Losing Helen 
John Burnside
Back in the 1970s, when my mother was still alive, she got me a job at the fruit and nut processing factory where she worked. It was a good job, clean and fairly light compared to the steel mill where I’d been employed the previous summer and, like all food-related work, it had its perks. My favourite nuts were almonds, which I would send through the fryer in illicit batches, mostly for personal consumption, and it didn’t hurt, during the first few days, to hear from some of the older women that almonds were thought to enhance sexual performance. Amused and incredulous as I was, I ate them by the handful for several weeks, then noticed that I had gained eight pounds and quit cold turkey. I hadn’t realised a body could suffer withdrawal symptoms from giving up nuts, but I had a difficult week, towards the middle of August, when I dreamed of those pale, ridged lozenges dripping from the end of a conveyor belt in a bright slick of oil and salt.
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John Burnside’s new novel, Glister, will appear in May. He is a reader in English at St Andrews.
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