I just got back from taking my sister to visit our family naturopath (for a persistent cold/cough/something (by “family” I mean that he was the one who delivered my brother, and the one whose office we went to as kids). Lucy was there last week to get antibiotics, and while she was waiting for him to finish up with other patients, he handed her a twenty and told her to go around the corner and get some yogurt. “Two big ones, plain, and a bunch of those little flavored Brown Cow yogurts.” “That’s a lot of yogurt,” she said. And he said, “I’m going to make smoothies for everyone. Oh, and get some food for yourself, too.”

Today she had blood drawn, and left her half-eaten banana behind on the table. While she was filling out paperwork, he comes out to the front office, holding up the banana, mischievous look in his eye, waiting for her to notice. Which takes about, oh, five minutes because she’s fairly oblivious. “This is unsterile,” he says with a straight face. Then he goes back and brings out the sweater she left behind. “This is unsterile, too.”

My favorite story, though, is about when my mom was in labor and Dr. Dan and his wife (a midwife) were at our house, and their kids, naturally, were playing in the front yard (what, doesn’t your doctor bring his kids along to births?) And my mom screamed at one point and startled his son so badly that he fell out of the walnut tree.

Time for a smoothie, speaking of…