My favourite breakfast

5:49 a.m. at the ALT Hotel, Toronto Finally! I am able to return and fulfill my duties as the Founder of Cora restaurants, which today can be found from coast to coast. I am in Toronto to visit our locations in Ontario. I’m just so happy to be here, accompanied by a few company directors. I am delighted to see our wonderful franchisees in their restaurant once again. It also gives me a chance to greet the customers who recognize me and stop to shake my hand. Just like in the old days, I take a few minutes to sit with them at their table and inquire after their family, their children and if they like the new dishes we’ve added to the menu. Most of them insist on taking a selfie with me, and I love the closeness! I thank the stars for this brief moment of interaction every time it happens. It’s such a precious connection for me; I consider myself extremely privileged to be so loved. Thirty-five years of being immersed in the business probably has something to do with it. My face is all over the place: printed on the menu, framed on the walls and featured countless times in different ads. Knowing that I am not forgotten makes me happy. It gives me the push I need to keep going and reminds me that I still can’t imagine departing for another dimension. Speaking of departures, I boarded a big steel bird to travel from Montreal to downtown Toronto. All it took was 58 minutes – just enough time to drink my coffee and go over the itinerary of our restaurant visits and activities for the next few days. We’ll need to keep a steady pace; there’s not a minute to spare, according to François, the trip’s leader. Except, of course, for the many serendipitous stops for the Founder to meet her customers. I haven’t flown in nearly three years. I forgot my Bose headphones, and my ears were popping during the entire descent. I pressed and pulled on my ears and tried yawning; my poor head suffered. “One has to suffer to succeed,” my mother would say if she were still among us, with her hands permanently covered in eczema. She suffered terribly, and I am certain that she’s now the picture of health, busily ironing the angels’ robes in paradise. Honestly, nobody loved to iron like she did! She delighted in smoothing out the wrinkles of her husband’s extra-large clothes. 6:52 a.m. Seated in the hotel lobby, I unexpectedly get the chance to converse with a man with a face as calm, smooth and radiant as an angel’s. He immigrated to Canada 30 years ago from the Dalai Lama’s home country. Focused like a monk in prayer, he is busy dusting the coffee tables in the lobby and replacing the many cushions on the enormous sofas in the hall. His face breaks into a smile as he gets closer to the cocktail table where I’m sitting; I feel like a worshiper waiting for the holy host. His huge smile and heartfelt HELLO light up my face and a very agreeable conversation about life, grace and the potential serenity that resides in each one of us unfolds. When I boldly mention the ongoing war in Ukraine, the angelic man urges me to believe that we have to build peace within our hearts. Picking up his feather duster as if it were a sacred object, he bows his head and leaves. At that exact moment, the elevator doors open and release my flock of colleagues, who are all smiles. They look for the coffee machine and take a moment to enjoy their beverage as we discuss the day’s activities. We leave the hotel for our next destination: a recently renovated restaurant that has been open for 10 years. The franchisees greet us with much enthusiasm and pride. They are always delighted to see us, especially the Founder; you can see it in their eyes. And for just one moment, I become the world’s happiest person: the one who created this extraordinary breakfast restaurant concept. After shaking countless hands and sitting down numerous times at customers’ tables, I look up and down the walls, taking in each detail of the renovation. I created a few décor items myself and I insisted that they be displayed in the right place on the right walls. My colleagues put up with me; they know there’s a wolf hiding under sheep’s clothing. Most of them have been with the company for many years and are part of the family. 7:32 p.m. at the airport I type away on my iPad precariously placed on my lap. Our 8 p.m. flight has been delayed by 30 minutes. My colleagues talk about this and that while they wait for the giant bird to arrive at the gate. They are satisfied with the work they accomplished in the Greater Toronto Area. They can’t wait to be home again. Tomorrow morning, some of them will be joining me at the head office with their children for a photo shoot to announce a special event. The restaurant business is not an easy one. A reality we have known first-hand for 35 years. We love sharing our expertise and passion with our franchisees, along with a desire to delight our customers. Cora 🐑

