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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 Woodersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the furniture bank of Metro Detroit.
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Now, here's how this works. By letting your mind follow along with the sound of my voice and the gentle shape of the story to come, we'll shift your brain activity into a place where sleep is accessible. It will happen automatically, especially the more you use this podcast. It will become like a deeply ingrained habit.
You'll hear my voice, and you will song right out.
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, just press play again. Our story tonight is called "Punchki Day" at the bakery, and it's a story about a bustling morning in a shop downtown. It's also about rose hip jam, and powdered sugar, wax paper, and yearly traditions that have lasted for as long as anyone can remember.
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“So snuggledown, the day is done, your work is over, and you are exactly where you are”
supposed to be right now. I'll be here, keeping watch, guarding the gates long after you fall in a sleep.
Draw a deep breath in through your nose, and sigh it out.
Again, breathe in, and out. Good. Poonchky Day at the bakery. There are a few things that will entice folks to wait in line under gray skies. On the slushy sidewalks, at this time of year, but a sweet, rich, street, or even better,
a box of them, still warm and smelling of jam and powdered sugar, just may do it. And considering that these treats are not available all year round, that they make a very brief appearance on bakery counters and store shelves, and are therefore all the more precious. Well, I've seen people stand, bundled up, and are driving snowstorm, or struggle to keep umbrella's open against pelting sleet for that.
And today it was neither snowing nor sleeting, so the line stretched down the block. Nearly to the entrance of the park, and the people waiting in it, or in good spirits, stomping their feet now and then against the cold, geniusly bickering over the best flavors, and the proper pronunciation of the delicious Polish donuts that had drawn them all out at the end of winter.
The baker had, of course, heard it all over the years, that the only traditional fillings
“were plumb butter, or rose hip jam, that it wasn't punch key, but punch key, that they”
should be rolled in castor sugar, while still hot, or dusted with powdered sugar as they could, she had long ago adopted the policy of simply agreeing with whatever customer she was serving, nodding shrewdly as she reached for another sheet of wax paper, and filled a box after box, tradition was important, she knew, and so let each patron protect their own version of it, and she certainly did stock those heritage flavors, but also had raspberry,
Or strawberry jam, as well as lemon custard, and vanilla cream, she'd grown u...
punch key, but let herself be corrected, good naturedly, by those who'd grown up hearing
it said some other way, most customers had favorites, they secured right away, then filled the rest of the box with a mix of the other flavors, to pass around the office, or kitchen.
“Occasionally, she'd have a punch key newbie, a first timer, who felt both the weight of”
an assortment of options, and a long line at their heels, she, in fact, had what she
called first punch key day boxes, which held a selection with each flavor they sold,
as well as a small card, with some information about them, and like chocolates in a sampler, to diagram printed inside the box, identifying each one, the newbies often let out a sigh, as she handed over a box, and relieved stepped down to the register, with a grateful
“smile on their faces, punch key day required a good deal of preparation in order to run”
smoothly, and provide enough for each patron, who suddenly finding themselves at the front
of the line, might be struck with a surge of generosity, and think to themselves, let me also get a dozen for the night shift, or the family next door, or the teacher's lounge. The baker had a system that had been refined over the years, it involved an ordering process that started the month before, filling and dough prep that required extra staff, and a
“conveyor belt of bakers, working the friars, and piping bags, and kitchen carts, and”
heaven forbid the custards, get mixed up with the creams, at least the jelly-filled doughnuts, showed a dot of the fruit, where the nozzle went in to identify them, and certainly if they made just a few batches, some brave self-sacrificing soul could volunteer to taste one to identify it, but they would make hundreds of batches with thousands of pastries, so a strict organizing system involving colored baking paper was adhered to.
By 830 in the morning, she heard that the line had reached all the way into the park, and that some folks were sitting on benches while they waited for it to advance. The baker blushed when she heard that. The year before it had not gotten that long, but it seemed that the word was out, and that people were coming from farther and farther away for their poochies.
