I do breakfast

Time flies while you count the mornings you have left on your fingers. I have beetles in my living room. They zigzag along the window sills and it makes me wonder if they’ve spent the winter inside my house. Each time I try to touch a pretty shell with my finger, the creature flutters and lands a little distance away, often changing direction. Do I have enough fingers to count them? Do I care enough to stop myself from vacuuming them up? 7:58 a.m. at the coffee shop Behind the counter, I recognize the young girl who told me the other morning that her life was “cray cray.” I had to look up the expression on my iPad to understand what the young teenager, just barely out of childhood, meant. A reader from Sept-Îles (a city located on the northwestern side of the Gulf of the St. Lawrence in Quebec city’s North Shore region) tells me that meeting me in person is on her bucket list. I dream of seeing these islands, which I can count on my 10 fingers (“sept” is seven in French). Google introduces me to the local venues and events: the Fortier & Frères fish shop; GWD cruises that offers brunch at sea; the St. Lawrence Gulf Society; the “Festi-GrÎles de la Côte-Nord” (an annual BBQ competition, with local beer tastings and concerts); and the Gallix botanical gardens. I got a glimpse of Sept-Îles with just a few clicks of my keyboard. Now my fingers are counting the days until I can visit. Last Sunday, a curious patron at the coffee shop asked me what is the most precious thing I have. I quickly replied: my fingers! My 10 fingers, the ones constantly typing away on the keyboard that transmit to the world almost all of my thoughts. My two thumbs are the strongest and most helpful. They know how to grip, unscrew, turn and squeeze anything I want. My two index fingers look like arrows. They are very helpful to point someone in the right direction. I remember when I was very small, Mom would slap my left index finger whenever she saw me scratching my nose with it… The biggest one in the middle of both my hands is called the middle finger. Like so many men, it believes it’s the most important because it’s taller than the others. I mostly use it to prepare the soil for spring planting and to spread the washable gouache as I attempt to rival Picasso. The one that comes before the smallest of them all is called the ring finger. For the longest time, I wondered why it had such a strange name, until someone slipped a gold ring on it. My ex-husband wore his wedding band for about 45 minutes; just long enough for our wedding ceremony to be over. When we walked out of church, he took it off his finger and handed it to me. He told me I was the only one who was married. I kept the ring. I still have it, attached with mine in an old jewellery box. The gold makes them worth something, I suppose. Come to think of it, I should sell them and buy myself a new pair of glasses the first chance I get. Hurrah! In French, the smallest finger has the longest name: auriculaire. A proper-sounding name composed of 11 letters. Because its French name is a bit difficult to remember, we affectionately call it “le petit doigt” (“the little finger”), just like in English. It’s the only one capable of relieving an itch in the ear canal. It happens to me a lot, especially when I’m completely absorbed in a TV show. Imagine for a moment that a savage monster chops off our 10 fingers. What would we do? Our hands would become fingerless mittens. Small shovels that are only good enough to push a load or collect a few raindrops. A major handicap for all those who write instead of speak. Let’s give thanks for our fingers, for they are as precious as the apple of our eyes. Cora ❤ 👐 ❤

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 ♥️