Game Night (Encore)

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From infant to five years, Primrose schools is the leader in early education and care. Learn more at primroseschools.com. If you want a place where your kid can explore, ask big questions and feel genuinely excited to learn, Primrose is already doing that every day. 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 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. Every episode is someone's first. So I like to explain about how this podcast works. I'm going to tell you a story to help you relax and drop off into sleep. I'll tell it twice and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. The story is like a landing pad for your mind. A soft place for it to rest. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. It's a good rule of thumb in general when you're trying to fall asleep. Don't worry. Relax. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story and walk yourself back through the details that you can remember. Especially any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and your body to wind down and the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit of patience at the beginning. Our story tonight is called Game Night and it's a story about ringing in the new year with friends around the kitchen table. It's also about a memory of card games with aunts and uncles, a secret ingredient and the importance of old fashioned fun. Now, it's time to turn off the light. Put away whatever you are working on or playing with and snuggle yourself down into the most comfortable position you can find. You might have an ideal sleep position that's tried and true. Get into it. All of this helps to signal to your brain that it's time to close up shop. Let's take a slow breath in through the nose and a soft sigh out of the mouth. One more like that in and out. Good. Game night. The tree was still up and we still had plates of cookies decorated with red and green icing. And plenty of leftover holiday cheer. And while the days before the 25th were full of that lovely anticipation that only happens once a year, the days immediately after felt like a deep sigh of relaxation. Everything was done. And now we could just enjoy a bit of time before we put our ducks in a row for the coming year. A few years back, we'd started a tradition for the 31st and it had stuck. We'd had our share of glamorous New Year's Eve's. Nights out, dancing into the wee hours, coming home with confetti in our hair and crumpled noisemakers in the pockets of our coats. At some point that kind of celebration had slipped down the other side of the hill and gone from exciting to exhausting. And that's when we started game night. We'd invite half a dozen or so friends, make a big buffet of snacks, and clear off the kitchen table to make space for fun. Remember fun. When we were kids, we woke each day with a deep-seated need and an insatiable appetite for it. We sought it out and often found it a hundred times a day. We made up games in an instant, played them until we thought up a better one, and then played that. Game night always reminded me how vital fun was, how good it felt to laugh until my cheeks hurt. And now, instead of waking up bleary-eyed and head-achey on New Year's Day, I was guaranteed to wake up feeling like a kid again. We had a bit of cleaning up to do before our guests arrived, and we divvied up the jobs. There was firewood to be brought in, food to prepare, and a few scraps of wrapping paper still kicking around under the sofa in the living room to be picked up. I volunteered for all kitchen-related chores and left my better half to attend to the rest. I always opted to be in the kitchen if I could. It never felt like work to me, not when I could turn on some music, dance around in my socks, and chop and sauté, and wind up with something delicious at the end. I started by making a soup, something thick and hearty for a cold December night. I took a couple of leeks from the fridge. I thought they looked like green onions that had grown up and lived adult lives now. I sliced them into coins and dropped them into the colander to rinse in the sink. Leeks are grown in sandy soil and need to be washed carefully before they're cooked. Some might find that a pain, but I liked all the small fiddly parts of cooking. Dicing things into even pieces, snipping herbs from stems, and even washing leeks. Since they were squeaky clean, I sautéed them in the bottom of a giant soup pot with olive oil and a pinch of salt. While they cooked down, I overturned a bag of golden potatoes onto the counter and started peeling and chopping. Then in with the potatoes and broth and fresh thyme and black pepper. I had a grandfather who believed wholeheartedly in the healing properties of black pepper, and I always added an extra pinch for him. I set the soup to simmer away and turned to the next task. The soup would be perfect to serve up in cups between rounds, but we also needed finger foods that wouldn't interrupt our all important play. For this I made Muhammara, a delicious dip of Syrian origin that felt pretty fancy, but came together in a flash. It was made with roasted red peppers, walnuts, breadcrumbs, chili flakes, and pomegranate molasses, all blended together in my food processor. It was a beautiful, rich red color, and I spooned it into a few bowls which I could set around the table, surrounded by fresh veggies and toasted flatbread. The