In For the Night

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Hi, I'm Catherine Nicolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to that isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. Thanks from the village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction. Cozy, warm, calm stories about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life. Make for your commute while you're tidying up or when you want a little escape that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the village of Nothing Much wherever you listen. January always carries this quiet question with it. Not what should I fix, but what do I finally want to begin? Most of us are walking around with some good ideas, skills we've honed, things people tell us we should be selling. And usually it's not the idea that holds us back. It's that moment of starting. So here's your nudge. Stop waiting to feel ready. 2026 is the year you launch. The year you stop waiting and take one real concrete step toward the thing you've been imagining. And the simplest way to do that is with Shopify. Shopify gives you everything you need to sell online and in person, all in one place. Millions of entrepreneurs already use Shopify, like me, from household names to people launching their very first business. You can choose from hundreds of beautiful templates and customize your store to look and feel like you. Shopify's built-in AI tools, help write product descriptions, headlines, and even edit product photos. So setup doesn't feel overwhelming. Marketing is built-in too. You can create email and social campaigns that meet customers wherever they scroll. And as your business grows, Shopify grows with you, helping you manage more orders and expand to new markets from the same dashboard. In 2026, stop waiting and start selling with Shopify. Sign up for your $1 per month trial and start selling today at Shopify.com slash nothing much. Go to Shopify.com slash nothing much. That's Shopify.com slash nothing much. Here your first chitching this year with Shopify by your side. Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone. In which nothing much happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I create everything 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 ItKits better project. They work to uplift, empower and connect LGBTQ plus youth around the globe. Learn more about them in our show notes. I'd like to thank some recent premium subscribers. Y'all are helping us in our mission to bring us off landing to millions of people around the world. So thank you Sarah and Leela. Thanks to Sophie and to Rick. If you'd like to subscribe, you'll get your first month free and after that it works out to just a dime a day. You'll get all three of our podcasts, add free plus lots of bonus content as well as our super sized nine hour long episodes to carry you through the whole night. Rick subscribe on Apple or Spotify or go to nothingmuchappens.com. If you're new here, I'd like to tell you a bit about why and how this works. Without something to focus on, your brain can wind itself up, wander aimlessly and no surprise. You can't fall asleep in that state of mind. That chaos space is called default mode. But by giving your brain a small, enjoyable job to do, we'll shift you into task positive mode where sleep is speedily available. It is brain training and your results will improve with time and use. So be patient. Now, your brain's mission, should you choose to accept it, is just to listen. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to just start an episode over again. Our story tonight is called In For The Night and it's a special story I wrote for my first book many years ago. It's never been heard on the podcast before. It's a story about a trip to a special shop in downtown nothing much. It's also about glass jars filled with particular ingredients, snowflakes landing on your eyelashes and mittens hands, the layered sense of aromatic spices and having the space and time to calmly make and enjoy something warming and delicious. So lights out my dears. It's time. Snuggle down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. If you haven't let your guard down all day, do it now. Let it down. You're safe now and I'll take over guard duty while you rest. Draw a deep breath in through your nose. Let it go through your mouth. One more breathe in deep. Big sigh. Good. In For The Night. It started as flurries. Pretty lacy flakes that floated down slowly enough for me to see almost each one individually. I was standing on a street corner waiting for the light to turn as one large fragile flake landed in my palm. I saw its symmetrical webs and crystallized branches. I remembered reading that snowflakes formed around a particle of dust. Did that make them like pearls, born from a grain of sand? I liked the idea that a snowflake is a winter pearl falling from the sky. As I watched a flake which had been so starkly outlined against my glove, it melted and was gone. These pearls lasted only a moment and needed to be seen before they disappeared. The street light changed and I crossed from one corner to another, catching more flakes in my hands and on my