Richard Pilling - Bon Appétit

I was fourteen when Richard was born.

I knew him better than he knew me in those days.

I can remember rocking him, singing to him, and hanging those cloth diapers out on clothes lines that were white with hoar frost.

There were boxes of rice pablum to mix with formula in the cupboard, a warm cloth to wash his face with and that blue wooden high chair to wash down when his meal was over. I was only one of a number of his caregivers in those days and not one he would remember, though those were days I still remember.

I don’t have the memories of growing up with him, as the younger siblings do, for they were in the last half of the family and had more contact with him that he would remember.

I cherish, instead, getting to know an older Richard, one who moved in with my family when he was at university. He was at my house when he was first diagnosed with diabetes. Together he and I had the fun of figuring out that what was going on my table wasn’t all that good for any of us.

No more could there be home-made bread with lots of sugar in the dough. Out went the sugar glazes on the gingered carrots. Harvard beets became a thing of the past, as did sweet sauces on meat.

We began to pay attention to portion control.

I read in his recipe book for diabetics that a salad for him was to be made of two of the leaves of a head of lettuce. “What! Even portion control on vegetables. How crazy it that?”, I thought.

Apples, oranges and bananas soon replaced what were formerly bowls of ice-cream for dessert.

I remember those days fondly – Richard and I in the kitchen, concerned with sharing food together, food that was good for everyone at the table.

If I could talk to him again, I would probably thank him for that fun.

Bon Appétit

Arta