Micromoments of happiness

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 ♥️

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 ❤️

There are some stories I just never tire of telling. I always feel tremendous happiness remembering how each dish was invented. Sometimes, the inspiration came directly from a client’s mouth, like it did for the 10 star omelette, while other dishes, like the Buckwheat blessing, Tuna melt or Samira wake-up, were inspired by our staff at the time, in the first Cora restaurants. This morning another memory tugs at my mind. I’ve already told you the story, but since my daughter recently celebrated her birthday, I’m treating myself and sharing once again how she concocted one of our most beautiful dishes! Starting the day my first restaurant opened, my three kids and I worked very hard to dazzle and satisfy our clients. I remember those days like it was only yesterday even though 38 years of delighting our clientele have already gone by. All four of us shared the same creative talent. On a beautiful Saturday morning, Gigi arrived at our second restaurant in an inventive mood exactly at the same time as Monsieur Pom, our baker, who was excited to share a new product with us: a delightfully soft raisin-cinnamon brioche. My darling Gigi, a discerning food lover who’s as curious as an owl, rushed forward and took the surprise from his hands. She tore off the packaging and, for a few long minutes, examined, pressed and sniffed the magnificent brioche that would eventually become the choice of millions of our customers with a sweet ’n savoury appetite. Without saying a word, our in-house conjurer of amazing delights, sliced the brioche horizontally in the middle, oblivious to the baker’s baffled gaze. Lost in her thoughts, the young cook surveyed the fruit counter in front of her. The baker, myself and a food-obsessed waitress were all speechless. My daughter’s mind was turning. Then she smiled and called for silence. For a few moments, you could almost hear her neurons crackling, portending something dazzling to come. Gigi dipped each brioche half into our deliciously spiced French toast batter and gently laid them on the griddle. The bread began to quiver before gradually embracing the warmth and crisping into an unexpected treat. My daughter’s face lit up the moment she slipped a spatula under the two golden pieces to transfer them to a large oblong plate. Knowing her, I realized that a new star had just joined the Pantheon of our breakfast menu. Gigi the magician placed a nice sunny-side-up egg and two slices of bacon on one brioche half and garnished the other with a mountain of beautifully cut fresh fruit. “There you go, Mom,” she said rather pleased with herself. “Bravo, my talented daughter! After all the seeds I have been planting in your head, at last, a wonderful harvest.” We christened the new dish “1990’s HARVEST.” The regulars sitting at the counter were immediately offered a taste, and a few days afterwards, the new dish was the reigning star of the illustrations adorning the walls of the second Cora restaurant. Elated by the success of her recent creation, my daughter insisted that we print up a proper menu. This way customers wouldn’t have to twist their necks to look at the walls to see what was available. A menu that would provide a detailed description of the tasty 1990’s HARVEST, along with a line crediting its creation to none other than my talented daughter, Gigi. Of course, one must strike the iron while it’s hot, so I put a few extra hours in each day to put together our first menu. Entirely hand-drawn by myself in black and white, the menu was printed on a single large sheet and folded in four – a source of frustration for our poor customers! Many years later, the 1990’s HARVEST remains one of the most popular breakfasts we’ve invented. This original sweet ’n savoury dish is a fine example of what the morning gastronomic revolution has produced since its start in 1987, with the arrival of Cora restaurants. Any reason is a good reason to treat yourself to a 1990’s HARVEST. A delicious treat, and a darn good sweet ’n savoury breakfast! Cora ❤️

