July 7, 2018 • 23 mins
Our story tonight is called “In the kitchen, during a storm” and it’s a story about doing something simple with great care. It’s also about the cool breeze that comes with a storm, remembering a sweet time in your past, and listening to records on a summer night.
So get cozy and ready to sleep.
This episode mentions alcohol.
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See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for grown ups, and which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nikolay,
with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Please keep sharing our
(00:24):
podcast any way you can with any one you know
who likes relaxing and good sleep. Now let me say
a little about how to use this podcast. I'm about
to tell you a bedtime story to help you relax
(00:44):
and drift off into sleep. It's a simple, cozy story
for you to nestle your mind down into so that
instead of getting snagged on thoughts from your day, you
just relax until there's nothing left to do but sleep.
(01:07):
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little
bit slower the second time through. If you find that
you're still awake at the end of the second telling,
don't worry. That's fine. You could listen again or just
walk your mind back through the parts of the story.
(01:29):
But you remember, this works particularly well if you wake
in the middle of the night, lean right back into
the story and it will put your mind right back
on track for sleep. Now it's time to turn off
(01:51):
your light, slip on your sleep mask and slide down
deep into your sheets. Set yourself up right now for
the best sleep possible. Get comfortable and take a slow,
(02:11):
deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.
Good one more like that, in and out. Our story
(02:37):
tonight is called in the kitchen during a storm, and
it's a story about doing something simple with great care.
It's also about the cool breeze that comes with the storm,
remembering a sweet time in your past, and listening to
(02:58):
records summer night. It was early evening and I was
slipping through a case of old records Billie Holiday or
Ella Oh chet Baker, That will do nicely. I slipped
(03:25):
it out of the sleeve and tilted the surface to
the light. I blew the dust off and slid it
on to the turntable. I lifted the needle and let
it touch down into the groove of the record. Then
leaned back in my chair and put my feet up.
(03:46):
As I listened, I hummed along, and, tucking one arm
behind my head, looked out the window at the silver
undersides of leaves on the trees in my back garden.
The wind was picking up. It had been a gray day,
but humid and still hot. Then, just in the last
(04:08):
hour or so, I'd felt the temperature begin to drop.
I stepped barefoot through my back door and stood on
the still warm stones of my patio. I took a
deep breath to taste the air, and I was sure
rain was coming. There is a feeling of energy around
(04:32):
a storm. At first, it might just be the relief
of the cooling air, but then there is an excitement
or a feeling of potential that boosts you up and
clears your head. I stood awhile longer, looking out of
the darkening sky and gripping the stones under my feet
(04:56):
with my toes. I knew what I would do. I
stepped back into the house and walked through the rooms,
cracking windows and lighting candles. I turned the music higher
and stepped into the kitchen, where I hadn't seriously been
for a few days because of the heat. I had
(05:19):
a large window over my kitchen sink, and a row
of potted herbs stood on its sill. It was an
old window, as it was an old house, so I
had to prop it open with a short wooden block
to keep it from slamming shut. The breeze blew through
my tiny herb garden, and I could smell basil and
a regano. I had a bottle of red wine opened
(05:44):
from the night before, and I reached into a cupboard
for a jam jar to drink from. Sometimes I was
fancy and used my best stem wine glasses, but often
when I was home alone and just pottering about the kitchen,
drinking from an old squat jam jar seemed just about right.
(06:07):
I pulled a wooden chopping board from a drawer and
laid out my chef's knife and put a wide, low
skillet on the range. I was going to make spaghetti
alpo modoro, the way I had been taught to years
ago in Italy. It was an incredibly simple dish that
(06:28):
used only a few ingredients and came together in no time,
but its tanging, bright flavor took me straight back to
afternoon meals around my family's table on the rocky southern
Italian coast. I'd been a foreign exchange student, and although
I didn't possess a drop of Italian blood, I felt
(06:50):
that after a year of walking her streets and learning
her language and falling in love with her people, I
had earned some Italian ness. My host family had taken
me in and loved me. Laughed at my funny accent
and rolled their eyes at my overly independent American tendencies.
