Heal yourself by doing what you love

Early in the story of Cora restaurants, around the time when we had opened our sixth or seventh Quebec restaurant, people from all over the “belle province” began to take notice of us. Families drove kilometres, crossed bridges and lined up at our doors to enjoy a Cora meal. Expecting a magnificent Taj Mahal of restaurants, these new customers rushed into a delicious cloud of aromas, mingling vanilla, French toast, cinnamon and crêpes. Their wide eyes looked for extravagance, opulently decorated walls, fine cutlery and fancy waitress uniforms. None of that was true. What they did find was a big grin on every face, interjections of delight coming from every table and plates bearing extraordinary looking dishes. In a space that looked as if it had been patched together by a crew of resourceful teenagers, with the names of dishes in big, attractively drawn letters on the walls, this new restaurant concept gave customers a lot to talk about. Not to mention that we served primarily breakfast dishes, with a small lunch selection for people working nearby. Plus, with an early closing time of 3 p.m. come rain or shine, customers couldn’t dawdle if they wanted to enjoy a meal. This huge chorus of compliments reached the ears of the Quebec business establishment. — “Who is this middle-aged woman who’s appeared out of nowhere? Where did this new restaurant concept of only serving breakfast come from? From Europe? The U.S.?” — “From her own head,” answered the assistant manager of an insurance company to his boss. I remember him clearly! He was a fine young man, who, one Sunday, bravely made his way across the restaurant, navigating the waitresses zig-zagging between tables and the coffee pots swinging to and fro from the fingers of inexperienced busboys. I was in the kitchen of a newly opened restaurant keeping a watchful eye on operations. My heart, hungry for love, was absorbing every burst of delight emanating from the tables. — “Mme Cora, here’s my card. We’d like you to share your “recipe for success” with employees at our insurance firm. We’d be pleased to have you—your reputation precedes you.” That Sunday, after the man greeted me with his hand over his heart, my neurons simply froze, unable to transmit anything to the rest of my body that had been thrown into disorder. Cooking came easy to me. Explaining a recipe to my kitchen staff was child’s play. But speaking in front of a group of people so full of self-assurance that they are capable of selling it was something different altogether. It was as if a lion had just entered my cage. I was terrified. I had never given our success any real thought and certainly had never tried to put it into a “recipe.” Yet the next day, an angel who knew what my future had in store for me, entered my head and switched my brain back on. The day I had decided to make real crêpes immediately popped into my mind. Crêpes like my mom used to make at home in Gaspésie. I remembered the thick white batter that she poured into a large skillet, the crêpe’s crispness on my tongue, the delicious flavour exploding in my mouth. I’d just realized the secret of my success: a lot of hard work and quality ingredients. The analogy proved to be true, and the knowing angel insisted that I base my recipe for success on my mom’s crêpe recipe. So here is the famous recipe that has been explained dozens and dozens of times in front of different audiences at schools, universities, businesswomen’s associations, entrepreneur gatherings and large companies. I even managed to bumble my way through an English version of it for a TEDx Talk which you can still watch on YouTube! In a large bowl of your choosing (a metaphor for a physical space, a vessel containing your business idea): Break a few eggs (symbolizing life and creativity). Pour sufficient milk (representing rigour and unique expertise). Add the ingredient you need the most of in the bowl—flour (representing work, tenacity). Season with a pinch of salt (representing doubt, reflection). A tiny amount keeps you humble and motivated to constantly improve. Be careful though! Too much of it will eat away at your business like a horrible ulcer. The last ingredient, which is also the most important and must be used generously, is you—your devotion, passion and optimism, as well as your entire character. Lovingly mix in your business’ DNA and mission. There are no measurements in this recipe for success. You are the measuring cup. No strainer to sift the flour (work) or whisk to froth the eggs (life). You must add enough creativity to stand out from others. You must focus on your specialty without allowing yourself to be distracted by others. Almost from the start, I noticed the burst of delight, as brilliant as an auspicious star, in our customers’ smiles. Courage, tenacity and determination will help your business grow while enthusiasm acts as a divine vessel for your best plans. And when success does finally arrive with silver hair, it too stops to ask itself how it managed to get there. Like I did, it looks for a recipe that explains its accomplishments. Since that very first morning in May 1987, reinventing the art of breakfast with original dishes that treat people to memorable times has been central to Cora restaurants’ DNA. Cora ☀