soup was nearly ready and our friends were expected soon, and I had just one more thing to make. It was a treat, a bit rich in flavor, but one of those snacks that folks just can't leave alone. Truffle popcorn. I popped a huge pot of popcorn, and when the kernels stopped pinging in the pan, I tipped all the fluffy hot pieces into a big brown paper bag. I drizzled truffle oil in a tiny stream over the corn, and added a good bit of pink salt. Then I folded the top of the bag up and shook it for all I was worth. I heard the fire crackling in the grate, and had a feeling I was being watched in my dance of the truffle corn fairy, but I didn't mind. How's that fire going? I called out. I just heard a laugh come back at me. I tipped the popcorn into a few bowls, and set them out with a muhammara. I stuck a few stacks of napkins around the place and turned on some music. I had a few bottles of bubbly for toasting the new year. I pushed open the door from the kitchen out to the backyard, and stuck them neck deep into the nearest snowdrift. This is a handy part of living somewhere with plenty of snow. Any snowbank can be an extension of your refrigerator. As I was coming back in to stir the soup, I heard a friendly knock, and the jingle bells on the front door ringing as our friends began to pile in. Oh, the loveliness of having friends, dear and old enough to treat your home as their own. As soon as coats were hung up and hugs exchanged, folks were reaching into cupboards for glasses, knowing just where the corkscrew and bottle openers were, and setting themselves down at the table, rolling up their sleeves and getting ready to play. I turned off the soup and set the lid ajar to let it cool, and poured myself a glass of something. The popcorn was disappearing just like I knew it would, and everyone wanted to know what its secret ingredient was. But I was stubborn about sharing. It's special to my house. You'll have to come here when you crave it, I finally said, and set down a few board game boxes and decks of cards on the table, as we debated what we'd play tonight. Last game night, I had taught them a card game that my family had played when I was young. And once everyone had caught on to its breakneck pace, we couldn't quit till nearly midnight. We'd called it Nazi, or sometimes Peanuts. But I'd heard it go by a dozen funny names, including the racing canfield, Peanuts pounce, scramble, squeal, and Scrooge. We all agreed after last time we had a few scores to settle, and decided to make it another night of cards. We cleared away the boxes and passed around decks of cards, and all started to shuffle. Card games had been a big deal in my family. I knew how to shuffle cards like a blackjack dealer by the time I was seven years old. And as I watched my friends mix and count out the first thirteen of each deck and pass them over to the person on their left, I had a strong memory of being the littlest one at the table with all my aunts and uncles. My feet not yet touching the ground as we set up our hands and waited with excitement for someone to shout, Go. Then the sounds of flipping cards, cards slapped onto the table and grown-ups elbowing each other out of the way to get that seven of spades onto the six. Now to be in my own home, my own family of friends, the smell of the popcorn and soup in the air, and all of us grinning around the table at each other, drumming our fingers and waiting to turn that first card. I guessed we'd probably forget to count down at midnight, too busy laughing and playing. And then at some point run out into the snow to retrieve the champagne. We'd raise our glasses and make a resolution. This year more fun. Game night. The tree was still up and we still had plates of cookies decorated with red and green icing and plenty of leftover holiday cheer. And while the days before the 25th were full of that lovely anticipation that only happens once a year, the days immediately after felt like a deep sigh of relaxation. Everything was done. And now we could just enjoy a bit of time before we put our ducks in a row for the coming year. A few years back, we'd started a tradition for the 31st and it had stuck. We'd had our fair share of glamorous New Year's eaves. We'd dance out, dancing into the wee hours, coming home with confetti in our hair and crumbled noise makers in the pockets of our coats. At some point that kind of celebration had slipped down the other side of the hill and gone from exciting to exhausting. And that's when we started game night. We'd invite half a dozen or so friends, make a big buffet of snacks and clear off the dining room table to make space for fun. Remember fun? When we were kids, we woke up each day with a deep-seated need and an insatiable appetite for it. We sought it out and often found it a hundred times a day. We made up games in an instant, played them until we thought up a better one, then played that. Game night always reminded me how vital fun was, how good it felt to laugh until my cheeks hurt. Now, instead of waking up bleary-eyed and head icky on New Year's Day, I was guaranteed to wake up feeling like a kid again. We had a bit of cleaning to do before our guests arrived and we divvied up the jobs. There was firewood to be brought in, food to prepare, and a few scraps of wrapping paper still kicking around under the sofa in the living room to be picked up. I volunteered for all kitchen-related chores and left my better half to attend to the rest. I