This July is turning out to be so beautiful that it makes me forget all the current miseries on Earth. Waking up with the sun, the first thing I do is turn on the coffee machine. As it brews and fills the kitchen with its aroma, I pour enough cream for 3 to 4 cups of coffee into a pitcher and place it on a tray along with a nice bowl of diced meat, an omelette or boiled egg, cut fruit, cereal and nuts for myself and my early morning friends. Then I settle down on the back patio. Like every morning, they are there, hopping about and chattering, clustered on the glass canopy’s sloping roof. They jabber, shout and caw as if they were pop idols. Then, suddenly, they fall silent. Their black eyes riveted on the tray of treats I’ve placed on the round iron table. They know they’ll soon be enjoying tasty bits thrown on the lawn. While drinking my third coffee, to my great surprise, one of them lands on my table. I’m astonished. It was the first time a bird had come so close to me. I love crows, I talk to them and feed them every morning when the weather is good. I’m not afraid. Maybe they’ve finally understood how much I love them. How much I miss them from mid-October to mid-March when I enjoy my coffee indoors. I’m enraptured by this mysterious creature in front of me who seems to be begging me to listen. I stare at her and she remains motionless. Then, after this long intimate moment, the majestic bird opens its right wing and then, one by one, unfolds its feathers that are darker than the night. I’m dazzled, as are the 15 or so of her friends staring at us from the roof of the house. The crow then uses its sharp beak to pluck out a long feather from its wing and gives it to me. I’m practically trembling as I receive it. The black eyes of this mysterious friend penetrate the white of my own. Slowly she opens her beak, and with a voice like raindrops to a thirsty soul, she tells me: “A HEART IS NOT JUDGED BY HOW MUCH YOU LOVE, BUT BY HOW MUCH YOU ARE LOVED BY OTHERS.” Words fail me. I’m speechless in front of this talking crow who’s reciting a long enigmatic message for me. What can I reply? Will she hear me and understand what I say? — “Yes, dearest little Coco, I’ll listen and understand what you wish to tell me.” I’m astonished that this crow can not only talk, but also knows the nickname that Dad would affectionately call me once in a while when I was a child. — “I came to make sure you understood the first message.” — “What message are you talking about, beautiful bird?” — “You know, dear Coco, but you didn’t dare to believe in magic. Do you remember the three envelopes given to you in a dream by a fairground fakir in March 2021?” — “I just recited the message in the first envelope. Do you understand it? You were worried that you hadn’t loved your children and those close to you enough. You were afraid that your poor heart would be punished. Don’t worry anymore.” — “Are you a magical bird?” — “No, I’m a mama crow married for life, juggling many family duties. I have to help build the nest. I also find food, brood the young, raise our chicks and take care of our shelter. The other night, while looking for earthworms for dinner, I saw you through the window. You were watching the Judy Garland biography on DVD and had tears in your eyes because the singer’s life was so sad and unhappy.” — “You saw me crying?” — “Yes, at the end of the movie. I also saw you copying the famous final line from The Wizard of Oz into a notebook: “A HEART IS NOT JUDGED BY HOW MUCH YOU LOVE, BUT BY HOW MUCH YOU ARE LOVED BY OTHERS.” — “This sentence is for you, for your battered heart. Be more gentle with yourself. You are, dear Coco, a good, talented and generous person. And we crows love your treats, your smiles and the delicious attention you give us. Your house is surrounded by big trees and the forest is just steps away. We’re delighted to spend time with you and to be part of your daily life. We crows are called birds of misfortune, but if you think about it, we could help you find happiness. We fly high in the sky and could easily catch an angel by the heel. An angel who could teach you about the magic of believing in the forces of the Universe.” — All my life I’ve wanted to believe in it. Once in deep turmoil, I even wrote a 200-page letter to the Ruler above, to implore his help. At that time, I stared at the sky night and day. I waited for an answer; a hand appearing from behind a cloud, a noticeable trembling in my heart. But nothing happened, and I concluded that the only road open to me was the one on which I had to carry a heavy burden. Thankfully, many years later, the sun finally rose upon my somber life and its light was a second birth for me. — “You’re on the right road, dear Coco, and the pebbles along the way are hurting your feet less and less as you walk. Don’t you notice it? Go forward with joy, keep talking to the birds and use the beautiful feather I offered you. This feather has also been through a lot too, soaked in devotion to daily work.” I’m shaken; the brilliant crow is right. When I read that final line from The Wizard of Oz, I immediately wanted to believe it. The kindness and affection I receive from you, dear readers, is a balm to my heart; as was the applause for Judy Garland probably. Letter after letter, your many comments adorn my daily life, heal my wounds, allow my imagination to take flight, inspire my pen and encourage me to go on. Forgive this flight of whimsy about a crow that gifted me a feather. With millions of little birds appearing on the branches, my eyes, ears and heart are moved to join the magical forces of the universe. Cora ❤️

