After Dinner

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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.

Since every episode is someone's first, I'd like to say a little about how this works. Narrative gives your brain a place to settle.

And that bit of focus and stillness allows you to shift from the chaotic default mode to the sleep-inducing task positive mode.

And the more you listen, the more reliable your ability to fall and return to sleep will become.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.

If you wake later in the night, Don't hesitate to restart the episode.

Our story tonight is called

After Dinner, and it is the third part in a series featuring some favorite animals of the Village of Nothing Much.

You could go back and listen to the previous two if you've missed them,

but let's be honest, you'll probably be asleep in a few moments.

This is a story about the quiet that settles in as the plates are cleared and the candles burn down.

It's also about passed down recipes, dogs chasing through the halls, bay leaves and pine needles,

the sound of voices in the next room, and a moment alone under the stars.

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Okay, campers, snuggle down.

Day is done.

Gone the sun.

From the lake.

From the hills.

From the sky.

All is well.

Safely rest.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh it out.

Nice.

One more. Breathe in.

Let it go.

Good.

After dinner

A quiet stupor

lay over us like a thick fog.

The fire had burned down to embers,

and in in a minute or so, I would get up

and lay in a few more logs.

But not right now.

Right now, I needed to lean back in my chair and digest.

Marmalade lay in my lap,

and I lazily stroked her back as she surveyed the room.

The sun had just set,

and there was still a purple gleam in the air outside.

The lights were low.

The candles on the table

burned down to stubs.

I watched as one,

its wax finally over full at the flame,

broke the dam and dribbled down to drip onto the tablecloth.

My cousin touched his elbow to mine

and pointed his chin at the spilling wax.

That would have sent grandma into a conniption.

Can you imagine?

I chuckled with him and said,

would have had a meltdown.

I waggled my eyebrows at him, proud of my pun.

He shook his head, and I knew he remembered as well as I did

the tension of preserving grandma's good linens and best plates

at the big family gatherings of our childhood.

I sighed

and said that I thought a few stains on the tablecloth

were a sign of a meal so well enjoyed

that it left the diners too contented to fuss.

He lifted his glass and said,

Look at us, breaking generational curses.

I touched my glass to his,

and we drank to poor grandma and her best intentions.

The room still smelled of all the good things we'd eaten.

The savory mushroom gravy,

the scents of thyme and sage,

and roasted sweet potatoes,

the yeasty dinner rolls, and the vinegary snap of the pickle and olive tray.

I'd made a few family favorites that, frankly, only me and my cousin craved at Thanksgiving dinner.

And then

only because we'd grown up with them, year after year.

There was the pea and peanut salad

with tangy dressing

and finely diced onions

and cranberry cranberry chutney with pecans and celery.

I heard a record being flipped in the living room.

Soft dinner music drifted from the speakers,

and then came the thundering sound of pause

racing down the hall.

Our house guests had arrived the afternoon before,

pulling up into the driveway

with two moderately sized weekender bags for the grown-ups,

a full roller bag of dog sweaters and treats and toys to share,

and their wriggly, panting pug.

Just like me, Crum was having fun with his cousin.

The pug was a girl, a couple years younger than Crum,

with silky black fur

and a curly tail.

Her name was Tablespoon.

The cousins came racing into the dining room,

nipping and chasing through the chair legs.

Marmalade's eyebrows went up as she watched the rowdy pair, and the affronted look on her face

made me think she'd have gotten along very well with Grandma.

Plates were being cleared away,

and I could hear the water running in the kitchen sink.

Besides ourselves and our house guests,

we'd also had a few friends at our table today. today.

From her pretty old farmhouse on the outskirts of town,

where she grew enough lilacs for the whole county,

came a friend of mine I'd known since grade school.

She'd brought a centerpiece made of pine boughs and fresh bay

with small red berries threaded threaded through the needles.

As she walked around the table, laying out fresh forks for dessert,

Tablespoon crashed into her ankles, and she gripped the back of my chair to keep from tumbling over.

Remind me, she said to my cousin, how did Tablespoon get her name?

Was battering ram taken? taken?

We all chuckled, and my cousin reached down to scoop the pug into his lap.

She's got a friend at home,

a guinea pig that predated her.

He was so small when we brought him home, we called him teaspoon.

He patted the dog's pink belly,

and she wriggled closer in his arms.

And she just fell in love with him.

They nap together, eat dinner at each other's sides.

So after a few days

we knew we had to name her to match.

From the kitchen came the voice of another friend,

this one who'd been the best man at our wedding.

How many coffees?

Hands went up,

and his plus one,

a woman he'd met at the florist across the alley from his bicycle shop,

counted them and went to relay the number.

I usually stayed away from caffeine at this time of the evening,

but figured it would probably balance out the sleepiness from my full stomach

and most likely keep me awake just long long enough to put away the leftovers.

Marmalade jumped down from my lap

and strolled languidly into the living room,

probably looking for the restful company of our greyhound Birdie.

My eyes fell on the dying fire again,

and I decided this was the perfect moment for a bit of fresh air

and a chance to stretch my legs.

As I pushed away from the table

and strolled to the back door to step into my rubber boots,

I heard a rumble of laughter from the kitchen.

What is it about hearing well known voices talking in the next room

that soothes your heart?

Is it a memory of dozing on the sofa as a child

while the grown-ups talked around the table?

Or maybe just the reminder

that life goes on

even when you aren't there to witness it

the continuity that our loved ones still laugh

and chat

and stir sugar into their coffee

while we busy ourselves somewhere nearby.

I remembered reading once

that for most of human history

we fell asleep with the sound of others around us

voices, a crackling fire,

a stirring pot.

Silence is a modern phenomenon.

