Blueberry Voodoo

Those of you who have picked blueberries with me on Halls Hill know that I am slightly obsessed with their medicinal powers.  Ed calls it my Voodoo.  We used to pick at Grisamores, then a place in Spencer for a few years, but now Halls is the temple of choice.  Unless I pick and freeze at least 50 quarts of blueberries each summer, I am at risk.  I freeze the blueberries in empty, quart-sized yogurt containers.  I then have eight, half-cup servings per container and my health is protected for the forthcoming year.  If I plan to share them with others, we have to put away more than the requisite number.  This year’s haul was 62 quarts.

Everyone in the family has been pressed into service over the past dozen or more years.  David helps voluntarily when he is around.  Sarah has demurred for years, and my father pleaded old age when he turned 80, despite my promise that he could stop picking and take a rest as soon as he felt dizzy.  This was the first year my mother missed picking, since they returned to their new home in Denver before blueberries were ripe.  She loves being out on the mountaintop and is certain she is doing her part to keep me safe and healthy.  Ed is the most prolific picker of all.  No matter how hard I try, it is not possible to equal his speed.  Luckily, because he has retired, he was able to replace the lost help of Elaine and David this summer. 

Part of blueberry voodoo power is that we must pick and freeze them ourselves.  If we were to run out, store bought blueberries, purchased in plastic bags, would not hold the same mystical strength.  It leaks out as they languish in commercial freezers, one anonymous bag stacked upon another.

Last week, after the disastrous NYC trip, Ed and I went to see my wonderful doctor, to catch her up on what was happening and ask for some help.  My blood pressure was in an unfamiliar zone and I was functioning, but not so well.  I suspected I needed something beyond my usual voodoo.  We talked about the possibility of anxiety medicine, and my reluctance to partake.

“Are you sleeping?” she asked.

“Not much.”

“Are you eating?” she asked.

“Not much.”

“And your blood pressure is high, for you.”

“Yes.”

“I think you could use a mild anti-anxiety medication to help you calm down about this,” she said.

“Can I just take it when I need it?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And will it compromise my health in any way for whatever procedure we choose?”  (As if not sleeping or eating and high blood pressure would not.)

“No,” she said.  “It will not interfere with anything.  It will just help calm you down.”

Still, I had to think about it.  After all, orange plastic vials containing purchased pills from Rite Aid are absolutely anti-voodoo.

“Give her a prescription,” said Ed.  “We’ll put the pill in a blueberry.”

Now you know.

With love,

Karen