Have you ever noticed the plate of complimentary fudge next to the cash register at Cora restaurants? Who doesn’t like to finish their meal with a bite of a little something sweet? Offered with the simple desire to bring delight to others, these delicious morsels of love go all the way back to Christmas 1987, in the first Cora restaurant. As you know, after divorcing the father of my three children, I spent many years working six or seven days a week as a restaurant manager to earn a living for my family. After a few years, the long hours wore me down and I was forced to take a leave of more than a year to recuperate. When I got off the couch, the route I took to drive my son to school led me past a restaurant for sale. I opened the first Cora restaurant there and the rest, as they say, is history. Poverty taught us to extend our hand to ask, and, as soon as we could, to give back as well. And without knowing it, we became warm and generous. Our need for love meant we became good at pleasing others. Imperceptibly, like moss on a tree, it became a part of us. We loved to surprise a regular customer with our generosity, offering them a second bowl of soup for free or a slice of dessert wrapped up to take home. From one day to the next, love worked to tune our ears to listen more attentively to people, to sharpen our eyes so we would recognize a customer when they returned, to guide our hands to delight them and to ignite joyful creativity deep within our brains. This redeeming energy made its way through us, shaping our willpower, our minds, our industrious imaginations that would became the reason for our success in business. Each employee added their own magic touch! And that’s how offering our customers an extra small treat after their meal became a tradition. During a Christmas dinner in 1987, one of our waitresses had wrapped large fudge squares in wax paper for each guest to take home. The next morning, at work in my tiny kitchen, I decided that we’d offer a complimentary piece of fudge to every customer who’d come in for breakfast. Everyone eating at a Cora restaurant would be greeted with a warm “hello” upon their arrival and would be thanked with an indulgent sweet moment to take away upon their departure. And the tradition persists to this day, 38 years later. Don’t hesitate to take your fudge: one square for you and a second one for me! If you’d like to delight the sweet tooths in your family or circle of friends, here’s the recipe: Ingredients 3 cups (750 ml) light brown sugar 2/3 cup (150 ml) melted butter 2/3 cup (150 ml) 15% or 35% M.F. cream 2 cups (500 ml) icing sugar A few pinches of love Preparation  Grease a 6-inch x 10-inch pan. In a saucepan, mix the brown sugar, butter and cream together. Bring to a boil. When it reaches a boil, continue cooking for 5 more minutes. Remove from the heat. Gradually add the icing sugar, continuously whisking by hand or with a hand mixer until smooth. Transfer the mixture to the pan, spreading it out evenly. Let cool and cut into squares. Enjoy in moderation and share generously! Cora ❤️

Late one night, I was raising my arms, touching my legs, turning my head to one side and then the other as if I were driving a strange machine. This tough body in which I live transports me where I wish to go, a real-life vehicle, made of a strong frame, able to house and feed. I’ve never really worried about the human body. Of course I coexist with it every day. Slowly but surely, I notice it getting weaker and losing its agility. Like a fur coat worn for a thousand years, its casing cracks and splits, and becomes damaged and stained. I’ve never helped things either, completely ignoring magical creams that might have helped slow down my skin’s degeneration. Born in a large bay between land and sea, I’ve always thought of myself as strong as the rocks of the Gaspé cliffs and bright like the water of the high tides. Since they were much too busy trying to get along and find a compromise to their joyless marriage, my parents never really had the time to educate their kids. Our bodies matured in complete freedom; a bit like wild cattails on the side of the road. Quickly forced to earn our living, my siblings and I never had time to get to know each other. We knew little about ourselves until each one of us found courage and determination and discovered our strengths, weaknesses, talents and fears. We aged, and here I am today, already in my seventy-eighth year on earth. This old body, tired and worn, still serves me faithfully. What should I call it? Persona, individual, anatomy, matter, corpus, substance or perhaps organism? What a strange thing this body is that keeps on going! I guess it’s like the house that never wonders who lives under its roof; it simply provides