7:37 a.m. at the coffee shop This morning, I make my way like a sleepwalker to the coffee shop, programmed through habit. I barely slept last night. Thank goodness it’s Friday and I have no appointments. I really want to share the unusual yet priceless discovery that kept me up all night. A single question tormented me the entire night. Without further ado, here is the question: “If you could keep one single memory and bring it with you in the afterlife, which one would it be?” What would you do if there was life after death and that all your memories were erased, but one? Which memory would you want to revisit eternally? I got into bed early last night, believe it or not, to read for a while before turning in. Happily nestled in bed, resting on two satin pillows, a page from a magazine threw me for a loop! What is most important to me? Which memory would I want to remember forever? I sit straight up in my bed and consider this highly significant issue. You know I’m not the type of person who simply sweeps soul-searching questions under the rug. I have spent the better part of the last three years analyzing my life and telling my story. I jump right out of bed, look for my slippers and head to the kitchen in my dressing gown. I flip open my iPad, tap on a few icons and type the name of the journalist who stole my night’s sleep. I want to know more. Google tells me that this important question comes from a 1998 Japanese movie entitled AFTER LIFE by director Hirokasu Kore-eda. I pour myself a coffee, which by now won’t surprise you, and peruse the Amazon website looking for the movie, but for $37, it doesn’t even mention which language it’s subtitled in. I have to wait to get in touch with a friend who’s better at this type of search than I am. I get comfortable on the couch in my library and I turn to the article in the magazine Happiness that first sparked my interest and kept me from Morpheus’ arms. 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 can then take with them into eternity. The movie depicts how each person chooses that memory, which is then recorded so they can play it back at any time afterwards. My head and my heart plunge into a dreadful existential void as I read. Which single memory will I bring into eternity? My body stiff on the couch, I suddenly become like the deceased characters in the movie, parked in limbo with only one week to decide which memory to bring into eternity. Lost in thought, I am up all night creating my own movie; dreaming up a dozen scenarios that I end up ripping apart each time. Around 4 a.m., I grab the magazine again and discover a related article by Jacky van de Goor, a PhD researcher whose work is dedicated to collecting all kinds of memories from thousands of people. I try to find out more about her, but most of the information available through Google about Jacky von de Moor is written in German or a doctorate-level English that is too difficult for me to read. My eyelids are becoming as heavy as lead. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to choose. What do we know about death? Nothing at all. Since I am as curious as Australia’s frill-necked lizard, I would love to know which memory you would take with you into eternity. Dear readers, don’t follow my example! Don’t spend a sleepless night torturing your mind sifting through your memories. Reflect upon it while you are taking a stroll through nature. And if you feel like it, share your precious memory with me – such confessions bring us closer. I am quite certain that each of our precious memories represents the closest thing to what we might consider our life’s core. Cora ❤ P.S. I promise you this: I will revisit all my memories from my life until I find the most precious one to take with me into eternity. Eventually I will share it with you in a letter.

