I do breakfast

Dear readers, this week’s letter wasn’t written by your favourite author. Instead, we handed the honour to Gigi, Mme Cora’s daughter. Gigi wrote this homage to her mother on her birthday, and we’re delighted to share it with you here. MAY 27, 2025 Seventy-eight years ago, my mother was born to a couple that married out of convenience and duty, not for love or passion. Her mother was in love with a Protestant man. That union was unacceptable to her family and to her religion. She accepted the first Catholic man willing to take her, but the groom had no idea of his new bride’s despair. His joyful heart would soon be broken, his dreams of a loving family dashed. My mother grew up in a home devoid of happiness, with a mother suffering from bi-polar disorder and a father lost in drink and sadness. She later reluctantly married a man newly arrived in Canada, carrying with him his own baggage of mental health issues and beliefs of male superiority. She was with child, and in her eyes, she had to pay for her sin of sex before marriage. She endured 13 years of violence, both physical and emotional. My father beat her, berated her, cheated on her and bet all his money away in card games. She left him on the day he hit me, with nothing more than the family station wagon and her purse. She worked tirelessly to support us, receiving nothing from him. He moved abroad, “so that I don’t kill her,” he later justified. Her parents helped her with us until they both died suddenly, her father on the day of his leukemia diagnosis, and her mother in a deadly car accident. Alone to raise us, she worked 100-hour weeks for years until finally, she burnt out and spent a year on the couch trying to learn how to take care of herself. On this date, May 27, 1987, she opened the first of what would become a beloved chain of breakfast restaurants in Canada. She worked and worked, falling asleep with recipe books on her face for three years before we sent her away on a vacation for fear she would have another burnout. When she came back from that trip to Paris, where she slept for 7 of the 10 days she was there, we were excited to show her that we hadn’t poisoned any of her adored clients! “Find something else to do,” we clamoured. “We can run this place.” She did. After much exploration of what else she could do, she seized an opportunity to open a second restaurant that would delight even more customers with our, by now, spectacular breakfast offering. When she signed the lease to the new store, we celebrated around a table in our tiny 29-seat diner, the first of the chain, clinking coffee cups. We were excitedly talking over each other about the bright future before us when my mother raised her cup and declared to us, and to the universe, “I’m going to change the karma of my family. Maybe not my kids, but one day, my grandkids will never want for anything.” That was the start of it all, her legacy. When I was a child, I was so often frustrated by my mother’s refusal to promise anything, for she couldn’t be sure she could deliver on her promise. I didn’t see it at the time, but her word meant something to her. Even a hasty promise spoken to her undiscerning children to appease them and get them off her back would be a betrayal. She wouldn’t lie to us or to herself. We would later discover that her word was her superpower, her instrument of creation. Today, my mother is 78. She has long since delivered on her word. My children want for nothing. I’ve never known the pain and struggle of not knowing where my children’s next meal will come from. I’ve never worried about providing shelter for my children or education, or anything. I’ve had the luxury of security, to heal my own wounds and to grow into the woman I am today. I’ve been afforded the opportunity to create joy and growth, and discovery with my family, instead of a life of trial and survival. On this day, her birthday, I celebrate my mother. To this courageous warrior who gave me life and a life I love. I wish her peace in her heart, ease in her living, and knowing that she has done her work. The rest is up to us. Like many children, I’ve not always seen the whole picture, and I’ve cried and complained, argued and fought, resented and blamed. I do carry some shame when I confront my pettiness and impatience against the enormity of her accomplishment. I suppose that can be chalked up to immaturity and privilege. Either way, I’m fully aware that my gorgeous life with all its trimmings, my beautiful, thriving children and my journey of healing and contribution, stands on the shoulders of what my mother has done with her life. Her legacy has allowed for my legacy. I am grateful and humbled, and proud and happy. Thank you, Mother. I see you. I hear you. I honour you. I strive to be worthy of the gifts you’ve given me. Woman to woman, I’m proud of you. I look up to you. Gigi ♥️