accommodation and shelter. I appreciate everything this body is and has been, everything it still insists on doing for me after all these years. It doesn’t moan, although it does make some noise; it never curses or contradicts me. This ultimate wonder of the world deserves all my praises and, one day, someone will have to place Holland’s most beautiful tulips at its feet in my name. Will this body also give up its soul and die one day? How can I go on without it? It gesticulates, speaks, gets agitated and says everything I feel like saying. It faces adversity, cares for my creative processor and gives life to many of my desires. When it’s upset, annoyed, tired or displeased, this body raises its voice. Sometimes I feel like its heartbeat invents an unbearable gallop just to distract us. Until it releases its last breath, this venerable body will keep me alive. What will happen to me afterwards? Without this body, what will I see in the mirror? Who will I be in the world? A fleeting memory, a deactivated nuclear plant? Without these eyes, I will quickly forget the beauty. Without this nose’s olfactive power, I’ll give up the scent of flowers, and without this basic mobility, I’ll become the living dead searching for eternal rest. Yet I anticipate an imperceptible acceptance of everything I am before I no longer am. This breath of life will animate me and manifest itself at the centre of the universe I’ll have created myself. At least that’s what the wise thinkers say. My thoughts, my conscience, my discernment and all the love my heart contains will not die. This breath, this happy immaterial presence in a material world, will be immortal. And when the time comes for the body to decompose, this house of flesh will transform into a million shooting stars. When my fingers climb on top of each other and I’m unable to stop them from escaping, I remain still and calm. I savour this suspended moment. I patiently wait for the moment when my knuckles dislocate, my palms drop their load and I can no longer stand up against the inevitable. I’m waiting for the final show when the body collapses and is reborn as millions of particles of hope, and when the heart finally arrives at Heaven’s gate. But the breath remains, searching for another home to house its airy matter; a kind of divine state of mind that any departed human can experience. Cora ♥️

In my big home, transformed into a library, there’s only a small corner left with room on a bookshelf for another book. All the walls are lined with bookcases, a collection of bestsellers I’ve been dusting for over 30 years. There’s a very long table in my four-season sunroom on which my most recent acquisitions are piling up. And the table is overflowing! I read incessantly, most times unable to separate the good from the bad. I’m no expert when it comes to novels. On the other hand, when someone suggests a book by Dany Laferrière, I read the back cover and buy it regardless of the price, though it’s almost always second-hand. I know, I know! I’m a compulsive buyer when it comes to books. I’m totally unable to resist delicious poetry volumes that enrich my mind. Since I live in the country, my weekly trips revolve around second-hand bookstores, and there are so many in our beautiful Laurentians! Especially in the summertime when people everywhere hold yard sales and lay out their merchandise in the sun. I’ve often gotten my hands on incredible finds that were in good condition, some classics and even a few rarities whose pages had barely been touched. I love books even more than I love ice cream or fudge! Of course, I sometimes fall for a gripping title before I even read the back cover. I seriously think my love of books is turning into an obsession. Really! I glance, I gaze, I get carried away. I grew up and then lived without affection, attention and, worse, even love. Am I compensating today by accumulating so many great books to keep me company? These piles of books certainly fill an existential void. Each one perhaps camouflaging the bars of an imaginary prison. How can I free myself from this compulsive obsession to buy books, no matter how amazing they are? It’s my worst flaw, my vice: being a compulsive buyer who can’t stop herself from constantly buying new or used books I will probably never read, not even partially. There are some true book lovers who leaf through them with respect, keep a few of their favourite ones and display them like trophies on their shelves, a bit like me. And then there’s the real me, the maniac shopper who can’t resist buying new works that I most likely will never have time to read. Will my love of books die with me? With tears in my eyes, I’ve already given away six large IKEA bags filled with my best cookbooks to municipal organizations. I was warmly thanked for it; maybe I should do the same for some of the classics and novels I’ve pretty much all read. How will I manage? I’ll never be able to sort through them all, and discarding them would break my heart. For all kinds of reasons, I love each one of my books – especially those that’ve taught me how to live, express myself and write properly. All these pages that speak to me, the invented stories, the Sunday letters and a few published books. My life can be summed up as an accumulation of printed words, carefully preserved. Cora ♥️