A gratitude list is an expression of thanks for the people and things that make you happy. Ideally, you should create one each day, paying homage to the little moments that brighten your day. Note everything that elicits a sense of gratitude in you during the day; things that you feel thankful and lucky for. Experts on the matter say that it can be a difficult exercise at first, but one that quickly becomes second nature. You can also thank life every night before you fall asleep or each morning when you wake to another day of being alive. I personally have my own gratitude ritual. Every Saturday afternoon, after my nap, I pour myself yet another coffee and open my pink notebook which I fill with huge THANK YOUs. I discovered gratitude during the pandemic. Instead of worrying I’d die, I started to thank the universe for being alive each day. Fear faded away, and I slowly learned to recognize the good things that were happening to me. I can say that I’m grateful for being alive every day! I always have a good reason to say thank you to a friend, to a good idea and especially to the wild woman inside my head who keeps me alert and inspired. Here are a few sentences taken from my gratitude list: – Thank you, my friend! Your burly arms and enjoyable company were just what I needed to install the two new IKEA bookshelves in my living room. – Thanks to my children who shaped me into a courageous mother. – Thank you, dear Pénélope, your love keeps me alive. – Thank you, dear grandchildren, for visiting and keeping me company. – Thank you to my generous neighbour for giving me such delicious jams! – Thank you to my friends who invite me along on outings and events. – Thank you for all the coffees I’ve enjoyed with great company! – Thank you, dear Claude, for repairing the thermostat for my heated floor. – Thank you, dear Bruce, with whom I always have deep conversations. – Thank you, Marie-Pierre, our circle of friends’ favourite aerial host, for all the delicious, privately imported chocolate she’s brought back on her flights to the Old World. – Thank you for the inspiration I am gifted with from above. – Thank you to the wild woman in my head who inspires me and governs all my thoughts. – Thank you for my perseverance, my patience and my love of words. – Thank you for my advanced age, and to this sublime life that keeps me strong and healthy. – Thank you, Time, for this incredible sleigh ride. – Thank you for the spot you’re keeping warm for me up there. – Thank you, dear life, for allowing me to recognize what’s good for me. – Thank you to my ex-husband for being just vile enough for me to finally decide to leave him. – Thank you to all my cherished readers, who follow me each week through my Sunday letters. – Thank you for all the comments you leave for me week after week. – Thank you to the sea, who’s fed me all my life and continues to do so. – Thank you to all the handsome gents who grace my dreams and feed my hope. – Thank you to my 10 well-practised fingers that still allow me the pleasure of cooking for my children, grandchildren and even for my colleagues at the head office occasionally. Since I’ve started making these lists of gratitude for the universe to hear, I always look forward to tomorrow to see what I’ve learned to appreciate more. “VERBA VOLANT, SCRIPTA MANENT.” Spoken words fly away, written words remain. Cora ♥️

The other night, this aging body dreamt of death. It was wrapping itself in the bedsheets, twisting and turning. Its mind was terrified. It imagined the worst. Like a wounded animal, this aging body took its breaths in quick gasps. Everything eventually comes to an end, it thought to himself. Too soon, too late; the body couldn’t bring itself to pray. Why did the night seem longer than usual? Was that death knocking loudly at the door? The uneven somersaults and jolts of its old heart frightened the aging body. The aging soul used to tell anyone who would listen that its battered body would live to be a hundred. And that night, death hovered above. Like a white-necked condor, an imaginary vulture watching its prey. If I knew how to write as well as dolphins swim, I would have a real story to share with you this morning. But the time has come to let my fingers type freely, to let my imagination jump the fence of