← Sleep Tight Stories - Bedtime Stories for Kids
Sleep Tight Stories - Bedtime Stories for Kids
Chef Libby and the Pizza That Saved the Afternoon 🍕(2nd helping of pizza)
00:20:56
The worlds most beloved bedtime story about a pizza loving cat
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Hi friends. Our SleepType premium includes 12 classic children's chapter books recorded the way they were meant to be listened to, plus original character stories, extra episodes every month, and no interruptions across all 17 of our shows. It's made by two parents in a small fishing village on Prince Edward Island, a second grade teacher and her husband, a second grader at heart who believe in the power of a good story at bedtime. Premium is a wonderful way to support that and to have a little more of it for your family each week. Find Sleept Premium on Apple Podcasts or at sleeptight.supercast.com. Hello friends, and welcome to Sleeptight Stories. Libby is home with Margarita and looking for something to do. She painted a picture, she read a book, and now she has no idea what she can do next. When she follows Margarita to the kitchen, Libby knows exactly what she can do. Chef Libby and the Pizza that Saved the afternoon. Libby was still sound asleep when her mother came into her room and gently shook her shoulder. Hey sleepyhead, are you awake? Her mother asked. Libby groaned and burrowed deeper under the covers. What's wrong, Mom? I thought it was Saturday. It's not Monday already, is it? That would be extremely unfortunate. Her mother laughed. Nope, still Saturday. But I just got called into work. It's kind of an emergency or I would have said no. I couldn't leave without seeing you up and out of bed, and definitely not without saying goodbye. It's okay, Mom. I don't mind going back to sleep, Libby mumbled. Really, just wake me when you get home. Her mother chuckled. You're hopeless. Margarita, think you could help me out here? She seems determined to sleep until next week. Right on cue, Margarita stretched her back, patted across the blanket, and began licking Libby's eyebrows with great enthusiasm. Margarita. Libby. Libby yelped, wriggling away. That's so weird. You know I don't like that, at least when I am trying to sleep. What a silly cat. Her mother said, shaking her head with a smile. OK, up you get. I need to head out in 10 minutes and I want to see you at the table eating breakfast before I go. Libby sighed dramatically. Oh fine. I'm up. I have lots of painting I want to do anyway. That's the spirit. Her mother said, disappearing down the hallway. After getting dressed and washing up, Libby eventually shuffled into the kitchen with her hair in a twisty pillow tangle and her headphones hanging around her neck. She blinked in surprise when she saw the plate waiting for her. Mom, you didn't have to make me breakfast. I'm perfectly capable of making cereal for myself. I know you are, her mother replied, pouring her coffee into her travel mug. But I felt bad leaving you home alone today, so I thought you deserved something special. Libby raised an eyebrow. Pizza shaped pancakes with syrup for sauce and strawberry slices for pepperoni, her mother said proudly. Libby laughed. You should make one for Margarita. They both looked down at the orange cat who was now sitting at Libby's feet with a face that very clearly said, don't bother, I've already filled her bowl with snacks. Her mom said, giving Libby a quick kiss on the forehead. Call me if you need anything, okay? I will, Libby said, taking a bite of her pancake. Hey, can you bring home some real pizza for dinner? Her mother smiled. We'll see. Please? It's Saturday. That's pizza law. We'll see, her mother called back, grabbing her bag as the front door swung shut behind her. After finishing her breakfast and placing her dishes in the dishwasher, Libby poured herself another glass of milk and padded into her room, paint brushes already on her mind. Are you going to be my muse today, Margarita? She asked as the orange cat leapt gracefully onto the bed and immediately curled into a tight ball. Libby pulled her easel near the window where the light was soft and golden. She glanced around at her shelves of books and sketches, her fingers already itching to begin. What should I paint today? She mused aloud. A landscape of the park? Another forest of purple trees? Or a portrait of someone very lazy and very orange? She looked at Margarita, now fully asleep, one paw stretched above her head. Hmm, lots of help you