The Evening of the 4th

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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

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Our story tonight is called the Evening of the Fourth.

And it's a story about a day-long event that ends with a picnic and a concert on the grass.

It's also about hand pies and potato salad, a busy kitchen full of aproned volunteers,

the sound of instruments tuning up on the patio, thyme and lemon zest,

and the satisfaction of sharing good times with your neighbors.

Now,

lights out, y'all.

Let it sink in

that the day is over.

That

it was what it was.

And now we are here.

Nothing left to do or keep track of.

Nothing needed from you.

You have done enough.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Again, inhale

and release it.

Good.

The evening of the fourth

From inside the kitchens

I could hear the band tuning up

our small but beloved village orchestra.

A scrappy group of all ages musicians,

with just enough instruments to qualify,

was set up on the stone patio.

I could hear the cello's voice

as it fell into tune beside the French horn and clarinet.

I leaned closer to the window,

inching it open a bit more,

and heard the occasional scratch of a chair leg

sliding over the stone.

A music stand pulled closer,

and the murmur of voices as they prepared to play.

The day had taken quite a bit of planning

but everything seemed to be falling into place.

We were here at the village museum.

This great old house

with acres of lawns and gardens,

and a reflecting pond full of koi,

all of which were now being toured

and enjoyed

by what seemed to be nearly every one of the village residents.

There had been an arts and crafts fair earlier in the day,

with booths and stands set up in the carriage house.

There was face painting for the kids and some of us adults.

I myself had a few butterflies fluttering across my cheek

and lemonade and snacks

around nearly every corner.

The day had been well attended,

but the crowd grew even bigger

for this evening's concert on the lawn and picnic.

I'd been here since the morning,

baking and helping with the kitchen duties.

And what fun it was to work

in this grand old house's restored kitchens.

There was a huge open hearth, beautiful but unlit in today's heat.

Spacious marble-topped counters to work on.

Gleaming copper pans hanging from hooks,

and open shelves with beautiful ceramic mixing bowls and porcelain platters.

A baker's dream.

The kitchen was turning out a lot of food to day

cookies and hand pies for the snack tables,

but also entire packed picnic baskets for tonight's dinner.

My partner in dineing

was my good friend Chef,

who was usually cooking up magical meals at the inn on the lake.

We'd worked together a few summers back on a wedding,

and ever since then

we'd been finding new culinary adventures to share in.

They oversaw the savories.

I superintended the sweets and baked goods.

And we'd each brought a few volunteers to help.

The innkeeper herself

had been assigned about a hundred pounds of potatoes to peel

for chef's potato salad and had been a very good sport about it.

I'd supplied her with a couple of lemon tarts to keep her strength up.

We'd made chickpea salad sandwiches on soft chiabata,

topped with dressed arugula and toasted sesame seeds,

along with the potato salad, which was the traditional type with pickles and onion.

There was pasta salad, full of ripe cherry tomatoes and basil,

and an herby olive oil dressing.

I'd made a new recipe.

Corn muffins flavored with lemon zest and thyme.

They were just a tad sweet and went perfectly with the rest of the meal.

They could even serve as dessert when spread with the whipped maple cream

I'd packed into jam jars.

Coolers outside were stocked with ice cream bars we'd made ahead.

Coconut and raspberry swirled together and dipped in dark chocolate

to send everyone home with a sweet taste in their mouths.

There had been moments when we'd scrambled.

There always are in a kitchen during a big event.

But the mood had stayed sunny,

even when we were all working like mad.

Now as the band began to play,

I shooed the others out to enjoy themselves,

to eat and share in the entertainment.

I wiped down a stretch of marble and rinsed my cloth under the tap.

We'd have a good bit of cleaning still to do, but had all agreed to come back tomorrow to button everything up.

I hung the cloth on a hook and dimmed the lights,

noticing the colors of the sunset through the tall windows.

I didn't take my my apron off, not yet.

I just needed to go out onto the lawn and see for myself

that folks were enjoying their meals,

that no one needed anything further,

that we hadn't forgotten anything.

The halls of the great house were quiet and dim.

They held the energy of the moment after the busyness,

the lull

between preparation and cleanup.

It felt soft and cool.

I passed the solarium,

the twinkle lights glowing among the leafy trees and bright petaled flowers.

Through open French doors from the drawing room, I stepped out onto the patio.

I stood for a moment,

my hands on my hips,

scanning across the sloping lawn

to take in the clumps of visitors

sitting on blankets or benches,

chewing slowly as they listened to the music.

I recognized the composition.

It was an original composed by the band teacher at the high school for a parade a few years back.

It had since become a sort of village theme.

It was played on the organ at baseball games.

I'd heard it over the speakers at the finish line of the Village 5K,

and a jangly version of it could be heard emitting from ice cream trucks

as they slowly rolled through town streets.

I couldn't help the beaming, proud smile that spread over my face.

I was proud of this day

and the event we'd worked so hard to put on.

And I was proud to be part of this little village

that played so well together.

I started to stride through the crowd,

bending down to say hello to friends and bakery customers that I recognized.

I checked to see what people thought of the muffins,

of the Chiabada bread,

the hand pies and tarts.

I took compliments, even the ones meant for Chef, graciously,

nodding my acknowledgment with a cheeky smile.

I saw an arm waving at me from a blanket on the edge of the yard

and ambled over to find Chef unpacking a very full basket.

Come on, they said.

Family meal.

I chuckled.

Yes, it was our turn to eat.

I finally untied my apron and lifted it off my neck.