I’ve already confessed in a few of my letters that I’m constantly purchasing books. New or used, all I need is a catchy title or a recommendation from a friend or reviewer to convince me to add an umpteenth volume to my collection. I’ve been reading books since forever. Did you know I’ve been reading just as many magazines for the last few years? I developed this delicious habit of collecting magazines during the pandemic, and ever since, I’ve devoured each one as if it were an essential supplement for my health. In fact, they’re as good as gold. I learn so much by reading! I wait for the latest arrivals on the magazine stand around the 25th of each month as if it were Christmas. Last night, my eyes glued to a special edition of the French monthly magazine “Psychology,” I jotted down the main keys to vibrant creativity. The art of creativity isn’t only reserved for artists. It’s a state of mind that needs to be protected and nurtured daily because it can become the earth that supports real self-transformation. I may be blowing my own trumpet a bit, but I hope my weekly writing has improved a little with every Sunday letter! In order to create it takes more than a gift from above. You must make room for an inner temperament that’s open to all and resistant to routine. To write, I also have to take risks, be empathic and embrace the unknown. Sometimes I find myself in a tussle with the things that inhibit me or hamper me from moving forward. I often worry that my words stumble and slip, especially when I insist on adding too many decorations to the Christmas tree. My well-known personal touch appears like a brushstroke on a painting or the fifth line of a 4-line poem that no one else but I could invent. I add my grain of salt to the soup and sharpen my critical thinking instead of joining the uniform opinions of the masses. Rejecting mindless responses, I try to hear my needs and desires; what my heart truly wants to say. Following coach Julia Cameron’s tips for tapping your creativity, I write every morning for one or two hours straight. First to flush out all the thoughts, the worries, the insignificant and heavy fixations; in short, everything that stops me from expressing my imagination and creativity. It’s a bit like sweeping the entire kitchen floor before sitting down to write at the table. The best ideas and promising projects often emerge in the middle or at the end of my writing. The wise say it’s essential to regularly allow our mind to lay fallow, sheltered from reasoning and the usual writing activities. I must take some time to roam, daydream and let my thoughts and my vagabond imagination drift about. To take a walk in the forest, admire the tall fir trees that cover our magnificent Laurentians, pick berries and take a moment to listen to the birds sing. With my head overflowing with ideas, I sometimes forget my notes and to-do’s. One morning, a quarter of the way into a text, I improvise. At night, I add a few words that connect me to my emotions and desires. This improvisation allows me to become aware of the full range of possibilities that can be imagined and add a new reality that teaches me how to leave my comfort zone. I try to write short poems similar to traditional Japanese haikus, short three-line poems that capture the essence of a particularly inspiring moment. The flowers kneel talking to the ants. The theatre laughs behind the actors’ backs. The flower is fragrant for as long as we look at it. War, a marriage without an heir. Most of the time, my creativity starts with work that occurs underground and emerges without warning. I struggle, I toil. From a barren land that is neither plowed nor sown, I hope for a good harvest. Like the child pounding at their toy chest, I examine all the possibilities. I draw from the past, imagine the future and make fun of today’s so-called rules. Cora ♥️

The first Cora restaurant opened its doors on May 27, 1987, exactly on the day I turned 40. Life up until then had been difficult and much later, I’d realize that this birthday would mark a dramatic break, like a revolving door sweeping away a submissive woman’s bleak resignation with one strong turn and replacing it with a liberated woman’s confident hope. That morning, when I opened the small diner with my name on the front, my kids and I were a thousand miles away from knowing it, but we were in fact celebrating the burial of our unhappy past. Year ONE of our reconstruction began when we greeted our first customer. If, by any chance, you were among those who visited us back then, you may have noticed to what lengths we went to delight our clientele and how much we truly cherished them. I confess today that I and the kids were the ones starving. In the kitchen or behind the counter, we were the ones who needed love, who were slowly learning to accept tenderness and affection. Working hard, we were so desperate to have normal lives that a small compliment felt as if we were being handed a gold bar. It’s perhaps because of this deep gratitude towards our customers that I can still remember today these large chunks of life floating in my mind like glaciers making their way out to sea. I worked tirelessly. I devoted myself to the venture for 14 months solid, 7 days a week, without a single day off. I put all my energy into the restaurant and our customers: finding new recipes, designing the menu, placing orders, washing uniforms and then did it all over again. I was anxious about leaving my baby, anxious that