are. But then she smiled. I'll paint something called Sleeping Cat. That'll do. Even when you're not trying, you. You still inspire me. Libby set to work. She painted the slow rise and fall of Margarita's breath, the crinkle of her ear, and the way the sunlight slipped across the bedspread. She lost track of time, layering colors, adding tiny details, barely stopping to sip her milk or stretch her fingers. By the time she cleaned her brushes and stepped back to look at the finished piece, the shadows on her wall had shifted and the room was warm with early afternoon light. Libby sat cross legged on the floor, paint still on her hands, and let out a quiet sigh. Okay, she whispered to no one in particular. That was a good one, but she didn't feel like starting another. Instead, with her stomach grumbling, Libby wandered into the kitchen, made herself a sandwich, and returned to her room with a spend the rest of the day reading. She grabbed a familiar book from the shelf and curled up by the window, eating and turning pages, lost in the story until the final chapter came and went and then she just sat. She didn't feel like painting. She'd already painted all morning and her hand was a little sore. She didn't feel like reading anymore either. She'd read every book on her shelf at least three times, including the one about dragons who love tacos. And her homework finished last night, even the math. Margarita was still asleep, though now she was upside down, all four paws in the air, like she was dreaming about floating. Libby flopped back on the floor and groaned. Okay, she declared to the ceiling. I am officially bored. She wandered around the house like she was looking for something, but she wasn't sure what. Nothing seemed interesting. Nothing called out to her. Her mom had to work on a Saturday, which felt completely unfair, and all her friends were busy, so Libby had to figure this one out on her own. From the corner of her eye, Libby spotted a familiar orange blur stretching in the hallway. Oh, you're awake, she said as Margarita sauntered out of the bedroom and leapt onto the couch like she absolutely owned it. Libby flopped down beside her. Well, got any ideas? I'm so bored I might clean my room. Willingly, maybe. Margarita blinked slowly, said meh. And jumped right back down without so much as a glance. Wait, where are you going? Don't abandon me now. She followed Margarita into the kitchen, where the cat stood right on cue, firmly planted beside her food bowl. This is your big idea? Eat something? Libby asked. I don't think snacks will help. Or are you saying you need a snack? Margarita flicked her tail. It was unclear, possibly both. Well, Libby sighed, opening the fridge, maybe we could share something. But inside the fridge there was no leftover pizza. She checked the freezer. No pizza bites. Not even a single, slightly stale pizza flavored cracker, the kind Margarita sometimes liked to bat around before licking the cheesy dust off her paws. Hmm, libby muttered. Then her eyes lit up. If there's no pizza to eat, maybe we should make one. Margarita gave her a long, slow blink, then tilted her head in that very specific Are you absolutely sure about this way? Libby nodded. Yep, Chef Libby is on the case. She tied on her mother's apron, the one with tiny tomatoes printed all over it, washed her hands like her mom had taught her, and pulled out the family recipe notebook. It was mostly filled with sketches and old stuff, but the pizza page was good and she remembered the basics. Okay, she said, cracking the fridge open again. Let's see what we've got. She started gathering ingredients for a proper margherita pizza, a bag of flour from the bottom cupboard, a packet of yeast that felt squishy and suspiciously warm, a bottle of tomato sauce her mom had made last week, a bag of shredded mozzarella that still smelled fresh, and a few sprigs of basil from the windowsill, droopy, but definitely still basil. Perfect, libby whispered, grinning. It's like it was meant to be. Margarita hopped onto the counter and gave the basil a slow, approving sniff. No pineapple, no pepperoni, libby declared. This is a margherita pizza, after all. The cat blinked once, clearly in agreement, then curled into a sunny spot and prepared to supervise. Libby rolled up her sleeves and dumped the flour into a big mixing bowl. A cloud of white puffed into the air and landed quite perfectly on Margarita's nose. Oops, Libby said, giggling. The cat squinted, sneezed once, and gave her a