She had a number of sold pastries in her head that she was hoping to hit. She hadn't said it aloud to anyone. She just planned for it, believed in it, and would know when she'd hit it, or even surpassed
It.
By the wall of ready boxes stacked up along the coffee station, it had reached to the ceiling
“when she'd flipped the open sign this morning, and now, just an hour and a half later,”
she peaked over her shoulder to see that it was only hip-high. The heat from the friars was balanced out by the constant opening of the doors, as customers inched in, and others squeezed out. There was a jovial atmosphere on the sidewalk, as folks made friends after standing in line so long together.
And inside the bakery itself, there was an ordered chaos, as the cash register rang, and calls for more napkins, and, behind, were heard and heated.
“The baker noticed a commotion outside the window, and heard raised voices, and braced herself”
for a possible low-blood sugar-related tantrum, or line-cutting scandal. Instead, she saw the waitress from the diner across the street, ushering a young man in a tie and coat through the door.
It's his first day at work, and he wants to bring a couple dozen in to make a good impression.
Make way folks, let's help him out, he can't be late, we've all been there. People smiled, and made way, when the young man nervously adjusted his tie, and thanked them as the path cleared. There are some people in town who can do these types of things. They are known, have put in their time at local spots, long enough to be listened to when
they raise their voice. The waitress had worked early mornings, and late nights for years, and poured coffee for just about every resident of the village, at one point or another. She'd earned the right to make such a call. She guided the new office worker right over to the baker, and told him to, "What
do you go ahead dear, just plan better next time?" He swallowed, and began to point to various flavors, asking for two of those three of these, the waitress winked at the baker, while she packed the boxes, and got a chuckling smile and returned. As the man carried the boxes to the register, and the line resumed its movement, the
waitress slipped behind the counter, to claim the diner's own order, a rolling cart full of their usual sandwich breads and muffins, as well as wrapped trays of the day special donuts. She'd roll its straight out the back door, and down the alley to the diner's kitchen.
“She and the baker were important cogs in this downtown breakfast machine, and today they”
were showing off how seamlessly it could run. By the time they would meet for a sandwich this afternoon, they'd have a few stories to share.
The baker would finally say the number she'd had in her head, and how many dozens over it
they'd sold.
The waitress would tell her the young man's name, and now he'd called later f...
office to think her.
“They joked sometimes that one of them should run for mayor, but that they got much more”
done this way.
Punchki Day at the bakery.
There are a few things that will entice folks to wait in line, under gray skies, on the slushy sidewalks at this time of year, but a sweet, rich treat, or even better. There are a box of them, still warm, and smelling of jam, and powdered sugar. May just do it.
And considering that these treats are not available all year round, that they make a very brief
appearance. On bakery counters, and store shelves, and are therefore all the more precious. Well, I've seen people stand bundled up in a driving snowstorm, or struggle to keep umbrellas open against pelting sleet for that.
And today, it was neither snowing nor sleeting, so the line stretched down the block, nearly
to the entrance of the park, and the people waiting in it, were in good spirits, stomping their feet, now and then, against the cold, genially bickering over the best flavors, and the proper pronunciation of the delicious Polish donuts that had drawn them all out at the end of winter. The baker had, of course, heard it all over the years, that the only traditional fillings
“were plum butter, or rose hip jam, that it wasn't punch-key, but punch-key, that they”
should be rolled in caster sugar, while still hot, or dusted with powdered sugar, as they cooled. She had long ago adopted the policy of simply agreeing with whatever customer she was serving, nodding shrewdly, as she reached for another sheet of wax paper, and filled box after box.
“Tradition was important, she knew, and so let each patron protect their own version”
of it, and she certainly did stock those heritage flavors, but also had raspberry, or strawberry jam filling, as well as lemon custard, and vanilla cream. She had grown up saying, "Punch-key," but let herself be corrected, good naturedly, by those who'd grown up hearing it said some other way.
Most customers had favorites, they secured right away, then filled the rest o...
with a mix of the other flavors, to pass around the office, or kitchen.