a customer might swallow a chicken bone, anxious that a violent wind would take out a window. And especially anxious that it would all go awry and customers would receive poor service if I wasn’t there. “Afraid that the world would stop turning,” remarked my daughter Gigi. The first time the kids forced me to take a break from the restaurant’s kitchen it was for a weeklong trip to Paris. “A room with a view of the Eiffel Tower and a $300 traveller’s cheque for spending,” they added in a matter-of-fact way, placing the envelope in my hand. They bought the airplane ticket and chose Paris because they had overheard me say to the plumber that it was my dream to visit the city one day. Just the thought of leaving the following Saturday kept me awake for four nights in a row. – “Trust me, Mom. The tickets are not refundable, you have to go.” I saw nothing for the first few days, incapacitated by exhaustion in the small room with a view of the Eiffel Tower. In the little time I had left, I walked the streets like an unplugged robot. I suppose that Paris is splendid when one’s eyes are able to contemplate its beauty, but mine were directed at the malevolent crows flying over my little diner. How did I let myself be convinced that I could abandon it? – “So you can rest, Mom! Take a week’s vacation and unwind. Don’t worry, we bought the package with money that our older brother gave us. Relax and enjoy yourself. We love you and we’re going to take care of the baby.” How could my poor little chicks understand that it wasn’t the restaurant that needed me but I who needed it? How to tell them that even in my sleep I flipped eggs on the gridle? How to explain to them that I was a part of the diner’s furniture? That when customers came through the doors, it was they who nourished me. My love of books had evolved from literature and poetry to recipes. From the window of the plane that brought me back I saw the world wrapped in cotton. I couldn’t wait to touch down, to see the kids, to put my apron back on and cook a French-style cream of pumpkin soup. In the baggage hold, my suitcase overflowed with new recipe books for extra-thin crêpes extravagantly garnished and folded. I was so excited to tell the kids about the delicious fruit coulis I’d tasted, the mocha coffee and the extraordinary flavour of the pure butter used in pastries. At 5:45 p.m. local time in Montreal, the huge metal bird touched the ground and all the passengers aboard applauded. I was hoping to be greeted by the kids, but it was Platon, the dishwasher, who was waiting at the arrivals gate. His white jacket, splattered with egg yolk and ketchup, stood out clearly from the crowd that was waiting with arms outstretched. – “Let me take your suitcase, Boss. I came straight from the restaurant.” – “Did something happen? Where are the kids?” – “Don’t worry, Boss, I just finished the dishes. Everything is running smoothly.” Our dishwasher confirmed that the world had not stopped while I was away. Business was brisk, and sales, according to the lovely Gigi, continued to rise, even after I left. The next morning, I briefly had the impression of entering a movie that had already started. Everything was humming. Gigi was at the gridle, the youngest was pouring the crêpe batter and Marie, the waitress, was heading towards the large round table at the front carrying three generous plates of food in her diminutive hands. “Hello? I’m back!” I wanted to shout out. But I held it in. I made my way across the busy dining room like a tiny mouse on a big cheese platter, trying to make as little noise as possible. I went downstairs and sitting on an upside-down margarine pail, I released the ocean of sadness flooding my heart. I repeated to myself the sentence that Platon had said without wishing to spare or hurt me: “Everything is running smoothly.” My little chicks no longer needed me to place bits of food in their beaks. They had grown up. They were right; I was no longer as indispensable as I had thought. And suddenly, as if the universe had heard the echoes of my suffering, I heard my daughter scream “MOM!” – “Mom, the meat guy wants to talk to you about a new cut of ham. Are you interested?” Everything in the kitchen interested me, especially everything to do with our morning specialties! The very next morning, we started to practise all the wonderful ideas that I had brought back from the City of Light, and the world began to spin just like it had before my visit to the Old World. The only change was my new habit of leaving earlier, just after the lunch service. No one objected. It was only then that I started to realize that our breakfast specialty was quickly eclipsing our small diner, becoming more independent and more important than the cook at the griddle. The kids had offered me a wonderful gift and made me realize that they too were now more independent. Together, we could operate more than one restaurant. And with that miraculous epiphany, I started to criss-cross the city looking for a new location. As you know, I went on to found more than 125 across Canada. So many that I have never thought about returning to Paris. But it’s never too late to change one’s mind. Cora ❤️