(07:13):
But I'd become a member of the family, and even
now years later, we were close. Lunch came at around
two pm in Italy, and trudging home from school, I
would wonder what kind of pasta my mum would be
cooking that day. I'd take the stairs four flights up
(07:34):
to our apartment, slip my house key into the lock
and crack it just an inch, then stick my nose
into the doorway and take a deep breath in. Now
more or less a grown up in my own home,
I smiled at the memory and pulled together the ingredients
(07:56):
for my dinner. I filmed the bottom of the pan
with good olive oil and took a yellow onion from
the pantry. Mamma had shown me many times that less
was more in her cooking, that just because you have
a whole onion doesn't mean the dish needs a whole onion.
(08:17):
I was a dutiful daughter and cut a third off
the hole and sliced through the layers a few times.
I slipped them into the pan and turned the heat
to low. I just wanted to warm them through and
give them a tiny bit of color. Back to the
pantry for a large can of whole peeled tomatoes, groan
and packed. Just a few miles from where I had lived.
(08:40):
Mamma passed them through an old fashioned food mill in
her kitchen, turning the crank slowly and letting the tomato
skins catch in the wire weave of the filter. It
made a smooth sauce that slipped over the noodles and
coated them. I tipped mine into a bowl and used
my fingers to break them up a bit. Instead. I
(09:02):
didn't tell my mamma this. Everyone has their secrets. I
added the tomatoes to the pan and tipped salt into
the palm of my hand to measure it, then dusted
it down into the tomatoes and stirred. I kept the
heat on low and pinched a few basil leaves from
my pot by the window to toss whole into the sauce.
(09:27):
The rain was falling now, and I pressed my palm
to the sill to check if it was raining in.
It wasn't, and I was glad. The smell of the
grass and trees cooling in the rain was lovely. I
put a pot of water on the stove for the
spaghetti and sipped from my jam jar. The record had stopped,
(09:52):
and I wandered back into the other room to turn
it over. As I set the needle on the record,
I saw a flash of lightning in the darkening sky.
I waited, sitting back on my heels by the record player,
as the rumbling thunder grew louder. What a perfect night
for pasta and wine. My water was boiling, and I
(10:17):
spun the spaghetti into the pot, so it spread out
and began to sink. Some people stand over the pot
and test the noodles every few minutes, or do some
other nonsense about throwing pieces against the wall. But if
you want properly cooked al dente pasta, it's simple. Buy
(10:39):
good pasta made in Italy and cook it for the
length of time it says on the package. They know
what they're doing. I set out a place for myself
where I could look at the storm and hear the music,
and filled my jam jar again. I drained my pasta
(10:59):
and tipped it into the sauce, coating the noodles, and
with mouth watering plaited it up. I set my plate
down and sat myself at the table. I raised my
jam jar to chet Baker and my Mamma, and to lightning,
and to bare feet on patio stones and fresh pasil.
(11:23):
I took my nose down to my plate and let
the sweet, tangy steam cover my face. It was early evening,
and I was flipping through a case of old records
(11:43):
Billie Holiday or Ella, Oh, chet Baker, that will do nicely.
I slipped it out of the sleeve and tilted the
surface to the light. I blew the dust off and
(12:04):
slid it on to the turn table. I lifted the
needle and let it touch down into the groove of
the record. I leaned back in my chair and put
my feet up. As I listened, I hummed along, and,
(12:25):
tucking one arm behind my head, looked out the window
at the silver undersides of leaves on the trees in
my back garden. The wind was picking up. It had
been a gray day, but humid and still hot. Then,
(12:48):
just in the last hour or so, I had felt
the temperature begin to drop. I stepped barefoot through my
back door and stood on the still warm stones of
my patio. I took a deep breath to taste the air,
(13:13):
and I was sure rain was coming. There is a
feeling of energy around a storm. At first, it might
just be the relief of the cooling air, but then
(13:33):
there is an excitement or a feeling of potential that
boosts you up and clears your head. I stood a
while longer, looking out at the darkening sky and gripping
the stones under my feet with my toes. I knew
(13:58):
what I would do. I stepped back into the house
and walked through the rooms, cracking windows and lighting candles.