always opted to be in the kitchen if I could. It almost never felt like work to me, not when I could turn on some music and dance around in my socks and chop and sauté and wind up with something delicious at the end. I started by making a soup, something thick and hearty for a cold December night. I took a couple of leeks from the fridge. I thought they looked like green onions that had grown up and lived adult lives now. I sliced them into coins and dropped them into a colander to rinse in the sink. Leeks are grown in sandy soil and need to be washed carefully before they're cooked. Some might find that a pain, but I liked all the small fiddly parts cooking, dicing things into even pieces, snipping herbs from stems, and even washing leeks. Once they were squeaky clean, I sautéed them in the bottom of my giant soup pot with olive oil and a pinch of salt. While they cooked down, I overturned a bag of golden potatoes onto the counter and started peeling and chopping. Then in with the potatoes and broth and fresh thyme and black pepper. I had a grandfather who believed wholeheartedly in the healing properties of black pepper. And I always added an extra pinch for him. I set the soup to simmer away and turned to the next task. The soup would be perfect to serve up in cups between rounds. But we also needed finger foods that wouldn't interrupt our all important play. For this I made Muhammara, a delicious dip of Syrian origin that felt pretty fancy but came together in a flash. It was made with roasted red peppers, walnuts, breadcrumbs, chili flakes, and pomegranate molasses. All blended together in my food processor. It was a beautiful, rich red color. And I spooned it into a few bowls, which I could set around the table, surrounded by fresh veggies and toasted flatbread. The soup was nearly ready and our friends were expected soon. And I had one more thing to make. It was a treat, a bit rich in flavor, but one of those snacks that folks just can't leave alone. Truffle popcorn. I popped a huge pot of popcorn. And when the kernels stopped pinging in the pan, I tipped all the fluffy hot pieces into a big brown paper bag. I drizzled truffle oil in a tiny stream over the corn and added a good bit of pink salt. Then I folded the top of the bag up and shook it for all I was worth. I heard the fire crackling in the grate and had a feeling I was being watched in my dance of the truffle corn fairy. But I didn't mind. How's that fire going? I called out. I just heard a laugh come back at me. I tipped the popcorn into a few bowls and set them out with a muhammara. I stuck a few stacks of napkins around the place and turned on some music. I had a couple bottles of bubbly for toasting the new year. And I pushed open the door from the kitchen out to the backyard and stuck them neck deep into the nearest snowdrift. This is a handy part of living somewhere with plenty of snow. The snowbank can be an extension of your refrigerator. As I was coming back in to stir the soup, I heard a friendly knock and the jingle bells on the front door ringing as our friends began to pile in. Oh, the loveliness of having friends, dear and old enough to treat your home as their own. As soon as coats were hung up and hugs exchanged, folks were reaching into cupboards for glasses, knowing just where the corkscrew and bottle-openers were and setting themselves down at the table, rolling up their sleeves and getting ready to play. I turned off the soup and set the lid ajar to let it cool. Unpoured myself a glass of something. The popcorn was disappearing just like I knew it would, and everyone wanted to know what its secret ingredient was. But I was stubborn about sharing. It's special to my house. You'll have to come here when you crave it, I finally said, and set down a few board game boxes and decks of cards on the table. As we debated what we'd play tonight. Last game night, I had taught them a card game that my family had played when I was young, and once everyone had caught on to its breakneck pace, we couldn't quit till nearly midnight. We'd called it Nazi, or sometimes Peanuts. But I'd heard it go by a dozen funny names, including the racing canfield, Peanuts pounce, Scramble, Squeal, and Scrooge. We all agreed. After last time, we had a few scores to settle, and decided to make it another night of cards. We cleared away the game boxes, and passed around decks of cards, and all started to shuffle. Card games had been a big deal in my family. I knew how to shuffle cards like a blackjack dealer by the time I was seven years old. And as I watched my friends mix and count out the first thirteen of each deck, pass them over to the person on their left. I had a strong memory of being the littlest one at the table with all my aunts and uncles. My feet not yet touching the ground as we set up our hands and waited with excitement for someone to shout, go. Then the sounds of flipping cards, cards slapped onto the table, and grown ups elbowing each other out of the way to get that seven of spades onto the six. Now to be in my own home, my own family of friends, the smell of popcorn and soup in the air, and all of us grinning around the table at each other, drumming our fingers, and waiting to turn that first card. I guess we'd probably forget to count down at midnight. Too busy laughing and playing. And then at some point run out into the snow to retrieve the champagne. We'd raise our glasses and make a resolution. This year more fun. Sweet dreams.