(Note to my readers: This letter was written in December.) I found myself in paradise’s library last Friday. It has to be true because I was in heaven! A huge place, I don’t know how many stories high, with long escalators, lovely posters hanging everywhere, arrows indicating directions, concession stands, information booths and angels dressed as school crossing guards. A thousand kids ran left and right in this real-life dream. I do not have enough words to describe the unbelievable sight: More than a million books revealing their pages to avid readers. The entire space is filled with the desire to learn and discover. Euphoric and curious, I sway from one bookshelf to the next, gathering pearls of wisdom from each story. I have known all my life that reading is the most fulfilling gift we can offer those we love. For the occasion, St. Peter has separated paradise by area of interest. I am even under the impression that the children’s section is a hundred times larger than the space dedicated to adults, which is only natural, I suppose. I have lived a full life for which I am very thankful; I have little left to accomplish down here. Young people have so much to learn in order to live well! As a young girl, I remember not having any books to read at home, no notepad to pour my secrets out in blue ink. And yet Mom had been a school teacher before she married. Had she even read a novel before eczema stopped her from holding a book in her hands? I had to beg and plead for her to register me at Collège de Rosemont. I can easily recall the small navy blue uniform she had sewn from Dad’s old overcoat, the long beige socks the nuns forced us to wear and the black mantilla covering our heads when we visited the chapel. I learned how to read real books during my first year of classical studies. And I never stopped. I took my school books very seriously but could lose myself in a romance novel. Soon enough, however, I much preferred the great authors of true literature; those who could teach me how to properly write. Nearly every wall in my house is covered by a white or brown IKEA bookcase, depending on the room. I’m telling you: I live in a library! And I love to be completely enveloped by books. My books are classified by topic: spirituality, religions of the world, geography and travel, magazines, business, history, literature, pocket book novels, biographies, cookbooks and many more. I guess the only thing I am missing is a book club (I’m thinking about it). I also have many pictures of my favourite authors, who keep me company. I move happily about the library overseen by angels. I stroll between the tables, I inspect the displays, I scamper down the aisles. Time slips through the divine hourglass. After many hours of meeting some of my favourite authors, I look for archangel Gabriel’s cane or at least a kind angel whose wings I might fly away on. My wonderful granddaughter texts me out of the blue as though she had heard me and offers to come pick me up. She wants to have dinner together. So I leave the Montreal Book Fair, transported by the grace of family love. Crossing the city, we find ourselves at her parents’ favourite restaurant in Laval. Do you know just how much I love my grandkids? My love for them could fill the entire heavens, and then some. Cora 📚

7:35 a.m. at the coffee shop The snow painted our picturesque Laurentian town all white overnight. When I open my eyes, I am five years old and want to go outside. – “Mom, where are my boots? And my mittens and my blue wool scarf?” The snow makes me think back to a time in my childhood when we carved out snow blocks in the snow to build a fort. My brother oversaw the operations while us girls had to carefully listen to his instructions or we’d get a snowball in the neck. Bobby, like my dad used to call him, was the champion of winter projects. And his specialty was igloos, in which he would sometimes imprison me when I teased him one too many times. I still clearly remember one particular winter day. My brother and I were building an enormous snowman. The snow was wet and it was easy to roll into two big balls which we were going to use to make a large figure just like Dad’s. That’s right! We were creating a snowman version of our dad, whom my brother enjoyed teasing; I in turn enjoyed teasing my brother. I had just helped him place one of the huge snowballs on top of the other when my brother’s body started to shake. He was squeezing his thighs and doubling over like he really had to go. Apparently he couldn’t wait, because before I could say anything, I saw a reddish liquid shoot straight out of him, staining the immaculate white snow. My brother was waving his arms wildly, screaming in terror. He thought he had been struck by some illness. It turns out, Mr. Know-It-All didn't know that when you eat beets, your urine turns a similar colour. How could he have known? The pain from mom’s eczema-blistered hands had abated enough to allow her to garden that summer. And the delicious red-brown beets were just one of the many things we had recently discovered. 