I turned the music higher and stepped into the kitchen,
where I hadn't seriously been for a few days because
(14:22):
of the heat. I had a large window over my
kitchen sink, and a row of potted herbs stood on
its sill. It was an old window, as it was
an old house, so I had to prop it open
(14:42):
with a short wooden block to keep it from slamming shut.
The breeze blew through my tiny herb garden, and I
could smell basil and a regonel. I had a bottle
(15:02):
of red wine open from the night before, and I
reached into a cupboard for a jam jar to drink from.
Sometimes I was fancy and used my best stemmed wine glasses,
but often when I was home alone and just pottering
(15:24):
about the kitchen, drinking from an old squat jam jar
seemed just about right. I pulled a wooden shopping board
from a drawer and laid out my chef's knife and
put a wide, low skillet on the range. I was
(15:46):
going to make spaghetti al pomodoro, the way I had
been taught to years ago in Italy. It was an
incredibly simple dish that used only a few ingredients and
came together in no time, but its tangy, bright flavor
(16:09):
took me straight back to afternoon meals around my family's
table on the rocky southern Italian coast. I'd been a
foreign exchange student, and although I didn't possess a drop
of Italian blood, I felt that after a year of
(16:32):
walking her streets and learning her language and falling in
love with her people, I had earned some Italian ness.
My host family had taken me in and loved me,
laughed at my funny accent and rolled their eyes at
(16:55):
my overly independent American tendencies. But I'd become a member
of the family, and even now, years later, we were close.
Lunch came at a round two p m. In Italy,
(17:19):
and trudging home from school, I would wonder what kind
of pasta my mamma would be cooking that day. I'd
take the stairs four flights up to our apartment, slip
my house key into the lock and crack it just
(17:42):
an inch, then stick my nose into the doorway and
take a deep breath in. Now more or less a
grown up in my own home, I smiled all at
the memory and pulled together the ingredients for my dinner.
(18:08):
I filmed the bottom of the pan with good olive
oil and took a yellow onion from the pantry. Mamma
had shown me many times that less was more in
her cooking, that just because you have a whole onion
(18:28):
doesn't mean the dish needs a whole onion. I was
a dutiful daughter and cut a third off the hole
and sliced through the layers a few times. I slipped
them into the pan and turned the heat to low.
(18:54):
I just wanted to warm them through and give them
a tiny bit of color. Back to the pantry for
a large can of whole peeled tomatoes, groan and packed
just a few miles from where I had lived. Mamma
(19:17):
passed them through an old fashioned food mill in her kitchen,
turning the crank slowly and letting the tomato skins catch
in the wire weave of the filter. It made a
smooth sauce that slipped over the noodles and coated them.
I tipped mine into a bowl and used my fingers
(19:41):
to break them up a bit. I didn't tell my
mamma this. Everyone has their secrets. I added the tomatoes
to the pan and tipped salt into the palm of
my hand to measure it, then dusted it down into
the tomatoes and stirred. I kept the heat on the
(20:07):
low end of medium, and pinched a few basil leaves
from my pot by the window to toss whole into
the sauce. The rain was falling now, and I pressed
my palm to the sill to check if it was
raining in. It wasn't, and I was glad. The smell
(20:32):
of the grass and the trees cooling in the rain
was lovely. I put a pot of water on the
stove for the spaghetti and sipped from my jam jar.
The record had stopped, and I wandered back into the
(20:52):
other room to turn it over. As I set the
needle on the record, I saw a flash of lightning
in the darkening sky. I waited, sitting back on my
heels by the record player, as the rumbling thunder grew louder.
(21:18):
What a perfect night for pasta and wine. My water
was boiling, and I spun the spaghetti into the pot,
so it spread out and began to sink. Some people
stand over the pot and test the noodles every few minutes,
(21:41):
nor do some other nonsense about throwing pieces against a wall.
But if you want properly cooked, I'll dente pasta. It's
simple by good pasta made in Italy, and cook it
for the length of time it says on the package.
(22:06):
They know what they're doing. I set out a place
for myself where I could look out at the storm
and hear the music, and filled my jam jar again.
I drained my pasta and tipped it into the sauce,
coating the noodles, and with mouth watering plaited it up.
(22:33):
I set my plate down and sat myself at the table.