“Occasionally, she'd have a punch-key newbie, a first timer, who felt both the weight of an”
assortment of options, and a long line at their heels.
She, in fact, had what she called, first punch-key day boxes, which held a selection, with
each flavor they sold, as well as a small card, with some information about them, and like chocolates in a sampler, had a diagram printed inside the box, identifying each one.
“The newbies often let out a sigh of relief, as she handed a box over, and they stepped”
down to the register, with a grateful smile on their faces.
Each day required a good deal of preparation in order to run smoothly, and provide enough for each patron, who suddenly finding themselves at the front of the line might be struck with a surge of generosity, and think to themselves, let me also get a dozen for the
“night shift, or the family next door, or the teacher's lounge.”
The baker had a system that had been refined over the years, and involved an ordering process
that started the month before, filling and dough prep that required extra staff, and a conveyor belt of bakers, working the friars, and piping bags, and kitchen carts, and heaven forbid, the custards get mixed up with the creams, at least the jelly-filled doughnuts showed a dot of the fruit, where the nozzle went in to identify them. And certainly, if they made just a few batches, some brave self-sacrificing soul would volunteer
to taste one, to identify it, but they would make hundreds of batches, thousands of pastries, so a strict organizing system involving colored baking paper was adhered to. By 830 in the morning, she heard that the line had reached all the way into the park, and that some folks were sitting on benches while they waited for it to advance. The baker blushed when she heard that.
The year before it hadn't gotten that long, but it seemed that the word was out, and people were coming from farther and farther away for their poochies. She had a number in her head of pastry's soul that she was hoping to hit.
She hadn't said it aloud to anyone, just planned for it, believed in it, and ...
when she hit it, or even surpassed it.
“By the wall of ready boxes stacked up along the coffee station.”
It had reached to the ceiling when she'd flipped the open sign this morning, and now, just an hour and a half later, she peaked over her shoulder, to see it was only hip-high. The heat from the friars was balanced out by the constant opening of the doors as customers
inched in, and others squeezed out.
There was a jovial atmosphere on the sidewalk, as folks made friends, after standing in mine so long together.
“And inside the bakery itself, there was an ordered chaos, as the cash register rang, and”
calls for more napkins, and behind, were heard, and heated.
The baker noticed a commotion outside the window, and heard raised voices, and braised
herself for a possible low blood sugar-related tantrum, or line-cutting scandal. Instead, she saw the waitress from the diner across the street, ushering a young man in a tie, and coat through the door.
“It's his first day at work, and he wants to bring a couple dozen in to make a good impression.”
Make way folks, let's help him out, he can't be late, we've all been there. Little smiled, and made way, and the young man nervously adjusted his tie, and thanked them as the path cleared. There are some people in town who can do these types of things. They are known, have put in their time at local spots long enough to be listened to when
they raise their voice. The waitress had worked early mornings and late nights for years, and poured coffee for just about every resident of the village at one point or another. She'd burned the right to make such a call. She guided the new office worker right over to the baker, and told him to go ahead
to the deer, just plan better next time. He swallowed and began to point to various flavors, asking for two of those three of these. The waitress winked at the baker, while she packed the boxes, and got a chuckling smile in return. As the man carried the boxes to the register, and the line resumed its forward movement,
the waitress slipped behind the counter to claim the diners' own order, a rolling cart full of their usual sandwich spreads, and muffins, as well as wrapped trays of the day's special
Donuts.
She'd roll it straight out the back door, and down the alley to the diners' kitchen.
“She and the baker were important dogs in this downtown breakfast machine, and today”
they were showing off how seamlessly it could run.
By the time they would meet for a sandwich this afternoon, they'd have a few stories to share.
“The baker would finally say the number she'd had in her head, and how many dozens over”
it, they had sold.
The waitress would tell her the young man's name, and now he'd called later from the office
to think her.
“They joked sometimes that one of them should run for mayor, but that they got more done this”
way. Sweet dreams.
