I do breakfast

This is a story I learned through the crooked branches of our genealogical tree. Ancestors Charles-Louis and Philomena Van Zandweghe crossed the ocean from Belgium to begin a new life at the turn of the 20th century. With their half-dozen children, two of Charles-Louis’ brothers and a group of friends made up of priests, a baker, a carpenter, a butcher, a notary and linen weavers, they settled in the village of Caplan, in the Gaspé wilds. The call of adventure, the chance to own farmland and the quest for a better life were enough for the Belgians to venture to this foreign land. The place became known unofficially as “Little Belgium” and later took on its present-day name, Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan. That is where the heroine of my story was born, on October 1, 1884, some 15 years before the Belgians set foot in the province of Quebec. I can hardly imagine the psyche of this young girl, condemned to live a dirt poor life on an arid earth that the settlers at that time had nicknamed “The Ordeal.” Her thoughts, her beliefs and her outlook were forged in a village where logging was the main activity. She hung around lumbermen, farmers, children who attended a one-room schoolhouse, a teacher and probably a priest. During her formative teenage years, I suppose the young girl developed her own identity, ideas and feelings. I would trade in all my wisdom to the devil to discover how she became such an admirable young woman. Unfortunately I have little information about her life to recount. What I do know is that her life took a turn when the Belgians arrived. For better or worse, dear readers, it’s up to you to decide. One beautiful Sunday morning, a smartly dressed man caught the attention of my heroine standing on the church steps. It was obvious that this stranger wasn’t a local. The young woman inquired and learned from the church official that a liner had just docked in Bonaventure. “Another shipload of Belgians!” she exclaimed. Wanting to make a good impression the next time she saw the stranger, she made herself a pretty pleated skirt with a bolero from the dress of a great aunt who’d passed. She waited anxiously for Sunday to arrive. A short while later, they were married on September 8, 1913. The beautiful bride was 29 and her handsome George, a year younger. For the sake of this story, let’s call the husband “Big George,” the one who never got his hands dirty. My leading lady quickly understood that her man preferred to show off his expensive clothes rather than weed the garden by hand. Big George hated manual labour. He always had a good excuse to get out of tilling the land, hauling firewood, feeding the animals, etc. He enjoyed going to the village, drinking gin at the general store, mailing a letter or taking over two hours to find himself a prettier, younger fish to fry and play with. All Big George was good for was helping to increase the population of the immigrant town, which was in desperate need of strong, able arms. Convinced he was doing his fair share of efforts, he got his wife pregnant eight times in 12 years: four boys and four girls to feed. It became necessary to extend the kitchen table, quadruple the size of the garden, bleed three pigs a summer, salt seven to eight barrels of cod and purchase a second horse, two new cows, brood hens, a few dogs, a metal bathtub and sensibly priced fabric to dress the kids. My heroine often cried in silence, especially when Big George had been drinking and made sexual advances that were no longer welcome. Rain or shine, she would avoid him at all costs. She cooked, sewed, did the laundry, cleaned the house and went out after dinner to weed her garden. I can picture her tired body, deformed, her arched back, her chapped hands, her cracked fingers uprooting the weeds while praying to God that the earth would feed her flock of children. Alone in her garden at dusk, she’d confide her feelings to the scarecrow. With everything she had sown, she’d tell herself, the kids would at least eat well and there’d be enough left over for canning. At the end of September, the poor exhausted mother had to be taken to the apothecary in the neighbouring village. She’d fallen while carrying a huge bucket of boiling water for Big George’s bath. Her arms, abdomen and legs were scalded, causing her great pain. She needed ointment. While she sat on a stool waiting, she overheard a few men talking about the gold mines in Timmins, Ontario. Many able-bodied men, both young and old, were headed there to make good money. The conversation didn’t fall on deaf ears. This hard-working woman decided her four sons would become miners and her four daughters would help her open a restaurant for the mines’ workers. A few days later, the woman confided her plan to the parish priest. She’d leave for Ontario with her sons who were old enough to work at the mines. She and her daughters would open and run a restaurant to feed the miners. “Make fishermen, farmers or priests of them instead!” replied the man in the neatly ironed black cloak. “God needs middlemen down here to save our souls.” The wife and mother didn’t reply. She thanked the priest for his sound advice and said goodbye. As for Big George and his new prince consort attire, the older he got, the more he hated Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan. When his wife suggested he visit his clergymen cousins who lived in Rhode Island, he quickly seized the opportunity to jump ship and escape “The Ordeal.” Very few people noticed the quiet departure of the woman and her eight children. They made their way to Montreal