I raised my jam jar to chet baker and my mamma,
and to lightning, and to bare feet on pattio stones
and a fresh basil. I tipped my nose down to
(22:56):
my plate and let the sweet, tangy steam cover my face.
Borne Petito and sweet dreams.
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for grown ups, and which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nikolay,
with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Please keep sharing our
(00:24):
podcast any way you can with any one you know
who likes relaxing and good sleep. Now let me say
a little about how to use this podcast. I'm about
to tell you a bedtime story to help you relax
(00:44):
and drift off into sleep. It's a simple, cozy story
for you to nestle your mind down into so that
instead of getting snagged on thoughts from your day, you
just relax until there's nothing left to do but sleep.
(01:07):
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little
bit slower the second time through. If you find that
you're still awake at the end of the second telling,
don't worry. That's fine. You could listen again or just
walk your mind back through the parts of the story.
(01:29):
But you remember, this works particularly well if you wake
in the middle of the night, lean right back into
the story and it will put your mind right back
on track for sleep. Now it's time to turn off
(01:51):
your light, slip on your sleep mask and slide down
deep into your sheets. Set yourself up right now for
the best sleep possible. Get comfortable and take a slow,
(02:11):
deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.
Good one more like that, in and out. Our story
(02:37):
tonight is called in the kitchen during a storm, and
it's a story about doing something simple with great care.
It's also about the cool breeze that comes with the storm,
remembering a sweet time in your past, and listening to
(02:58):
records summer night. It was early evening and I was
slipping through a case of old records Billie Holiday or
Ella Oh chet Baker, That will do nicely. I slipped
(03:25):
it out of the sleeve and tilted the surface to
the light. I blew the dust off and slid it
on to the turntable. I lifted the needle and let
it touch down into the groove of the record. Then
leaned back in my chair and put my feet up.
(03:46):
As I listened, I hummed along, and, tucking one arm
behind my head, looked out the window at the silver
undersides of leaves on the trees in my back garden.
The wind was picking up. It had been a gray day,
but humid and still hot. Then, just in the last
(04:08):
hour or so, I'd felt the temperature begin to drop.
I stepped barefoot through my back door and stood on
the still warm stones of my patio. I took a
deep breath to taste the air, and I was sure
rain was coming. There is a feeling of energy around
(04:32):
a storm. At first, it might just be the relief
of the cooling air, but then there is an excitement
or a feeling of potential that boosts you up and
clears your head. I stood awhile longer, looking out of
the darkening sky and gripping the stones under my feet
(04:56):
with my toes. I knew what I would do. I
stepped back into the house and walked through the rooms,
cracking windows and lighting candles. I turned the music higher
and stepped into the kitchen, where I hadn't seriously been
for a few days because of the heat. I had
(05:19):
a large window over my kitchen sink, and a row
of potted herbs stood on its sill. It was an
old window, as it was an old house, so I
had to prop it open with a short wooden block
to keep it from slamming shut. The breeze blew through
my tiny herb garden, and I could smell basil and
a regano. I had a bottle of red wine opened
(05:44):
from the night before, and I reached into a cupboard
for a jam jar to drink from. Sometimes I was
fancy and used my best stem wine glasses, but often
when I was home alone and just pottering about the kitchen,
drinking from an old squat jam jar seemed just about right.
(06:07):
I pulled a wooden chopping board from a drawer and
laid out my chef's knife and put a wide, low
skillet on the range. I was going to make spaghetti
alpo modoro, the way I had been taught to years
ago in Italy. It was an incredibly simple dish that
(06:28):
used only a few ingredients and came together in no time,
but its tanging, bright flavor took me straight back to
afternoon meals around my family's table on the rocky southern
Italian coast. I'd been a foreign exchange student, and although
I didn't possess a drop of Italian blood, I felt
(06:50):
that after a year of walking her streets and learning
her language and falling in love with her people, I
had earned some Italian ness. My host family had taken
me in and loved me. Laughed at my funny accent
and rolled their eyes at my overly independent American tendencies.