Outside the air crackled with cold,

and I breathed it in,

letting it sting my nostrils.

My face felt warm and rosy,

and my boots left tracks in the frost.

At the wood pile I reached for a few solid logs and shuffled them into my arms.

Before I went back to the house,

I stepped out from under the eve of the shed

and looked up at the stars.

The sky was wide open,

and as I gazed at the star-studded firmament,

I was struck by a deep feeling

of being right where I was meant to be.

I stayed for a moment more,

then turned toward the warmth of our home.

After dinner,

a quiet stupor

lay over us

like a thick fog.

The fire had burned down to embers,

and in a minute or so

I would get up

and lay in a few more logs,

But not right now.

Right now,

I needed to lean back in my chair and digest.

Marmalade lay in my lap,

and I lazily stroked her back

as she surveyed the room.

The sun had just set,

and there was still a purple gleam

in the air outside.

The lights were low.

The candles on the table

burned down to stubs.

I watched as one

its wax

finally over full at the flame

broke through the dam

and dribbled down

to drip onto the tablecloth.

My cousin touched his elbow to mine

and pointed his chin at the spilling wax.

That would have sent grandma into a conniption.

Can you imagine?

I chuckled with him and said, hmm,

she would have had

a meltdown.

I waggled my eyebrows at him,

proud of my pun.

He shook his head,

and I knew he remembered as well as I did

the tension of preserving grandma's good linens and best plates

at the big family gatherings of our childhood.

I sighed and said that I thought a few stains on a tablecloth

were a sign of a meal

so well enjoyed

that it left the diners too contented to fuss.

He lifted his glass and said,

Look at us,

breaking generational curses.

I touched my glass to his,

and we drank to poor grandma

and her best intentions.

The room still smelled of all the good things we'd eaten.

The savory mushroom gravy.

The scents of thyme

and sage and roasted sweet potatoes.

The yeasty dinner rolls

and the vinegary snap of the pickle

and olive tray.

I'd made a few family favorites

that, frankly,

only me and my cousin craved at Thanksgiving dinner.

And then

only because we'd grown up with them

year after year.

There was pea and peanut salad

with tangy dressing

and finely diced onions

and cranberry chutney

with pecans and celery.

I heard a record being flipped in the living room.

Soft dinner music drifted from the speakers

And then came the thundering sound of pause

racing down the hall.

Our house guests

had arrived the afternoon before,

pulling up into the driveway

with two

moderately sized weekender bags for the grown-ups,

a full roller bag of dog sweaters and treats and toys to share,

and their wriggly,

panting pug.

Just like me,

Crum was having fun with his cousin.

The pug was a girl,

a couple years younger than Crum,

with silky black fur

and a curly tail.

Her name was Tablespoon.

The cousins came racing into the dining room,

nipping and chasing through the chair legs.

Marmalade's eyebrows went up

as she watched the rowdy pair,

and the affronted look on her face

made me think

she would have gotten along very well with Grandma.

Plates were being cleared away,

and I could hear the water running in the kitchen sink.

Besides ourselves

and our house guests,

we'd also had a few friends at our table to day

from her pretty old farmhouse

on the outskirts of town,

where she grew enough lilacs for the whole county

had come a friend of mine that I'd known since grade school.

She'd brought a centerpiece

made of pine boughs

and fresh bay

with small red berries threaded through the needles

As she walked around the table,

laying out fresh forks for dessert,

Tablespoon crashed into her ankles,

and she gripped the back of my chair to keep from tumbling over.

Remind me, she said to my cousin, how did Tablespoon get her name?

Was battering ram taken?

We all chuckled, and my cousin reached down to scoop the pug

into his lap.

Well, she's got a friend at home,

a guinea pig that predated her.

He was so small when we brought him home.

We'd called him Teaspoon.

He patted the dog's pink belly,

and she wriggled closer in his arms.

She just fell in love with him.

They nap together,

eat dinner at each other's sides.

So after a few days, we knew we needed to name her to match.

From the kitchen came the voice of another friend,

this one who'd been the best man at our wedding.

How many coffees?

Hands went up,

and his plus one,

a woman he'd met at the florist's across the alley from his bicycle shop,

counted them

and went to relay the number.

I usually stayed away from caffeine at this time of the evening,

but figured it would balance out the sleepiness from my full stomach

and most likely

keep me awake only long enough

to put away the leftovers.

Marmalade jumped down from my lap

and strolled languidly into the living room,

probably looking for the restful company

of our greyhound birdie.

My eyes fell again on on the dying fire,

and I decided this was the perfect moment

for a bit of fresh air

and a chance to stretch my legs.

As I pushed away from the table

and strolled to the back door

to step into my rubber boots,

I heard a rumble of laughter from the kitchen.

What is it

about hearing

well known voices

talking in the next room

that so soothes your heart?

Is it a memory of dozing on the sofa as a child

while the grown-ups talked around the table,

or maybe just the reminder

that life goes on

even when you aren't there to witness it.

The continuity that our loved ones

still laugh

and chat

and stir sugar into their coffee

while we busy ourselves elsewhere.

I remembered reading once

that for most of human history

we fell asleep

with the sound of others around us,

voices,

a crackling fire,

a stirring pot.

Silence is a modern phenomenon.

Outside the air crackled with cold,

and I breathed it in,

letting it sting my nostrils.

My face felt warm and rosy,

and my boots left tracks in the frost.

At the wood pile,

I reached for a few solid logs

and shuffled them into my arms.

Before I went back to the house,

I stepped out from under the eave of the shed

and looked up at the stars.

The sky was wide open,

and as I gazed at the star-studded firmament,

I was struck by a deep feeling

of being right where I was meant to be.

I stayed for a moment more,

then turned

toward the warmth of our home,

sweet dreams.