look that clearly said, watch it, Chef. Next came the yeast. Libby read the instructions twice. Mix with warm water, not too hot. She dipped her finger in the water to test it, nodded confidently, and poured it in. Now we stir, she announced. The spoon clunked around the bowl a few times, then stopped moving. The dough had become a stubborn, sticky blob. She pushed her sleeves up even higher and reached in with both hands. Okay, dough, lets do this. It stuck to everything. Her fingers, her wrists, even her elbow. She tried to knead it like she'd seen on tv. Fold, press, fold, press. But the dough had other ideas. It stretched, tore, flopped, and flung a small glop onto the window. Margarita watched from the counter, tail flicking, eyes wide. Chef Libby was clearly in the middle of an epic battle. After what felt like hours, but was really just 15 minutes, the dough finally gave in. Libby plopped it into a bowl and covered it with a clean dish towel. Now we wait for it to rise, she said, wiping her hands on her apron, which now looked like it had been through a flower storm. While the dough rested, Libby cleaned the counter, opened the bag of cheese, sampling a few generous handfuls strictly for quality control, and carefully arranged the basil leaves on a little plate like she was preparing for royalty. Margarita hopped down from the counter and rubbed against her legs. I know, libby said. We're not done yet, but we're close. When the dough was ready, she rolled it out. Well, tried to. The shape was not quite round, but more like a wobbly oval with a little tail at one end. But Libby didn't mind. She spread the tomato sauce in gentle spirals, added the shredded mozzarella, and tucked a few bright green Basil leaves on top. There, she said proudly. Not perfect, but perfectly ours. She slid it into the oven, set the timer, and sat on the floor beside Margarita to wait. The kitchen smelled of tomatoes, bread, cheese, and something warm and wonderful. Libby smiled and rested her head against the cabinet. She had started the afternoon bored and a little grumpy, but now. Now she was Chef Libby, pizza maker for an orange cat. And that pizza. It was going to be just right. Ding. The timer buzzed and Libby jumped to her feet. She opened the oven carefully, just like her mom had taught her, and peeked inside. The crust was golden at the edges, the cheese bubbling gently, and the basil crisped just a tiniest bit. It looked delicious, and it smelled like possibly the best piece pizza the world had ever known. Libby placed the pizza on a wooden board and admired it for a moment. It was a little lopsided, one corner was thicker than the rest, and the cheese had slid into a cheerful puddle near the middle, but Libby didn't care. Not one bit. She cut it into wobbly slices and placed one on a plate, setting it on the table with a grand Ta da. Margarita, she called. Your pizza is ready. The cat jumped up onto the chair and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing with curiosity. She gave the pizza a long look, then delicately licked a tiny drop of cheese from the edge of the crust. Libby smiled. I'll take that as a yes. She sat down beside her, took a bite, and closed her eyes. It was soft and crispy and melty and bright. It tasted absolutely delicious. Libby took another bite and leaned back in her chair, watching Margarita daintily nibble at her slice. Not bad, she whispered, for an afternoon that seemed absolutely boring. Margarita let out a soft meh, which Libby decided meant absolutely brilliant. Just then, the front door creaked open. I'm home, her mother called out. And guess what I brought. She stepped into the kitchen, holding a large square box and grinned. Pizza. I didn't want to break the pizza law. Libby blinked, then burst out laughing. I forgot, Mom. Margarita and I. Well, just me, really. We were so bored this afternoon that I decided to try making pizza like yours. Her mom glanced at the flower on the floor, the cheese smudged plates, and the slightly lopsided pizza sitting proudly on the table. Oh, she said, impressed. Well, I guess that means this will become some kind of pizza party. We can never have too much pizza, libby said, grinning as Margarita licked a final crumb from the plate. Don't you think so, Margarita? Margarita gave a long, satisfied purr and flopped dramatically onto her back. And just like that, the most boring afternoon ever had turned into one of the very best. And that is the end of our story. Good night. Sleep tight.