first, and then boarded a train bound for Timmins. When she reached her destination, my heroine was buzzing with enthusiasm. Two days after their arrival, she laid eyes on a large, abandoned house, not far from the mining facilities. At the notary’s, she shrewdly weighed her purse’s contents and offered half the requested amount. The boys started at the mine and the girls helped their mother in the kitchen and waited tables. The business immediately flourished thanks to the mother’s culinary talents and the “special favours” that some of the accommodating waitresses provided to the best male customers in the rooms above the restaurant. And so, after so much misery, that’s how my heroine improved her circumstances. I’ve often wanted to tell this story before, but hesitated each time. I was ashamed that a woman in my family had relied upon “special favours” to earn her bread. She died in Kapuskasing, Ontario, on July 5, 1967, shortly after I turned 20. Her name was also Cora. She was my father’s mother. And my enterprising grandmother. Cora ❤

In the Laurentians where I’ve lived for over 32 years, the intense summer heat followed by the cool fall nights have reddened the edges of the mountains. Right now, we are living in an art gallery as grand as the Louvre in Paris. But I know that at the beginning of November, massacred pumpkins will perish in silence in front of almost every house, giant spiders will weave silk ladders to climb down from the gutters and golden snakes will slither out from beneath our porches, teeth chattering. The weather will grow even colder, winter will cover the ground with its white blanket and, very shortly, I’ll be thinking of preparing for holiday feasts. I can already picture it: a large white apron worn over my immaculate chef’s white jacket, sleeves rolled up; a net covering my hair; comfortable shoes; baroque music playing in the background; and a thermos of steaming hot coffee. I take my position at the large kitchen table. The time to bake my spinach puffs is finally here! I place an enormous bowl for mixing the phyllo dough ingredients on the table. I’ve been making this recipe for 50 years and, without measuring a single ingredient, I already know that the kneaded dough will give me 5 large round sheets 15 inches in diameter and 1½ inches high. This will make about 20 delicious spinach puffs per baking sheet. In the large bowl, I put some white flour, Crisco all-vegetable shortening, beaten eggs, a pinch of salt and some Seven Up to bind the mixture as I knead the dough by hand. The more my expert hands get busy in the bowl, the more the dough becomes soft and yielding. I divide it in 25 small balls the size of an orange and flatten them out with the rolling pin to the size of a 9-inch plate. I brush each small sheet of dough with a thick coat of melted butter and roll them back into a ball. I let them rest for a moment while I take out a pot and quickly blanch 25 bags of store-bought spinach. I then drain the water and carefully wring out the moisture from the greens. In a large saucepan, I brown the spinach with a little butter, green onions and a generous amount of dill. When the mixture has cooled, I add in lots of coarsely grated feta. I’m already on my third coffee when it’s time for the most laborious part of the recipe. I have to take the 25 small, buttered dough balls and roll each one out again to the size of the large baking sheets. I place a thin round sheet of dough on a greased baking sheet and baste it with butter. Then I layer a second and third buttery sheet of dough. Next, I spread one-fifth of the spinach-feta mixture evenly over the top. This is covered with two more generously buttered sheets. The last sheet, however, has to have a lavish coating of butter. Since this is homemade phyllo dough, using real butter is essential. Before I place the baking sheets in the oven, I cut the dough into 2-inch squares. As soon as they come out of the oven, I cut them again to ensure they maintain their shape. I’ve always used round baking sheets, so some of the pieces end up uneven. I still remember the days when my teenage kids would hang around in the kitchen, enticed by the intoxicating smell of the freshly baked puff pastries. Under the pretext of taking the uneven pieces, they would clear a third of the baking sheet before the puffs even had time to cool down. Spinach puffs can easily be frozen before or after baking once they cool. I have to quickly place them in the freezer if I want to have any left for the holidays! Bless my hard-working hands, because almost everyone loves my spinach puffs! Cora ❤

I’m crazy about magazines and, recently, I discovered another one. It turns out the magazine “Bel âge” (the French Canadian version of “Good Times”) is incredibly interesting! It’s not a new publication, but I had never truly read it. And you know what? I recently mentioned it to my very good friend, a retired literature teacher with whom I spend my mornings at the coffee shop, and she offered me a big box full of old and newer copies of “Bel âge.” What a tremendous gift! Thirty-eight editions I can flip through with great interest when boredom threatens. I ask Google and learn that “Bel âge” was founded in 1987, the same year, dear readers, I started out in business and opened my first Cora restaurant. Coincidence? At that time, I was so incredibly busy creating an amazing breakfast concept that I didn’t stop, not even for a minute, to read anything else apart from recipes and books about business development. For nearly two decades, my head and heart were fully focused on creating a country-wide chain of over 100 Cora restaurant locations. Anyhow, let me get back to the magazine “Bel âge” and, most importantly, its page where a well-known personality is invited to reveal 10 things they love. I dilly-dally, I have fun, and since I still haven’t been asked to answer their 10 questions, I’ve decided to create my own list and share it with you! 1) An unforgettable moment The birth of my daughter’s first child. That morning, I cried tears of fear and happiness. I held her hand and wanted to take her place. When the tiny, hairy head emerged from my daughter’s womb, my heart drummed with pride. I was holding a small baby boy in my arms. Today, this wonderful young man occasionally eats dinner with his grandma. 