8:45 a.m. This week at the head office, I received a letter from a little-known area in France. The sender was congratulating me on my French Canadian prose. The return address indicated “Gordes,” which I had to look up on Google. Population: 1,670 habitants Last census: 2019 Density: 35 habitants/km2 Area: 48.4 km Altitude: 373 m Founded in 1031 Gordes is ranked among the most beautiful villages in France. Its distinguishing feature is its location: perched high atop a mountain and visible from far, far away. Seen from the foot of the mountain, it gives the impression that it has been standing guard over the valley since forever. Good heavens, where is that? Google, help me again! “The village of Gordes is a French commune located in the Vaucluse department of the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region.” Distance Paris-Gordes: 718.8 kilometres 8 hours and 5 minutes by car Car rental: 16 euros/day Apoline Duschesne, the author of the letter, wants to know more about me. Her daughter is a teacher living in the province of Quebec and reads my weekly Sunday letters, which she then shares with her mother. Having retired from journalism 20 years ago, Appoline misses the written word. Without much preamble, she tells me that she wants to do what I do: WRITE. Apolline wants to empty her mind of the 30 years of news she has chronicled. She wants to change her life and change her style. She begs me to explain how I am able to enjoy such a close, honest and generous relationship with my readers as I recount stories of my life. 10:28 a.m. Dear Apolline, your letter touches me deeply. We are probably about the same age. After many years of hard work, I stopped my management activities at the business I built in 2018. Fourteen months later, a nasty virus spread around the globe. Locked up in my house, I was eventually asked to write a weekly letter to our wonderful customers, which would be posted on the Cora restaurants Facebook page. And so our customers began to read my Sunday letters. My initial intent was to simply encourage them to keep up their spirits as the pandemic overturned our worlds. Without realizing it, all the sorrow and frustrations I felt in my new retired life disappeared. I dare say, dear Apolline, that WRITING saved my life. Writing each day has become my ritual for happiness. My heart opened up by talking directly to my readers. Each day I explore the present, the surprising everydayness of life such as going for a drive in the mountains, visiting the market, browsing a new bookstore or simply pedalling faster on my new stationary bike. I usually write 4 or 5 hours each day, often at the coffee shop or sitting at my kitchen table while listening to baroque music. A wise man, whose name I forget, once told me that listening to baroque music helps you write. I also admit to taking a midday nap on the couch in the library for one or two hours, a thick mask covering my eyes. I read the rest of the time. I learn or search for new words that call to me. Since I started writing regularly, most of my money goes to purchasing bestsellers, how-to books and magazines of all kinds. They have now far surpassed the cost of all my colourful clothes, scarves, shoes and trinkets I wear on my clothes or in my hair. There, you have it, my dear Apolline. I know you will succeed in finding a new voice. Every human in its own way represents a ground to be cleared, a story to be told, a future to be sown. And maybe one day, in the commune of Gordes, I will have the wonderful opportunity to visit the Notre-Dame de Sénanque Abbey with you. Cora ☃

My New Year’s Day resolutions were very clearly explained to me early on: lots of small things I had to do to improve my situation. “Watch your figure and lose a few pounds,” Aunt Magella would say. “Be nicer,” Dad would tell me, “and help your mom before she has to ask you.” Grandpa Frédéric was the only one who encouraged me to read. He would collect paper clippings and give them to me. It was also he who prompted grandma to give me her small dictionary so I could improve my vocabulary. What I remember from those days is a persistent impression of never being congratulated for anything. There is one exception, however. The nun who taught French at my elementary school had told my mother, in front of me, that I wrote very well, but that my writing was always filled with mistakes. Thank heavens I started reading night and day to improve my vocabulary. As a teenage girl, I would go through the big Larousse dictionary at bedtime and write down every word I didn’t know in a notebook. In college, I had become a serious young girl with a goal: improve my writing and become an author. Perhaps because my passion was so great, it crushed my dream? And, just like that, like a cake without baking powder, the marriage that followed was a total fiasco. Nevertheless, life followed its course like a river churning with clashing currents and continued to descend towards the ocean, carrying along its amazing children, bitter sorrows and tiny swells of hope. Penniless, I still managed to become a happy liberated woman in 1980. I remember it clearly. I was 33, with three children who would soon be teenagers. We had “a bright future ahead of us,” I promised them. Unable to find work that suited my academic diploma I had earned 15 years before, I was soon hired in the restaurant business, like most single mothers at that time. In those