I kicked off my shoes and settled down on the blanket beside them.

They fixed me a plate

and handed it over.

And we found paper cups to fill with lemonade and toast each other.

The food was delicious.

The air was cool

and full of sweet music.

And the stars were just beginning to shine.

The evening of the fourth.

From inside the kitchens,

I could hear the band tuning up

our small but beloved

village orchestra.

A scrappy group of all-age musicians

with just enough instruments to qualify

was set up on the stone patio.

I could hear the cello's voice

as it fell into tune

beside the French horn and clarinet.

I leaned closer to the window,

pinching it open a bit more,

and heard the occasional scratch

of a chair leg

sliding over the stone,

a music stand pulled closer,

and the murmur of voices as they prepared to play.

The day had taken quite a bit of planning

but everything seemed to be falling into place

We were at the village museum

a great old house

with acres of lawns and gardens

and a reflecting pond full of koi,

all of which were now being toured

and enjoyed

by

what seemed to be

nearly everyone

of the village residents.

There had been an arts and crafts fair

earlier in the day,

with booths and stands set up in the carriage house.

There was face painting for the kids

and some of us adults.

I myself

had a few butterflies fluttering across my cheek

and lemonade and snacks around nearly every corner

the day had been well attended

but the crowd grew even bigger for this evening's concert on the lawn

and picnic

I'd been here since the morning,

baking

and helping with the kitchen duties

And what fun it was

to work in this grand old house's restored kitchens

There was a huge open hearth,

beautiful, but unlit in today's heat,

spacious marble-topped counters to work on,

gleaming copper pans

hanging from hooks,

and open shelves

with beautiful ceramic mixing bowls

and porcelain platters,

a baker's dream.

The kitchen was turning out

a lot of food today.

Cookies

and hand pies for the snack tables,

but also entire packed picnic baskets

for tonight's dinner.

My partner in dyning

was my good friend chef,

who usually was cooking up magical meals

at the inn on the lake.

We'd worked together a few summers back

on a wedding,

and ever since then

we'd been finding new

culinary adventures to share in.

They oversaw the savories.

I superintended the sweets and baked goods.

And we'd each brought a few volunteers to help.

The innkeeper herself

had been assigned about a hundred pounds of potatoes to peel

for chef's potato salad

and had been a very good sport about it.

I'd supplied her with a couple of lemon tarts

to keep her strength up.

We'd made chickpea salad sandwiches

on soft chiabata,

topped with dressed arugula

and toasted sesame seeds,

along with the potato salad,

which was the traditional type

with pickles and onion.

There was pasta salad,

full of ripe cherry tomatoes and basil,

and a herby olive oil dressing.

I'd made a new recipe.

Corn muffins,

flavored with lemon zest.

and thyme.

They were just a tad sweet

and went perfectly with the rest of the meal.

They could even serve as dessert

when spread with the whipped maple cream

I'd packed into small jam jars.

Coolers outside

were stocked

with ice cream bars

that we'd made ahead.

Coconut and raspberry

swirled together

and dipped in dark chocolate

to send everyone home

with a sweet taste in their mouths.

There had been moments when we'd scrambled.

There always are in kitchens during a big event.

But the mood had stayed sunny,

even

when we were all working like mad.

Now,

as the band began to play,

I shooed the others out

to enjoy themselves,

to eat

and share in the entertainment.

I wiped down a stretch of marble

and rinsed my cloth under the tap.

We'd have a good bit of cleaning to do,

but had all agreed to come back to morrow

to button everything up.

I hung the cloth on a hook

and dimmed the lights,

noticing the colours of the sunset

through the tall windows.

I didn't take my apron off,

not yet.

I just needed to go out onto the lawn

and see for myself

that folks were enjoying their meals,

that no one needed

anything further,

that we hadn't forgotten anything.

The halls of the great house

were quiet and dim.

They held the energy of the moment after the busyness,

the lull

between preparation and cleanup.

It felt soft and cool.

I passed the solarium,

the twinkle lights glowing among the leafy trees

and bright petaled flowers.

Through open French doors

from the drawing room, room,

I stepped out onto the patio.

I stood for a moment,

my hands on my hips,

scanning across the sloping lawn

to take in the clumps of visitors

sitting on blankets or benches,

chewing slowly as they listened to the music.

I recognized the composition.

It was an original

composed by the band teacher at the high school

for a parade a few years back.

It had since become a sort of village theme.

It was played on the organ

at baseball games.

I'd heard it over the speakers at the finish line of the village 5K.

And a jangly version of it could be heard emitting from ice cream trucks

as they slowly rolled through town.

I couldn't help

the beaming, proud smile

that spread over my face.

I was proud of this day

and the event

that we'd worked so hard to put on

and I was proud to be part

of this little village

that played so well together

I started to stride through the crowd

bending down to say hello

to friends and bakery customers that I recognized.

I checked to see what people thought of the muffins,

of the ciabata bread,

the hand pies and tarts.

I took compliments,

even the ones meant for chef,

graciously,

nodding my acknowledgement

with a cheeky smile.

I saw an arm waving from a blanket

on the edge of the yard

and ambled over to find Chef

unpacking

a very full basket.

Come on, they said.

Family meal.

I chuckled.

Yes, it was our turn to eat.

I finally untied my apron

and lifted it off my neck.

I kicked off my shoes

and settled down beside them.

They fixed me a plate

and handed it over.

And we found paper cups to fill with lemonade

and toast each other.

The food was delicious.

The air was cool

and full of sweet music.

And the stars were just beginning to shine.

Sweet dreams.