logic, undo the shenanigans of everyday life and dive head first into an ocean of new verses. This aged body, this tarnished flesh These crumbling legs, these arms that haunt me This cracked neck, these bulging veins This withered forehead, this decaying skin These tired eyes, these faded irises These deflated cheeks, these lukewarm smiles This mistreated belly, these dull scars These crumpled breasts, their faded nipples These marbled hands, these bluish veins These gnarly fingers, one climbing atop the other These dented toes, big tired feet This paunchy waist, ruined appearance This clumsy back that carries its cross Age sneaks up on me and devours me like a wolf I run and run, I cry out for help Whatever happens, I’m adrift In the den of time, all I hear is the wind Inevitable loneliness, alone at the table Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, I am numb I feel death ripening inside me, like a clinging fruit, a persistent sun My senses fall silent, my heart finally settles A scent of raspberries lingering on my neck I grieve, I cry; my time has come Falling asleep like Ophelia, rosewater in my bed Last wishes, first shovelfuls of earth I’ll see no more spring, no more bright autumn, no more sleepy winter Slowly my memory dims I forget my name, my age and the colours of my life I’m strong, I’m dead There’s that little ant sound that stops at the end Cora ♥️

MOM This hard-working woman from Gaspésie who gave birth to me. She died fairly young in a terrible car crash. By some miracle, my three young kids who were in the car with her came out of it unscathed. In the morgue, I saw her body and had to identify her horribly disfigured face that was once beautiful. At the funeral, an aunt revealed a secret about my mother, and I finally understood why she had lived her whole life with a broken soul. As a young adult, the church and her family forbade her to marry the young Protestant she was passionately in love with. Misery ate away at her heart, troubled her mind and ravaged her body with eczema, which often laid siege to her hands. DAD This man of a few words, sadder than the autumn. He was crazy in love with my mom, and she didn’t love him back. Every night after dinner, Dad would sit in his large armchair. He’d open the turntable and listen to Mario Lanza sing “O sole mio.” All I have to do is think of Dad and I can see big tears rolling down his cheeks. Mom would yell; Dad would sob. It was a total mystery to me how babies were created. WRITING In my youth, writing quickly became my ultimate consolation. In the small house in Caplan, I’d take a few steps down to the basement, pull on a string and the light would flow. I’d compose small sentences on the back of old calendars Mom kept for us. Words that rhymed with others, a four-line stanza, a short poem. I was discovering beauty and the power of words. READING My refuge and my greatest hobby! As a young college student, I read profusely about world history and the great classics, including the fantastic mythology of Ancient Greece and anything else that I’d come across that was modern. I craved the poets: Baudelaire, Verlaine and Alfred de Vigny. Later, I devoted myself to recipe books and all the guides that revealed the art of succeeding in business. When I eventually reconnected with reading for the simple pleasure of it, I threw myself into biographies and went back to poetry and novels. I still have the habit of reading only one book at a time, and I never hesitate to drop a mediocre, disappointing or useless volume. WORDS Elaborate words are like human beings, like gold nuggets to string together in lines. When I write, I always try to avoid rambling sentences, absurd adverbs, lazy words or rotten turnips. COFFEE Whether I’m sitting at my kitchen table, at the office attending a meeting, at the restaurant with friends or lying down on my red couch with a book, you’ll always notice a cup of coffee near me. It’s as certain as the sunrise tomorrow! I take it with milk or cream and no sugar. This latter omission comes from my time as a restaurateur, when I didn’t have time to prepare anything fancy. I savour this exquisite liquid in immoderate measure– at least six to eight times a day. SUCCESS My professional life really started with the primal need to survive and feed my kids. If I operated a restaurant, we’d at least have something to eat. Success appeared in 1987, in a small 29-seat diner. I drew a wonderful, smiling sun. “A real logo,” like the wise ones say. A sun that now illuminates more than 125 franchised restaurants across this vast country. GLASSES I always loved creating my necklaces, bracelets and broaches. I did it because my budget didn’t allow me to buy any, but also because I was creative and had the time to do it. I love dressing up in a lot of