days, my list of resolutions were typically focused on losing a few kilos, exercising at a gym or parking five streets away from the restaurant so I would have to walk the distance there and back. I had to improve my looks, wear nicer clothes, get in better shape, increase my salary and eventually live in a nicer apartment. Conscientious and hardworking, I was promoted from hostess to evening manager, then day manager and, 10 months later, general manager of a large popular restaurant that forced me to work six and a half days a week. A few years passed and I worked on my list of trivial goals until one day, a waitress brought me a magazine that a business customer had left behind during the lunch hour. She didn’t know who, so I kept the magazine aside for a few days in case they returned to claim it. Seven days later, I fell asleep transformed and happy. The magazine presented the results from a fascinating study conducted by researchers at Harvard in Boston. The study was on the effects of writing down one’s goals. It turns out that 3% of the students who had written down their goals throughout their studies earned, on average, an income 20% higher than the other 97% of students. The small group of students also shared a common desire: they were eager to learn and determined to go further. A divine hand had just planted a seed in my mind. I was going to be a lot more serious and proactive because I was also eager to learn and determined to do everything necessary to improve our situation. After a little bit of research on the topic, I began to understand the power generated by writing. According to the well-known author Henriette Anne Klauser, committing your goals to paper puts your future in motion; your goals become real and tangible. At the beginning of 1984, the resolutions on my list had become more aspirational than just improving my looks. Like brave soldiers ready to win the war, they were all consistent with the creation of our own small business. I have the document still today, tucked away somewhere. It contains the brief outline of a modest business that the children and I would have one day. I remember it very well: a sort of coffee shop where we’d sell danishes, homemade cakes, scones and biscottis. We’d call it “La Clownerie.” We would also sell birthday cakes and clown costumes for kids. I was already sewing nice ones for my own children. Even 30 years ago, mothers were too busy to sew their kids’ costumes. The seed sprouted and we had to wait until 1987 for it to appear in front of our incredulous eyes. It was a small diner serving amazing breakfasts, with a bright sun for its trademark. My list of yearly goals became increasingly serious after we opened that first small restaurant. For years, my list had contained numbers I wanted to lower; now my resolutions were all about surpassing the numbers I had written down. In January 1994, when the kids and I were already operating nine restaurants and we were looking into becoming a franchisor, my list of resolutions turned into an ANNUAL BUSINESS PLAN. Our individual personalities were swallowed into this amazing tsunami without us truly realizing what was happening. Each of us had the difficult mission to become the very best. And we were, I suppose, becoming well known, earning awards for excellence and making solid sales. And then, as naturally as heavy tree branches bending gradually towards the earth, I slowly found myself on the side road, taking the backseat to let someone else take the wheel. He’s the one who today gives his annual plan to a team of professionals. And he’s very good at it, even when faced with the terrible disruption that has hit the restaurant industry in recent years. For me, thinking makes me wiser and writing takes care of the rest! The infinite wisdom of the universe organizes my days. Some days I feel like a tightrope walker moving across an abyss. Leaving a paragraph behind, I stand, ready to take the plunge. I try to hold onto a star and then the wind saves me. I no longer have to plan for anything. I don’t have to write my list of resolutions or make any promises anymore. I only have to wait for the dawn, when the sun rises above and sees fit to fill me with hope for another day. Cora ❤

7:30 a.m. at the coffee shop This morning, as I and three other early birds entered the coffee shop, we were met with an astonishing sight. Christmas had transformed the shop overnight. The window frames, hanging lamps, candy shelves, menu boards, window sills and chocolate displays — everything had been enlivened with a touch of red. Even the background music had changed its tune. Several mouth-watering pastries were teasing our taste buds. Many of the regular clients wanted to touch the empty wrapped gifts leaning against each other under the huge, festively decorated tree. Even I, an old lady, trembled like an excited child. My heart had just been touched by the magic of Christmas! That entire glorious Saturday morning slid right by like Santa’s sleigh on its way to rooftops. I immediately think of old St. Nick, who has been galloping across the snowy skies in December since time immemorial, his long white beard covered in frost, his big belly swathed in red and his warm voice turning into laughter