(07:13):
But I'd become a member of the family, and even
now years later, we were close. Lunch came at around
two pm in Italy, and trudging home from school, I
would wonder what kind of pasta my mum would be
cooking that day. I'd take the stairs four flights up
(07:34):
to our apartment, slip my house key into the lock
and crack it just an inch, then stick my nose
into the doorway and take a deep breath in. Now
more or less a grown up in my own home,
I smiled at the memory and pulled together the ingredients
(07:56):
for my dinner. I filmed the bottom of the pan
with good olive oil and took a yellow onion from
the pantry. Mamma had shown me many times that less
was more in her cooking, that just because you have
a whole onion doesn't mean the dish needs a whole onion.
(08:17):
I was a dutiful daughter and cut a third off
the hole and sliced through the layers a few times.
I slipped them into the pan and turned the heat
to low. I just wanted to warm them through and
give them a tiny bit of color. Back to the
pantry for a large can of whole peeled tomatoes, groan
and packed. Just a few miles from where I had lived.
(08:40):
Mamma passed them through an old fashioned food mill in
her kitchen, turning the crank slowly and letting the tomato
skins catch in the wire weave of the filter. It
made a smooth sauce that slipped over the noodles and
coated them. I tipped mine into a bowl and used
my fingers to break them up a bit. Instead. I
(09:02):
didn't tell my mamma this. Everyone has their secrets. I
added the tomatoes to the pan and tipped salt into
the palm of my hand to measure it, then dusted
it down into the tomatoes and stirred. I kept the
heat on low and pinched a few basil leaves from
my pot by the window to toss whole into the sauce.
(09:27):
The rain was falling now, and I pressed my palm
to the sill to check if it was raining in.
It wasn't, and I was glad. The smell of the
grass and trees cooling in the rain was lovely. I
put a pot of water on the stove for the
spaghetti and sipped from my jam jar. The record had stopped,
(09:52):
and I wandered back into the other room to turn
it over. As I set the needle on the record,
I saw a flash of lightning in the darkening sky.
I waited, sitting back on my heels by the record player,
as the rumbling thunder grew louder. What a perfect night
for pasta and wine. My water was boiling, and I
(10:17):
spun the spaghetti into the pot, so it spread out
and began to sink. Some people stand over the pot
and test the noodles every few minutes, or do some
other nonsense about throwing pieces against the wall. But if
you want properly cooked al dente pasta, it's simple. Buy
(10:39):
good pasta made in Italy and cook it for the
length of time it says on the package. They know
what they're doing. I set out a place for myself
where I could look at the storm and hear the music,
and filled my jam jar again. I drained my pasta
(10:59):
and tipped it into the sauce, coating the noodles, and
with mouth watering plaited it up. I set my plate
down and sat myself at the table. I raised my
jam jar to chet Baker and my Mamma, and to lightning,
and to bare feet on patio stones and fresh pasil.
(11:23):
I took my nose down to my plate and let
the sweet, tangy steam cover my face. It was early evening,
and I was flipping through a case of old records
(11:43):
Billie Holiday or Ella, Oh, chet Baker, that will do nicely.
I slipped it out of the sleeve and tilted the
surface to the light. I blew the dust off and
(12:04):
slid it on to the turn table. I lifted the
needle and let it touch down into the groove of
the record. I leaned back in my chair and put
my feet up. As I listened, I hummed along, and,
(12:25):
tucking one arm behind my head, looked out the window
at the silver undersides of leaves on the trees in
my back garden. The wind was picking up. It had
been a gray day, but humid and still hot. Then,
(12:48):
just in the last hour or so, I had felt
the temperature begin to drop. I stepped barefoot through my
back door and stood on the still warm stones of
my patio. I took a deep breath to taste the air,
(13:13):
and I was sure rain was coming. There is a
feeling of energy around a storm. At first, it might
just be the relief of the cooling air, but then
(13:33):
there is an excitement or a feeling of potential that
boosts you up and clears your head. I stood a
while longer, looking out at the darkening sky and gripping
the stones under my feet with my toes. I knew
(13:58):
what I would do. I stepped back into the house
and walked through the rooms, cracking windows and lighting candles.
I turned the music higher and stepped into the kitchen,
where I hadn't seriously been for a few days because
(14:22):
of the heat. I had a large window over my
kitchen sink, and a row of potted herbs stood on
its sill. It was an old window, as it was
an old house, so I had to prop it open
(14:42):
with a short wooden block to keep it from slamming shut.