extravagant colours and to style my outfit in a single colour, from my socks and shirt to the occasional bandana, a watch and my pants. I dare to wear colour because it keeps me alive. You might even compare my wardrobe to a big set of 24 coloured pencils. I love glasses and I have some in almost every colour; retro frames I have found at flea markets. LOVE The great unknown! I may have caught the eye of a few handsome men, but at 20, life had already broken me. With not a single breath of love between the two spouses, just like my poor mother. Once divorced, I no longer looked for love, but set my sights on success. I never had time for love while I worked to make my sun shine in more and more Canadian cities. Now an old lady, I’m looking for a handsome poet who might recite a few agreeable lines before I fall asleep. PROVIDENCE I’ve always believed in “help from above,” or more specifically, in a divine providence that guides me with a wise, steady and loving hand. Still today, riper than an apple in applesauce, I live, write and constantly try to ennoble each of my lines by offering a prayer and a word of thanks to the Great Manitou. AGING Damned aging makes me think of the terrifying boogeyman of my childhood! It can undermine us and hound us through fear. “GETTING OLD IS A REAL PAIN IN THE BUTT,” said the renowned French writer Bernard Pivot, whom I dreamed of meeting. “Getting old is depressing,” he said. “It’s unbearable, it’s painful, it’s horrible, it’s dreadful, it's deadly! But I preferred “a real pain in the butt” because it’s strong yet it doesn’t sound sad. Aging is a real pain in the butt because we don’t know when it started and we know even less when it will end.” Cora ♥️    

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 ❤️

I have very few regrets. Just one in all honesty, but it’s bigger than the world’s highest mountain. You know me so well by now, so you must have an idea. My only regret is the one I’ve tried to forget all my life: to have agreed to marry the man who seduced and impregnated me, and fathered my three children. Our marriage and my ordeal lasted 13 long years until the day I mustered the courage to escape our home with the three kids. This morning, for the very last time, I go back to that period and empty my bag. I dry my tears. I want to finally close this painful chapter. His two brothers migrated to our wonderful country, working in a restaurant as dishwashers at first, then apprentice cooks, and eventually, as cooks. Two or three years later, each one had their own restaurant. The hero of our story, this man from the Old Word who believed himself to be a revered mythical god of Ancient Greece, was the third and last brother to set foot on Canadian soil. Having just finished his Greek military service, the handsome Adonis categorically refused to wash dishes or, worse, cook. The dashing young man convinced his brothers that he should immediately wear the boss’ shoes. And so, with his colonel’s ranking and good looks, he became the manager of the third restaurant his brothers had an eye on. The two restaurateurs lent their younger sibling the money to buy the restaurant. He renamed it “Golden Fleece.” Was he going to fill his pockets with gold? He certainly dreamt enough about getting rich. I, the young girl who’d studied the ancient classics and was already nursing a child, knew this Adonis wouldn’t get rich. He insisted I prepare five or six coffees for him in the morning, all which were left untouched and cold. He slept until noon and made his way to the restaurant after the busy lunch hour. He mainly went to take the biggest bills from the cash register. I quickly got to know his habits. Sometimes, he’d come home with loads of cash in his pocket, and on other occasions, his debts from playing cards meant I couldn’t buy a pint of milk. This habit of his meant we had to move as often as he changed the clothes on his back; his friends helping him, my kids crying at the thought of leaving a friend next door. Sometimes I had to dry the kitchen floor when a storm beat down on the leaky roof over our heads. I spent all these dark years living in shabby, vermin-infested apartments with an insatiable need for love gnawing at my hungry heart. “Can we go visit Grandpa on Sunday?” the oldest would ask. The ogre always found an excuse to go elsewhere. He said we would visit him in a week or two, but the car never took the road to my parents’ house. To distract the kids, he promised all sorts of outings, but he never even took us to Mount Royal Park for a picnic. My salty tears often seasoned the chicken I was cooking. Seated on the small balcony with my cold tea, I’d try to question the master above to understand my fate. Was this the outcome I had to endure for committing sin before marriage? I