as he sits in his sleigh, filled with thousands of gifts to delight kids around the world. I still remember the time I brought my young kids to a shopping centre filled with people running left and right, their arms full of purchases wrapped in shiny Christmas wrapping paper. You should have seen how surprised we were when we saw Santa in the middle of the food court seated on a big, red throne, covered in red velvet cushions and flanked by an army of poinsettias at his feet. The only thing we could decipher in this avalanche of red was Santa’s long white beard, his mustache and his overgrown brows, all as white as immaculate snow. My daughter pulled my sleeve to ask the identity of the beautiful lady whose gloved hands were resting on Santa’s shoulder. My oldest son explained to his sister that she was the Christmas fairy who hands out candy to children. After waiting in line in front of Santa for a good long hour, each child was finally given a mini candy cane in the palm of their hand. We were poor at that time, but we rejoiced after seeing Santa. The kids drank hot cocoa with three tiny marshmallows floating in the hot beverage. It warmed my heart to see their beautiful smiles, each one adorned with a creamy moustache. Of course, they begged me to buy them fries, burgers, a slice of pizza or other small food court treat so they could believe, just for a moment, that they were like all the other kids in our neighbourhood. Instead, I had to promise them Kraft dinner, “a real one!” as my oldest used to say, in order to finally get them to leave the shopping centre. Thank goodness, we survived and even thrived.The children finished high school and helped me in the restaurant. All four of us had several cooking talents, hidden I don’t know where, and we were especially good with breakfast food. Year by year, a large breakfast chain grew across Canada through new partnerships with incredible franchisees. The children have had kids of their own, and a new generation of resilient, courageous adults is now escaping their ancestor’s karma. High noon Leaving the café festooned in red magic half reluctantly, I decide to drive north to admire the traditional festive decorations. I stop at the convenience store in my area, like I do every Saturday, and buy the weekend papers and fill up the tank. Saint-Sauveur is already thick with tourists when I get there. It's always the same kind of curious people who scour the shops for one-of-a-kinds, exclusive finds or seasonal discounts. Moving at a snail’s pace along the main road, it appears that Saint-Sauveur hasn’t yet gotten into the festive spirit. I still haven’t seen the huge Christmas decorations that usually amaze the locals and visitors alike. Even the storefronts are a bit sad to look at; just one more casualty of the terrible labour shortage we are experiencing across the planet at the moment. An entire generation of workers is apparently missing. Let’s see if the Asian restaurant is open. It is! I stop at Thai Express for a tasty chicken pad Thai with extra broccoli. Rich in vitamin C, antioxidants, fibres and mineral salts, the al dente broccoli enriches me nutritionally. When I buy broccoli at the grocery store, however, I never manage to eat all the florets before they go bad. We will feast this Christmas! Turkey, tourtières, pork stew, cipâte and baked beans will be in the middle of the table surrounded by the children’s favourite vegetables, including slightly braised broccoli, served with my special secret sauce. It already feels like Christmas as I drive back from Saint-Sauveur, admiring a row of purple and pink cumulus clouds kneeling on the horizon. I wish you a most wonderful holiday, dear readers. May you all enjoy delicious moments surrounded by friends and family. Cora 🎄

This morning, I wait for the words to come to me. I wait patiently while they pair up to create sentences that still haven’t reached my mind. I read a nice text last night in bed and it brought a few tears to my eyes. It was on self-compassion; that sentiment that makes us sensitive to our own misfortunes. My sentences aren’t flowing freely this morning. They hesitate and whimper. How can I write about my own suffering, how can I open up to it instead of shoving it under the pillow? I have the feeling that I have already explored it at length in my writing. Have I ever faced my weaknesses and failures without any self-judgement, without any accusation towards anyone and without any excuses? Have I ever considered my trials and misfortunes framed within the common human experience? Most of us live in an incessant whirlwind of setbacks. We come across far too many potholes, letdowns, losses and sufferings of all kinds along our journey. And all humans, me included, have a tendency to be negative, whiny, unsatisfied and disappointed. On more than one occasion, I believed that I had been deprived of my fundamental right to happiness! I discovered, while reading about self-compassion, that a solution exists. When we are faced with disappointment, instead of reacting negatively, “we can treat ourselves with loving kindness and self-compassion. We can give ourselves emotional support, just as we would a close friend or family member who’s suffering. Self-compassion is