The breeze blew through my tiny herb garden, and I
could smell basil and a regonel. I had a bottle
(15:02):
of red wine open from the night before, and I
reached into a cupboard for a jam jar to drink from.
Sometimes I was fancy and used my best stemmed wine glasses,
but often when I was home alone and just pottering
(15:24):
about the kitchen, drinking from an old squat jam jar
seemed just about right. I pulled a wooden shopping board
from a drawer and laid out my chef's knife and
put a wide, low skillet on the range. I was
(15:46):
going to make spaghetti al pomodoro, the way I had
been taught to years ago in Italy. It was an
incredibly simple dish that used only a few ingredients and
came together in no time, but its tangy, bright flavor
(16:09):
took me straight back to afternoon meals around my family's
table on the rocky southern Italian coast. I'd been a
foreign exchange student, and although I didn't possess a drop
of Italian blood, I felt that after a year of
(16:32):
walking her streets and learning her language and falling in
love with her people, I had earned some Italian ness.
My host family had taken me in and loved me,
laughed at my funny accent and rolled their eyes at
(16:55):
my overly independent American tendencies. But I'd become a member
of the family, and even now, years later, we were close.
Lunch came at a round two p m. In Italy,
(17:19):
and trudging home from school, I would wonder what kind
of pasta my mamma would be cooking that day. I'd
take the stairs four flights up to our apartment, slip
my house key into the lock and crack it just
(17:42):
an inch, then stick my nose into the doorway and
take a deep breath in. Now more or less a
grown up in my own home, I smiled all at
the memory and pulled together the ingredients for my dinner.
(18:08):
I filmed the bottom of the pan with good olive
oil and took a yellow onion from the pantry. Mamma
had shown me many times that less was more in
her cooking, that just because you have a whole onion
(18:28):
doesn't mean the dish needs a whole onion. I was
a dutiful daughter and cut a third off the hole
and sliced through the layers a few times. I slipped
them into the pan and turned the heat to low.
(18:54):
I just wanted to warm them through and give them
a tiny bit of color. Back to the pantry for
a large can of whole peeled tomatoes, groan and packed
just a few miles from where I had lived. Mamma
(19:17):
passed them through an old fashioned food mill in her kitchen,
turning the crank slowly and letting the tomato skins catch
in the wire weave of the filter. It made a
smooth sauce that slipped over the noodles and coated them.
I tipped mine into a bowl and used my fingers
(19:41):
to break them up a bit. I didn't tell my
mamma this. Everyone has their secrets. I added the tomatoes
to the pan and tipped salt into the palm of
my hand to measure it, then dusted it down into
the tomatoes and stirred. I kept the heat on the
(20:07):
low end of medium, and pinched a few basil leaves
from my pot by the window to toss whole into
the sauce. The rain was falling now, and I pressed
my palm to the sill to check if it was
raining in. It wasn't, and I was glad. The smell
(20:32):
of the grass and the trees cooling in the rain
was lovely. I put a pot of water on the
stove for the spaghetti and sipped from my jam jar.
The record had stopped, and I wandered back into the
(20:52):
other room to turn it over. As I set the
needle on the record, I saw a flash of lightning
in the darkening sky. I waited, sitting back on my
heels by the record player, as the rumbling thunder grew louder.
(21:18):
What a perfect night for pasta and wine. My water
was boiling, and I spun the spaghetti into the pot,
so it spread out and began to sink. Some people
stand over the pot and test the noodles every few minutes,
(21:41):
nor do some other nonsense about throwing pieces against a wall.
But if you want properly cooked, I'll dente pasta. It's
simple by good pasta made in Italy, and cook it
for the length of time it says on the package.
(22:06):
They know what they're doing. I set out a place
for myself where I could look out at the storm
and hear the music, and filled my jam jar again.
I drained my pasta and tipped it into the sauce,
coating the noodles, and with mouth watering plaited it up.
(22:33):
I set my plate down and sat myself at the table.
I raised my jam jar to chet baker and my mamma,
and to lightning, and to bare feet on pattio stones
and a fresh basil. I tipped my nose down to
(22:56):
my plate and let the sweet, tangy steam cover my face.
Borne Petito and sweet dreams.
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