didn’t know that what the man did to me that night when my first child was conceived was in fact the sin of the flesh. During all these wedded years, my soul suffered, my heart thought it would be a prisoner for life. I never knew what the word “love” meant, except when I held my babies in my arms. I wished I could describe my sorrow with real words, with pen and ink, but I was strictly prohibited from doing so. This ogre from a faraway world forbade me to read and write. “Females are nothing but the servants of the master of the house,” he’d say. Emaciated, trampled upon, often emptied of all feeling, I drifted like a wreck between two hurricanes of tears. During the years I stayed with him, I never burst with laughter, visited my parents, drove the car, went to the movies, applied lipstick or eyeshadow. Starving for tenderness, I begged this parched life to take me in her arms. Instead of whispering sweet nothings in my ear, the ogre told me about his flings, counting in front of me the number of women he’d slept with. I was merely the servant, the thing and the slit. Against my will, I had to open whenever he knocked. My body bled, my heart cried. When he went out at night dressed in his finest clothes, my heart sometimes softened, sometimes hardened. I found him so handsome. Countless times, my heart went from happiness to sorrow, my body swinging between living and surviving. All it took was one wrong word or a sentence written down somewhere and I’d be seized by fear of being struck by the ogre. … I wrote these lines a while ago, wanting to rid myself of the old wounds and finally scatter them in the wind before my soul takes flight. My children’s father has since passed away. He probably joined the ancient gods of Olympus. I wonder if what I’ve shared about him and our marriage will close Heaven’s doors to him. I hope not. Although he was the source of so much of my misfortune, I am surrounded by my children, grandkids and great grandkids because of him. I hope his soul finds the peace that our marriage never knew. May he rest in peace. Cora ♥️

Just like at the movies, I open the curtains wide. I no longer try to forget the main characters of my youth. My mother didn’t love my father. My father was crazy about my mother. Grandpa always protected us. My brother, the easygoing drifter. Nini, my younger sister. The youngest girl, crying in her crib, and I, the oldest of the three girls, writing this story. The omnipresent character, to whom we all prayed and feared without ever having met him, was played by God, the stranger watching over us. In those days, adults concealed their miseries. Perhaps they prayed in secret, at the end of the dock or in the barn while caressing the muzzle of a new-born calf. We, children, learned nothing about happiness or joy at home. Our young hearts were as pure as the wild strawberries in the fields, which reddened our fingers and overalls. And Mom, whose mouth would be full of screams all day long. Thinking he was the master of the universe, my brother would relieve himself on the tomato plants. He hid his math book and pretended he’d lost it. Sometimes, he’d amuse himself by burying the capelins that were drying in the sun. The only boy of our brood, “Daddy’s boy” was growing taller and accumulating blunders. After an arduous seventh grade, he was set to start high school, but Daddy’s boy escaped and became a pedlar of all kinds of knickknacks. The golden child worked basically everywhere in Gaspésie for a few years. When he finally returned home, Dad hurried to find him a good girl to marry. A teacher who’d hopefully instruct him in good manners and encourage him to find a more stable livelihood. When they returned from their honeymoon in Montebello, my brother managed to land a job selling the big 15-book Grolier encyclopedia collection. Dad helped him buy an old jalopy to be able to deliver the merchandise. The wunderkind knocked on a dozen or so doors but failed to sell a single book. On a nice fall morning, tired, depressed and desperate, my brother, his hands gripping the steering wheel, hit the gas pedal and sped straight into a pile of lumber. His poor wife later confided that he was looking for a coffin to disappear in. Dad cried his eyes out. His only son was gone, six feet under. We, his sisters were dumfounded; our tears falling one by one down our cheeks. Mom was numb with shock, leaving Grandpa to try and console us as best as he could. A priest dressed all in black recited a prayer. A neighbour held a raspberry cake in her hands. The entire village seemed to share our sorrow. Nini, the second daughter, grew up learning quickly how to carry herself in a world of flashy appearances. She spent many hours doing her makeup and hair, beautifying herself in the bathroom, and constantly