What should I make of this strange theme occupying my mind today? I fold and unfold my hands; the cold entering my ten fingers. For the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to bring this keyboard to life, but all my beautiful words have remained silent. My little self tumbles and falls into the void, most likely too soon. The long train of my breakfast queen dress crumbles like an overcooked cake. Despite the thousand crumbs of words, an abundance of Sunday letters and a feast for the birds, sometimes even in English, words now escape me. What can I say, what can I do? Maybe one morning, or at dusk, my heavy head will empty itself like a dried-up well. I’m in pain and suffering. My world is a vast reservoir of words that scatter, spread out and, on the rare occasion, fly away. This incessant buzz of stories I have difficulty remembering. All the heavy sentences I need to rejuvenate; all the wonderful words I’ve started to forget. I sometimes get the blues, these tiny nips of time. This awful feeling of being lonely, eaten away by depression or anguish. I’ve often written about happy things and real people, like those who wait for my letters each week. All I can do is stay close to my dear readers, to the presence of other humans, to my amazing peers. I don’t want to get off the treadmill of life. Maybe I’ll stagger or even fall at times, but I’ll get back up no matter what. I’ll certainly experience loss, burn a batch of cookies, miss appointments and lose my keys. The important thing is to never forget the human in an encounter, an emotion or a simple curiosity. Could this be my way of escaping loneliness? With my old superhero costume, will I resuscitate my forgotten memories, the free flow of words, the link between my ideas? Most of all, what can I do to slow down the growing absence of these precious words? Would a small comma suffice to change my life’s course? The fog clears, morning is rising. A few vague dreams are still teasing my toes. So many words are falling into the void; so many sentences are fighting to be heard. These aging days have opened an abyss of stupor, sluggishness and dismay. My body leans over my hands resting on the small sink, and the mirror reflects a once pretty face now inflicted with dark circles and wrinkles. I search for a nice word, a good idea. A grimace appears in the mirror. A murder of crows fills my big apple tree, I stay warm in my retreat, peeling off the frocks of apples to make a dessert. What a talented cook I was, the creator of so many delicious breakfasts! I’m almost certain I’ll be feeding the angels and archangels in heaven. The euphoria of possession fades quite quickly. Same goes for obstacles that are just a series of lessons to be learned. Could I have been a little too hard on myself? I always tried my best. I didn’t write to perform, but to express my love for my readers. How can I survive when my reasons for living are shrinking? When work and family no longer need my effort, when my abilities are no longer solicited and I seem to be increasingly useless though I have so much time on my hands and a little energy still. How do you live without desperately hanging onto responsibilities that younger people or others do better? What meaning do you give a life that’s fading? A few wise philosophers speak to me about a new life, a life with no other reason for living than life itself. No more temptation from desiring, hoping, achieving and pursuing success. I only want to be alive, able to read and hold a pencil to write or draw. I promise myself I will change my modus operandi. I’ll soothe the old lady with a few lines of poetry, a few haikus, I’ll take up drawing again, go on road trips in my Mini, maybe even visit the Gaspésie again. Day after day, l’ll continue to observe and describe my small pleasures, my panics, my surprises and my little slips of memory. Calm and willing, I wait until the day’s dying light illuminates the stars! Cora ♥️