eyelashes. I stepped up to the shop I'd been heading for and dusted off my shoulders and cheeks and pulled open the thick front door. I'd found this little shop a few years ago and had immediately fallen in love with their wares. Since then I had become a regular customer. The place sold only spices. Their walls were lined with shelves of tall glass jars, standing shoulder to shoulder. Each one filled with something precious and potent, colorful and aromatic. The smell inside the shop was layered and to take it in properly, I stood with my weight balanced across both feet, closed my eyes and pulled in a deep breath. I could smell the light, flowery sense of lavender, and herbs to province. The next layer down was warmer with cinnamon bark and cardamom pods. Under that there were complex curry mixtures, the metallic tang of turmeric, and at the very bottom of that first deep breath. I smelled chilies, hot and sharp and exciting. I had a list of what I needed, a specific recipe to fill, but I always took some time to look at a few things I'd never seen before. And to pick out one new spice to take home with me. I strolled through the aisles and ran my finger over the paper labels on the jars. From I just liked the sound of, like the grains of paradise, which come from West Africa, and are related to ginger and similar to cardamom, or the fennel pollen, also called the spice of the angels, and whose label said, could elevate any simple dish into extraordinary cuisine. I opened a jar of amateur powder, which was made from unripe mangoes that had been dried on ground and was used for its tartness. It smelled fruity and tangy, but also a little dusty when I screwed the top back on and kept looking. There were juniper berries that take three years to mature before they can be picked, and bright red smoked paprika and delicate threads of saffron. There was something called bishopsweed and nigella seeds and a tall jar of caffir lime leaves. I'd read about these leaves and how they could flavor soups and stir-fries. When I decided this would be my new treasure to take home. With my new purchase decided, I took out a list from my pocket and started searching for the spices I needed to make my favorite chai. I'd been trying different chai recipes for a while, and had finally landed on a favorite. It was sweet and spicy in a way that warmed me through on a snowy day like today. I had gingerroot, cinnamon sticks, and cloves at home, so that was sorted. But I needed cardamom pods, black peppercorns, star anise, and a couple nutmeg seeds. I measured out each ingredient into small paper envelopes, carefully sealing their tops shut as I went. I thought of the collection of tiny, former jelly and mustard jars, cleaned and drying on my dish rack at home, waiting to house my new spices. My purchases were wrapped and paid for, and I took one more breath of the spicy exotic air and went back out into the snow. It was picking up now. Those light, lazy flakes had become a steady, falling curtain. And the sidewalks and street signs were coated in white. I pulled my scarf up a bit, and my hat down a bit, and picked my way carefully back to where I'd parked my car. The roads were just beginning to get a little slippery, and I went slowly along the avenues, until I was turning into my own driveway. I'd have some shoveling to do later, I suppose. Inside I set my spices on the counter, and as I hung my coat by the door, I looked out at the snow falling thickly on the houses around mine. I decided I was in for the night. It was such a lovely feeling to watch the snow drape itself over the rooftops, while I was safe and warm inside, with no need to go out again. I thought I might try making a spicy brothy soup with the limely of side-bought, something with rice noodles, and thinly sliced vegetables, and a drizzle of sesame oil on top. But first, I would transfer all my new spices to their glass jars, and make a pot of chai to sip on while I worked. Some of them, someone who believes that simple chores, like cooking and cleaning, can be quite enjoyable if you do them right. Light a candle, pour a drink, turn on some music, or an old favorite movie, and enjoy the process of taking a task from start to finish in a calm, deliberate way. So I lit my candle and put on a record, my tied my apron around me, and started to measure out my spices, dumped them into my pot. And the chai was frothy and simmering, and the darsheeling had steeped long enough. I poured out a cup, and carried it to the back window, or I could see the light fading, the sun setting behind clouds, and flakes falling onto branches. I stood with my feet planted, like I had in the shop, tipping my nose down to my cup. I took in a deep breath of the lovely, sweet, and hot masala of spices, before taking a long, slow sip. In for the night. It started as flurries, pretty lacy flakes, but floated down, slowly enough for me to see almost each one individually. I was standing on a street corner, waiting for the light to turn, as one large, fragile flake landed in my palm. I saw its symmetrical webs, and crystallized branches. And I remembered reading that snowflakes formed around a particle of dust. Did that make them like