criticizing the clothes Mom had sewn for her. When she was in a more down-to-earth space, however, she created these amazing pieces of jewellery. She still does today and, when I think about her, I can only admire her talent. I’d often watch mom knit while she rocked Nini’s crib back and forth with her foot. She was her third child. “The last one,” sighed the exhausted woman. And still, a fourth baby followed. “The last, last one.” The one who gave Mom such grief, the one who ran away from home and gave birth to a child much too young. Mom cried, Dad cursed the horrid drug addict his daughter was in love with. For years, she stayed away from the family. Then, a miracle. The “last, last one” calmed down, and life moved to protect her. Was my beloved father ever happy? He who loved Mom so much, to the point that his suffering slowly killed him. He aged in silence, ending up nearly mute. Mom, embittered but steadfast in her role as wife, fed, washed him and combed his hair without uttering a word. One day, I drove him to the hospital where he closed his eyes and his heart forever at 11 p.m. that same night. Less than two years later, Mom decided to bring my kids to Gaspésie during the summer vacation. Approaching her hometown of Caplan, she was beaming, singing and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Her small car crashed into a truck carrying sheep on the way to a slaughterhouse. The car rolled down a slope, flipping several times, before coming to a stop against a tree. Her demise was similar to her son’s death. As if one coincidence weren’t enough, the accident happened right at the green sign marking the town’s limits. As if she’d deliberately returned to die where she’d been born. I collapsed upon learning of her death when the policeman called. I immediately thought that my kids had also died. By some miracle all three survived the accident unscathed. Only the trauma from the accident needed time to heal. The invisible God looking over my kids kept them alive. Cora ♥️

Writing on a blank page is like watching the tiny feet of flies dancing on the snow. I’m writing this morning with help from the wind, who’s kindly turning my pages. When I dip my fountain pen in my heart, everything writes itself as if by magic. I’ve been reading and writing for so many hours, days and years, the hands of time affixed to my wrist; I let go and consider myself blessed. Past sufferings have gone. The void of love inside me is filling up with each passing day. I’ve often heard that the best way to predict our future is to create it. Intelligent, clever and occasionally daring as I am, has my performance been good enough for this planetary circus? The recent fragility of the world worries me at times. The earth is only a rock covered with human flesh after all! Does a cloud talk to the other clouds in the sky? All these fragments of moments we call life. These earthlings on the street that barely say hello to each other. Where is humanity headed? Poetry, I adore you! You are woven through all my sentences. You wait for me when a rhyme scolds my words, your patience is boundless when my crazy memory starts to run wild. Sometimes words fail me when I try to describe my sorrow or prolong my days. My will to live always overpowers my desire to leave this world. Until the very end, while I can still imagine the long staircase that leads skyward, I’ll implore the angels to allow me stay in the club of the living. Small flowers are springing from my blank page; pretty words barely out of the soil and they already look like stars. Have I ever known a single moment of bliss? Behind my house, three young dark maple trees stare at me. Their leaves, a bit wrinkled and faded, stir something inside me, and I look at my hands, arms, neck, forehead and this body that is fading and withering. I can only hope that my daily writing will keep my senses sharp. Late the other night, I couldn’t sleep. Despite darkening three pages, lighting a candle and smelling the scent of the wax, my feeble letter was slow to take shape. Sometimes inspiration falls asleep before I do. I often see my dad in my dreams. Mario Lanza is singing as tears fall down my dad’s big, wet cheeks. The undaunted stream that still flows in me prevents me from leaving. The cry of a hummingbird, a beautiful lilac branch, my two great-grandsons, my precious grandkids, my beloved children and this business that taught me how to live honorably. I tend to always lose my way; should I have a map of heaven to help me get there? I’m thirsty, hungry and scared. I wonder what death’s waiting room looks like. My life in the urn will weigh about the same as a small apple. Let’s hope at least that the seeds burrowing in the ground will be able to take satisfaction in their huge orchard. The other night, I read somewhere a wonderful sentence by St. Augustine. I will share it with you now: “Go forth on your path, as it exists only through your walking. If you would attain to what you are not yet, you must always be displeased by what you are. For where you are pleased with yourself there you have remained. Keep adding, keep walking, keep advancing.” Cora ♥️