For Father’s Day, I’m sharing this story with you: the time I resuscitated my Father’s memory to tell him I loved him. Did I ever tell him? In my head, I see him in front of me, crossing the kitchen floor in Caplan. His large body, suddenly as light as a feather, moving like the ghost of a forgotten man. He almost never spoke to Mom. For her part, she ignored him most of the time. Their conversations were restricted to what was necessary. I remember the painful sorrow that haunted my sisters, my brother and I during those early years as well as the two adults we called Mom and Dad. What roles did they play in our lives besides working to feed us? Often, at night, Dad opened a small can of sardines in just one pull. It would set mom off. I knew it all too well. She’d call him insatiable and remind him that he was already fat enough. “As large as the house,” she’d complain to Mrs. Berthelot, our neighbour. Dad grabbed the big red box of crackers in the pantry, opened the glass door of the cabinet and took the red plate that belonged to Granny Cora, his mother. I knew he always got a small craving at night, a voracious grief devouring his heart. It made me sad to see Mom insult him while he sat there eating in silence. Dad would take two headless, drained sardines with his fingers and lay them out on a cracker. Then, with his large hand, he’d drown his sorrow in his wide-open mouth. Then came the audible “crunch, crunch” of the sardines and crackers being dispatched in one go. Did I ever tell him I loved him? For fun, the youngest one sometimes clambered on top of Dad when he was stretched out on the couch. Sitting astride his belly, she’d grab his shirt and kick her heels into his sides, his flesh already bruised by life. “Yee haw!” yelled my brother who tried to catch Dad’s swollen feet with a lasso. Inevitably, this game threw Mom into a fit of rage. She’d immediately order me to put an end to the nonsense, as Dad laid helpless on the couch. Did I ever tell him I loved him? When night came, I sometimes heard Mom vent her hostility on Dad. I cried, my head under the pillow. I sobbed again when Dad left on Sunday afternoon or Monday morning with his travelling salesman’s suitcase. I had to wait five long days before he’d return home. Did I ever tell him I loved him? The day before his departure, as Mom ironed Dad’s shirts and two pairs of pants, I’d hear her grumble about Dad’s size. She had to extend each leg twice on the ironing board, plus do the crotch, the pockets and the huge waistline of “her enormous husband,” as she often repeated. Infuriated, she’d apply a damp square of linen to help smooth the fabric. The day after he left for work, Mom would empty her bag of heartache in front of Mrs. Berthelot, who was married to a schoolteacher as skinny as a broomstick. When Dad left home to provide for us, did I ever tell him I loved him? I knew nothing about love in those days. Do I really know any more now? As a child, I cried in secret when I saw Dad sad or hurt. Once married, I sobbed in silence when I had to face my overwhelming solitude. I was still very young and could tell that something wasn’t right between my parents. I observed our neighbours and noticed that, in our home, there was no affection between the parents. No kisses behind the ear that our neighbour gave his wife; no exchange of mischievous smiles or weekend trips to the cottage without the kids. Between our parents, the essential was absent. Even my brother had mentioned to Grandpa Frédéric that Dad brought sadness back with him every Friday night when he’d return from his travels. One day, I must’ve been five or six, Dad came back from a trip and called me “Coco.” A small word that felt as soft as a kitten’s ears. The first time I heard him calling me Coco, my young heart shivered with happiness. As if the cat’s paw had found its way into the palm of my hand. For the entire week that followed, that short word reminded me of Dad’s face, his eyes lighting sparkles in mine. Did I ever tell him I loved him? Then, one day, we left the orange cliffs of my childhood. But sorrow always moved with us, settling in at each subsequent home: in Mont-Joli, Sainte-Foy, in the suburbs of Montreal and, finally, in Sainte-Adèle. By that time, it was only the two of them. Dad passed away there, and the sorrow disappeared with him. In turn, I became an adult who also never knew the sweet nothings, tender looks and kisses enjoyed between husband and wife. As I’ve written in a previous letter, I only learned about the reasons for their heavy grief at Mom’s funeral. Mom had been in love with a Protestant anglophone but was forced by the town priest and family to leave him. My grandfather convinced his broken-hearted daughter to marry a good man. A man who was crazy for her but who was never able to win her heart. Sometimes, we sacrifice a whole life in the hopes of a few kisses or tender words whispered behind our ear. We imagine love as big as a mountain and, while we wait in vain, the mountain engulfs us. Big as it may be, it’s never enough to fill the void of love in our poor hearts. I never really learned to say “I love you.” Those absent words, that unspoken, brief declaration full of meaning hung heavy on the sorrow I lived with since childhood. Today, an old woman, I decided to resuscitate my dad to tell him I loved him. Yes, I love you, dearest Dad. You were my first love and you may just very well be my last, although I hope that won’t be true. If you can, send me an angel from above, Dad, one who will take human shape as a good, kind-hearted man, who’ll love as much as I loved you. Your sweet Coco. Happy Father’s Day to all dads! 💖

