you are done with your shopping, the register might change your mind.

There are all sorts of treasures laid out on that long scrubbed bench.

Yes, cookies and candy and other treats you might expect,

but also court boxes of

the first honey crisp apples of the season.

A pyramid of tiny pumpkins,

a box of polished rocks with a handwritten sign saying that they'd come from the creek that ran behind the farmer's market.

There were jars of the pickled watermelon rind they made up at the inn,

a floppy, self-published book of local ghost stories,

and small glass jars of maple syrup from the trees down the road

as I unloaded the basket adding in the book of ghost stories and a little bouquet of cone flowers

I chatted with the woman ringing up my groceries

Ooh, you got the lychee soda, she said as she carefully settled it into my bag.

Are you the one who keeps stocking all the special drinks?

I asked, feeling like I'd finally cracked the code.

Guilty, she laughed, handing me my change.

I can't wait to see what you'll find next, I said

as I took my bags and headed home to make dinner.

The Corner Store

There was a big supermarket

near the interstate outside of town

and

it was a good one.

I could find nearly anything I was looking for there

and probably

once a month

I went and stocked up on all my staples.

My pantry was full of the cartons of broth

and tiny cans of tomato paste that I bought there.

Because of that nice big store,

I always had packets of yeast for baking,

sleeves of saltines for my soup,

and rolls of parchment paper to line my cookie sheets.

And I was glad for all of it.

But my true love

was my corner store,

one block up

and one over from my house.

It had been there

for ages.

In fact,

my dad had stocked shelves there while he was in high school.

I'd bought candy necklaces

and puzzle books there when I was a child.

And now,

at least twice a week,

I stopped in to see what they had.

The corner store was always a bit of a surprise.

It was a family business

and there were usually a few generations present

on any given Tuesday.

Unlike the big supermarket, whose seasonal inventory rotated on a tight schedule.

It seemed they had

their own system

for deciding what to order and when.

And

it was a bit capricious,

and while never completely reliable,

was always interesting.

Last winter, after days of snow

and gray skies,

I'd tromped in to find a big display

of pineapples, mangoes,

and flip-flops.

And while I'd passed on the flip-flops,

the fruit was brilliant.

The whole thing had brightened my day.

They had a corner for toys

and magazines,

a shelf of light bulbs and spare fuses,

a well-stocked section of spices and teas,

and plenty of hidden treasures

if you took the time to really scour the shelves.

Today I strolled in after work

hoping to find something to fix for dinner.

I was never so foolish as to come in with a list in hand,

a recipe's requirements written out.

You had to back into an idea

based on what you found,

not

the other way around.

But to be honest,

that was the kind of cook I was anyway.

I barely ever planned ahead.

I liked to just improvise.

The sliding door was open to the late summer air

as I walked up to the shop.

Their front windows were decorated for back to school season

with stacks of books lining the bottom edge.

There was an old desk,

the kind with the seat attached,

and a small groove dug into the top of the writing surface to hold your pencil,

centered in one window

with a display of spiral notebooks and juice boxes

and kid-friendly snacks.

Just inside the door,

I bent down for a basket

and started down a long aisle

toward the back.

I usually browsed the fruits and vegetables first.

If they could get things from local farms, they did.

And I found a big bin of sweet corn that still had some decent ears in it.

The peak of tomato season had passed,

but now they had a couple boxes of the big,

slightly bruised ones that had ripened last

and would be best for canning.

The first squashes were out,

butternut,

an acorn,

spaghetti and delicata,

and beside them was a row of large green cabbages.

Such

a versatile vegetable.

I loved a cabbage.

I could chop it for a slaw,

make a gallon of soup,

and still have some to roast to a golden brown in the oven.

I hefted one into my basket.

Beside the produce was a small section of bread

and baked goods,

most of which came from the bakery downtown.

By the early evening,

there were only a few things left.

But I got lucky and found a soft, herby fugas.

It was a bit like focaccia,

but baked on a hot stone

rather than in an oiled pan.

So it was crispy on the outside and chewy and soft inside.

It would go perfectly with a chopped green goddess cabbage salad.

I added it to the cart.

One of my favorite sections was the beverage section.

Someone in this family business loved interesting sodas and fizzy waters.

And so did I.

Now,

I've always been a fan of a good ginger ale

or root beer.

But what a treat it was to bring home a bottle of something I'd never tried before.

There was a passion fruit drink from New Zealand,

another with lychee

and raspberry from Pakistan,

and one flavored with guarana fruit from Brazil.

I turned each bottle over in my hands,

reading what I could of the labels

and sounding out their names.

Finally, I decided to go with the lychee and raspberry soda,

wedging it in beside the cabbage.

In the next aisle I saw my neighbor with a couple packets of ramen noodles in his hand

as he read through the flavors.

I sidled up beside him

and asked What's for dinner?

He smiled as he recognized me

and gestured to the dozens of options on the shelf.

My world is an oyster, he laughed.

We caught up a bit over the noodles.

He'd opened a bicycle shop in downtown a few months ago,

and

business was going well.

I'd joined in on a few of the group rides the shop sponsored over the summer,

and had my three-speed in for a tune-up a while back.

He told me how he liked to doctor up his ramen with a homemade peanut sauce

and fresh sliced scallions,

and soon I found myself reaching for a few packets of the ginger garlic variety.

I promised to see him at the next bike ride

and headed up to the register.

Now,

if you think you are done with your shopping,

the register might change your mind.

There are all sorts of treasures laid out on that long scrubbed bench.

Yes, cookies and candy and other treats you might expect,

but also quart boxes of the first honey crisp apples of the season,

a pyramid of tiny pumpkins,

a box of polished rocks with a handwritten sign saying that they came from the creek that ran behind the farmer's market.

There were jars of the pickled watermelon rind they made up at the inn,

a floppy self-published book of local ghost stories,

and small glass jars of maple syrup from the trees down the road.

As I unloaded the basket,

adding in the book of ghost stories and a little bouquet of cone flowers,

I chatted with the woman ringing up my groceries.

Ooh, you you got the lychee soda, she said,

as she carefully settled it into my bag.

Are you the one who keeps stocking all the special drinks?

I asked, feeling like I had finally cracked the code.

Guilty, she laughed, handing me my change.

Well,

I can't wait to see what you'll find next.

I took my bags and headed home to make dinner.

Sweet dreams.