pearls, born from a grain of sand? I liked the idea that a snowflake is a winter pearl falling from the sky. As I watched the flake, which had been so starkly outlined against my glove, it melted and was gone. These pearls lasted only a moment, and needed to be seen before they disappeared. The street light changed, and I crossed from corner to corner, catching more flakes in my hands, and on my eyelashes. I stepped up to the shop I'd been heading for, and dusted off my shoulders and cheeks, and pulled open the thick front door. I'd found this little shop a few years ago, and had immediately fallen in love with their wares. Once then, I had become a regular customer. The place sold only spices. Their walls were lined with shelves of tall glass jars, standing shoulder to shoulder. Each one filled with something precious and potent, colorful and aromatic. The smell inside was layered, and to take it in properly. I stood with my weight, balanced across both feet, closed my eyes, and pulled in a deep breath. I could smell the light, flowery sense of lavender, and herbs to province. The next layer down was warmer, with cinnamon bark, and cardamom pods. Under that there were complex curry mixtures, the metallic tang of turmeric. At the very bottom of that first deep breath, I smelled chilies, hot and sharp and exciting. I had a list of what I needed, a specific recipe to fill. But I always took some time to look at a few things I'd never seen before, and to pick out one new spice to take home with me. I strolled through the aisles, and ran my finger over the paper labels on the jars. Some I just liked the sound of, like the grains of paradise, which come from West Africa, and are related to ginger and similar to cardamom, or the fennel pollen, also called the spice of the angels, whose label said could elevate any simple dish into extraordinary cuisine. I opened a jar of amchir powder, which was made from unripe mangoes that had been dried and ground, and was used for its tartness. It smelled fruity and tangy, but also a little dusty, and I screwed the top back on, and kept looking. There were juniper berries that take three years to mature before they can be picked, and bright red smoked paprika, and delicate threads of saffron. There was something called bishopsweed and nigella seeds, and a tall jar of caffir lime leaves. I'd read about these leaves, how they could flavor soups and stir-fries, and I decided this would be my new treasure to take home. With my new purchase decided, I took a list from my pocket, and started searching for the spices I needed to make my favorite chai. I'd been trying different chai recipes for a while, and had finally landed on a favorite. It was sweet and spicy, in a way that warmed me through on a snowy day like today. I had fresh gingerroot, cinnamon sticks, and cloves at home, so that was sorted, but I needed cardamom pods, black peppercorns, star anise, and a couple nutmeg seeds. My measured out each ingredient into small paper envelopes, carefully sealing their tops shot as I went. And thought of the collection of tiny, former, jelly, and mustard jars, cleaned, and now drying on my dish rack at home. Waiting to house my new spices. My purchases were wrapped and paid for, and I took one more breath of the spicy exotic air, and went back out into the snow. It was picking up now. Those light, lazy flakes had become a steady falling curtain, and the sidewalks and street signs were coated in white. I pulled my scarf up a bit, and my hat down a bit, and picked my way carefully back to where I'd parked my car. The roads were just beginning to get a little slippery, and I went slowly along the avenues, until I was turning into my own driveway. I'd have some shoveling to do later, I supposed. Inside, I set my spices on the counter, and as I hung my coat by the door, I looked out at the snow, falling thickly on the houses around me. I decided I was in for the night. There was such a lovely feeling. To watch the snow drape itself over the rooftops, while I was safe and warm inside, with no need to go out again. I thought I might try making a spicy, brothy soup with the lime leaves I'd bought. Something with rice noodles and thinly sliced vegetables, and a drizzle of sesame oil on top. But first, I would transfer all my new spices to their glass jars, and make a pot of chai to sip on while I worked. I'm someone who believes that simple chores, like cooking and cleaning, can be quite enjoyable if you do them right. Light a candle, pour a drink, turn on some music, or an old favorite movie. And enjoy the process of taking a task from start to finish in a calm, deliberate way. So I lit my candle and put on a record. I tied my apron around me, and started to measure out my spices, and drop them into my pot. When the chai was frothy and simmering, and the darsheeling had steeped long enough, I poured out a cup, and carried it to the back window, where I could see the light fading, the sun setting behind clouds, and flakes falling onto branches. I stood with my feet planted, like I had in the shop, tipping my nose down to my cup. I took in a deep breath of the lovely, sweet and hot masala of spices, before taking a long slow sip.