No really, I can't eat any more sugar

My uncle has diabetes. My uncle married into the family, which is odd. Most people try and marry out of it. BMU (Before my uncle) no one in our family had diabetes. The problem is that while we understand diabetes in theory, we can't get the practical application correct. Most of the time this doesn't matter, my aunt and uncle live on practically the other side of the world, but they come home at Christmas and they stay with my grandparents.

My grandmother keeps cookies and bars in her freezer. At any given time, she has about a dozen different kinds just ready to be defrosted. My grandfather makes a Scottish fudge which is practically pure sugar. We like sweet things. Apparently diabetics can only eat a certain amount of sugar. I like when my uncle comes to visit, I can eat his portion of sweets. Or I could if my grandmother hadn't figured that one out pretty quickly. Trying to outmaneuver my grandmother is like trying to put someone in check-mate with a pawn. You're doomed before you even try.

The best part about helping in the kitchen is getting sent downstairs to put the cookie plate together. The entire reason this job exists is so that the lucky helper gets to help him or herself to his or her favourite cookie. I try to ensure that the helper is a she which is me. But oh no, my grandmother had to send my uncle. I protested loudly and fiercely, "That's a stupid idea. He can't even help himself to extras. I mean why would you send him . . . ." Oh I get it. He won't snitch. He can't snitch. My grandmother had finally found the perfect helper. She had been waiting a long time for this. To stop her own children from helping themselves to the frozen cookies, she had locked the freezer which only forced them to become lockpicks at a young age.

My uncle though didn't realise how the cookie tray worked. He proudly brought it back upstairs whereupon we all looked at him blankly. My aunt broke the silence, "You're missing the bird's nests." The rest of us chimed in, "Where are the yum-yum's?" "What about those round things?" "Where are the rice crispy squares?" At this my uncle pointed to them on the plate. "No not those ones, the chocolate ones." We summed it up in one great big chorus, "You haven't got them all."

He looked dumb-founded at the plate. "But there's eight different ones and I made sure that there was enough for everyone." Someone, maybe it was me, blurted out, "But I normally have two of those and that's before it's even left the kitchen . . . . I mean . . . ."

After lunch, the cookies were passed round. We ensured that my uncle got his share. The only problem was that after about two cookies he wouldn't have any more. We tried harder. "Try those ones, they're really good." I even tried to get him to try the nanimio bars. But he wouldn't try them. "Remember, I'm diabetic." We would nod gravely and then offer him a chocolate chip cookie. We just didn't get it.

It's a good job my uncle can say no repeatedly. His entire visit we tried to put him in a sugar-induced coma. We were trying to be a good hosts. I think he appreciated it. I think he'll come back next year. I hear from my aunt, he's upping the medical insurance. I also hear he's had a t-shirt made. It just says NO and then in smaller letters, thank-you. My grandmother says she's going to give him the keys to the freezer. My brother and I are are practising picking pockets. We can already pick the lock.