2) A delicious address On Main Street in Saint-Sauveur, in the Laurentians, La Tonkinoise serves wonderful Asian fare. All my friends rave about it, and I’d eat there every noon or night if I could. The spring rolls are divine, the large soups are aphrodisiac, the General Tao dish is succulent and the shrimp pad thai is my favourite. The restaurant isn’t very big, but it has a large patio that accommodates everyone in the summer months. 3) My next travel destination Believe it or not, I dream of visiting the island of Crete, Greece’s largest island, with its impressive landscapes, picturesque bays, numerous beaches and turquoise sea. By myself or with a handsome fellow, maybe I could come to terms with the time I lived in a small Greek village with my three young kids, mother-in-law, sister-in-law and awful Husband. 4) Something I cannot do without I cannot do without three or four cups of coffee every morning and one or two more around 4 p.m., when I come home. My good friend Claude sometimes chides me. To limit any potential damage, I started allowing myself a small glass of orange juice from time to time in the evening. You see, when I worked at the restaurant, I strictly forbade anyone – the staff and my children included – to drink this elixir because it was so expensive. We could drink the coffee and pop, but not the orange juice! 5) A few big sources of happiness My three kids, their six children and my two great-grandsons The success of our business and our loyal staff My peerless friends! My need to write every morning My Mini Copper that takes me where I want to go All the walls of my house, covered in books The wildflowers in my yard, with which I create magnificent bouquets in the summer 6) A favourite photo on my cell phone There are so many! Here’s a recent one: my three-year-old great-grandson ready to jump in his great-grandmother’s pool! Every Sunday during the summer, his mom, dad and older brother dive in the water and swim like fish while I hide under the parasol. Click, click, a dozen photos to look back on next winter. 7) An inspiring book The book “Big Magic” by Elizabeth Gilbert, which I rushed to read when it was published. I often re-read some of the chapters just to learn more about how to write. For 10 years, this author has inspired and influenced tens of thousands of readers around the world. The book reveals the gifts we possess and encourages us to go on a quest in search of our own creativity by putting aside our pointless sufferings. Learning to write is a blessing from above. 8) A favourite dish During the last few years, I’ve gradually given up meat for no particular reason. Born in Gaspésie, I was raised on fish five or six days a week. As a teen, when an older cousin or Grandpa Frédéric took me fishing in their boat, I couldn’t sit still after casting my line. Whenever I caught something, like a big fat cod, a common sunfish or catfish, I was ecstatic! Today, I’m an old woman who still craves fish: salmon, cod, shrimp, scallop, crab legs and lobster when in season. I also love smoked salmon with a drizzle of olive oil and some capers. 9) A few of my favourites stores Shopping at Winners because it makes me walk! Even if my closets are full, I love heading there because it’s good for my legs and easy on my wallet. I also love going to the second-hand bookstore in Saint-Sauveur, one of my favourite destinations. I’m enthralled by the shelves of poetry; it’s like standing in front of a candy display. I stumble across treasures at this store: novels, practical books and masterpieces like “Les mots de ma vie” (the book hasn’t been translated, but the title means “the words of my life”) by Bernard Pivot, the man of my dreams. I love rummaging around the market in Val-David in the summer. Every time I go, I discover a new gourmet treat: chocolate caramel, hazelnut-filled bread and, for dinner, a delicious buckwheat crêpe. 10) A very precious souvenir A few years ago, an article I read prompted me to watch the 1998 Japanese movie AFTER LIFE, directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda. The movie asks the existential question, if you could keep one single memory and bring it with you into the afterlife, which one would it be? What would you do if there was a life after death and all your memories were erased except for one? Which memory would you decide to keep with you for eternity?  Which single memory is so important to you that you would want to remember it forever? In the movie, a group of people who have recently died find themselves in a place between heaven and earth – in limbo, I suppose – where they are given one week to choose a single memory from their past life. One single memory they will take with them into eternity. The movie shows and records the memory each person chooses; they can then watch it as many times as they wish thereafter. I can’t decide! What about you? Cora ❤️