Nature amazes me, with the brightness of the sun, the sweet feeling of a warm breeze, the songs of birds and the aroma of raspberries. My mind drifts back in time and I find myself near the stream on Grandpa Frédéric’s land. I can see his wrinkled fingers teaching me how to put a worm on a hook; the pink flesh of the small trout in the pan; the capelins flopping on the beach by the thousands in the spring; the big cod, caught by the belly and so incredibly delicious. I remember it like it was yesterday. The fish was boiled with bacon bits, cooked to a crisp in the pan, transformed into fritters with potatoes or salt-dried and eaten like finger food. We lived off the sea. To this day, four or five of my weekly dinners consist of its delicacies. I used to follow Grandpa in the winter too. I would make my way behind him in the snow, my small boots trying to step in his big footprints. My eyes swept the path ahead and saw the white hare before he did. I laughed and cried in front of the small, trapped animal. Grandfather quickly put it in his bag. I knew it was going to end up in grandmother’s famous recipe. At the table, I told him it was good as a few tears slipped down my cheeks and into the sauce. What a delight it was to finally turn six! I loved school. I was learning how to read and write words, and my heart felt lighter. I composed short poems and I quickly learned to express myself through writing, a habit that persists today. Putting one word after the other, I climbed the ladder of time, always on the lookout for sparks of happiness. An afternoon spent hunting four-leaf clovers, another lavishing my proud lupines with attention. I find myself embellishing my flowerbeds and my heart at the same time. The irresistible scent of ripe fruit sweeps over me. I pick wild strawberries in the wooded area on my land. Destemming them one by one, I place them in my basket like Mom taught me. My native Gaspésie is always in the back of my mind like an old classic movie; a chronological repertoire of the best moments. Everything is there in my memory, moving like the undulations of the river. I remember how brave we were when we used to climb onto the enormous ice blocks floating on the river in Sainte-Flavie. Mother forbade it, of course, and yet my brother still insisted we do it. He wanted to plant his flag, but the hard ice never yielded. Let’s take a moment to think about it. Let’s look for shortcuts to these micromoments of happiness. Let’s grab the tiny stars flittering above our heads. Happiness is celestial food that prolongs our life span, I’m sure of it. I’m always a youthful 20-year-old when I talk to a century-old tree; when I slowly devour a poem, line by line; when an old friend confides in me about his most recent flirtation; or when my granddaughter invites me to the restaurant for dinner. Let’s learn about life’s magic – all these moments that appear unreal but are just as true as good news that arrives unannounced. I often get the feeling that the older I get and the more I appreciate things, the more easily I marvel at what surrounds me. Every microsensation of happiness thrills me: breathing in the fresh morning air, napping on the couch in the middle of the afternoon, washing my hair with rainwater, soothing an itch with the help of five metal fingers on the end of a stick, drinking my coffee piping hot, succeeding in eating more fruit than bread, taking pictures for my Sunday letters, writing even when I’m asleep. I’m not kidding! Sometimes an amazing idea shakes me awake in the middle of the night and I grab my notepad. I enjoy being at writing’s service, being its researcher, prospector, storyteller and the one who types out the story of words on a keyboard. For the longest time, I thought I would take care of myself later. But you know what? My LATER arrived A LONG TIME AGO! Come to think of it, deciding to take care of ourselves later is presumptuous. How do we know what we’ll be able to control in a day, a week or a year from now? The power we feel is an illusion. On the other hand, our power to live in the present is very real; just like our right to choose happiness. Don’t put off these micromoments of happiness until tomorrow, these sparks of joy that surround us and are within our grasp. Think about it. Life is so short and rarely do we allow ourselves to feel the wonder in front of us. Cora ❤️

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 ❤ 👐 ❤