One morning, at the grocery store, miserable like a pumpkin who thinks it’s a vegetable, I walk down the aisles on the lookout for a little pick-me-up. Inside my sad heart, a few tears fall and blur my short grocery list. Aging and living alone unsettles me, zaps my appetite. I’m losing a bit of weight. Dressed in pants and a jacket a tad too roomy now, I walk down the frozen aisle like a polar-class icebreaker headed straight for its frozen sorrow. In front of the candy display, I think about my two great-grandsons whose mother doesn’t want them eating hard candies. Personally, I have a sweet spot for the black-brown candy that tastes like coffee. So delicious! A young redhead approaches and places exactly 225 grams of sweets on the small candy scale. — “Half a pound of happiness!,” says the young man. I wonder if it’ll be enough to satisfy his sweet tooth. A heat wave suddenly clutches my insides. It’s noon on the dot, and, standing in this large grocery store, I’m hungry for hugs. I’m thirsty for love. I’d love to be in someone’s arms, in my mother’s or father’s arms, so they could rock me, reassure me and tell me tender words. In the lettuce section, a handsome older man with a white apron strikes up a conversation with me and explains all the benefits of avocados. Avocado in French is spelled “avocat,” which sounds the same as the word for “lawyer.” So I reply with a smile: “The avocat (lawyer) I know is in very good health. He spends his days in the office drawing up important franchise and work contracts for the company.” — “Excuse me, but the “avocat” I’m talking about is edible! Rich in lipids, it provides all kinds of healthy benefits.” — “Well, I should eat more of them then, shouldn’t I?” — “Take my word for it,” says the older man in the white apron. “I eat two or three every week, and I’m in tip-top shape. I play hockey, I jump rope and my wife forces me to maintain a big garden in the summer and shovel the snow in the winter.” Heavens! I want to place this man wearing a white apron in my shopping cart. Instead, I feel the avocado. It turns out to be not too hard, nor too soft, and I eventually take two of them. The expert in the apron confirms they’re perfectly ripe and ready to eat. I suppose you can never have too much protection against diseases and other nasty things. Then I make my way to the least interesting aisle to visit. On my right, soups, other canned goods and a thousand and one crackers. On my left, a mix of marinades, shrimp cocktail sauces and the new, made-in-Quebec real mayonnaise, MAG. I’m hungry! I’ll certainly need a few slices of ham and two or three well-washed lettuce leaves if I want to taste this delightful mayo between two slices of bread. As I approach the fishmonger’s kingdom, I pretend to mentally count the number of lobsters I’ll need for my party of eight coming over on Saturday. The man, also handsome, takes a moment to think and comes around to the front of the display. He draws near to me and asks if any sides will be served with the lobsters. I weaken at the knees. I almost want to faint just so I can end up in his arms! In front of me, a hundred perfectly cooked red lobsters are laid out on a bed of snow waiting to be taken home. Once again, I glance at the good-looking fellow who smells lightly of seaweed. He’s a bit younger than me and married. His handsome face is to die for. Since we chat almost every time I come to do my grocery shopping, the fishmonger knows I’m from Gaspésie and, since lobster season is in full swing, he takes the liberty of touching my hand and chooses a very big one for me. Tonight, the big lobster and I will have a party. Once at home, I take the hammer out of the toolbox. Just like Grandpa Frédéric taught me, I start by rinsing my tools in boiling water: the hammer to break the shell and the knife to carve out the insides. Then, I delicately open the big lobster’s belly. Wow, it’s full of meat! I pull and cut away the animal’s four pairs of legs, its two impressive front claws and the enormous muscular tail, ready to come off. Suddenly I remember I’d also put a jar of the new mayo and two avocados in my cart. Perfect! I decide to treat myself to a real feast. I take a nice serving dish, a large soup bowl for the animal’s shell and my assortment of lobster crackers and forks from the cupboard. Then I uncork a good bottle of white wine and relish the moment. My big red lobster swallowed my sorrow whole! Cora ❤️