not about telling ourselves that we’re better than others in some way. It’s about accepting reality: no matter how special we’d like to think we are, we’re human just like everyone else. And part of being human is that we’ll all face failure, disappointment and loss at some point. By accepting that we’re imperfect, we can change our inner voice to one that’s supportive, self-accepting and self-compassionate. As a result, our brains will make fewer stress chemicals so that we can feel and cope better.” (excerpt from Self-Compassion: One Key to Mental Health) I came to the conclusion that, in our daily lives, self-compassion means accepting reality, regardless of what may happen. When we are understanding, self-accepting, conscious that we are imperfect and treat ourselves with kindness, we feel a lot better. Back in the day, I didn’t know much about life and I had a bad habit of severely judging myself. It was difficult for me to give myself even the smallest comfort or self-compassion, especially when it came to my relationship with my children. I was strict and made no exceptions with them, especially during our verbal clashes while at work at the restaurant, and our differences of opinion often followed us home. More often than not, I blamed myself, felt apologetic and never went easy on myself. I did carry a lot on my shoulders during those years of long hours and hard work. Thank goodness, my obligations lessened and I had the time to get used to self-compassion and kindness. All of you who have entered the stage of eternal youth like I have, take very good care of your heart. Be kind to yourself. Avoid useless confrontations and arguments that seem to never end. Give yourself a break even if your strawberry jam burns at the bottom of the cooking pot. It happened to me the other day! And, instead of being furious with myself, I remembered what my mom used to say about doing two things at the same time. While the strawberries were bubbling away, I was typing a new story on my iPad. No wonder the jam burned. Last fall, I delayed calling the snow removal company to renew my contract and, when the snow came, I had to beg on hands and knees to get a new contractor! Instead of panicking and banging my head against the wall, I should have considered the excellent lesson to simply plan ahead. More than a thousand irritations busy our minds every year; an average of 2.5 each day. They try our patience and shoot our blood pressure straight through the roof. That alone is reason enough to let things go a little and be kinder to ourselves. In February 2019, the water in my house stopped running suddenly. I immediately called the public works in my city only to learn that I have an artesian well on my large plot. I had no clue where the well was located and, even worse, where the pump that brings the water into the house was. The entire yard was covered with a thick layer of snow. I finally found a team of brave fellows who searched the yard with instruments in vain for two days. It took me three days to go through a pile of pictures taken during summers when the kids were playing outside on the grass. Finally, in one of the last photos, there it was in the background: a brown steel post sticking out of the ground, very close to my tall cedar hedge. I called the workers back, who dug at that very precise location and found it. They repaired everything in a matter of minutes! Never in my life have I been so relieved to recover something. Something so mundane and common, that the possibility of losing it never crossed my mind. I will never forget the sudden rush of water in the large kitchen sink. It was a miracle, a blessing! Cora ❤

4:14 p.m., Estérel Resort Believe it or not, we are celebrating 35 years in business this year. The first small Cora restaurant opened its doors the day I turned 40 on May 27, 1987. I wasn’t a spring chicken dreaming of taking over the world. I was the mother of three young teenagers who were capable of helping me provide for our lives. You most certainly know the story already. The reason I like sharing this story, however, is to tell women that age is not important. Quite the opposite, really! A kilo of maturity mixed with two kilos of struggles, peppered with courage and salted with creativity can create miracles when children need to be fed. I can even add that a woman’s body is generally stronger than a ship’s hull. A mother’s strength, patience and endurance are miraculous. I have been living proof of it myself on a good number of occasions. And now that I have become a weary older woman, I can recognize and appreciate all of women’s qualities. I started writing this letter in front of a magnificent fire, enthroned like a queen in the great room of the Estérel Resort, located in the Laurentians. To celebrate our 35th anniversary, we invited all our employees from across Canada, a little over 52 people, to spend two days with us at the head office. To end the festivities on a high note, we headed north to the Laurentian Mountains to share a delicious dinner, followed by a campfire, complete with marshmallows and singalongs. Everyone slept soundly that night in one of the beautiful rooms at the Estérel Resort. 8:15 a.m. the next morning The weather is a bit chilly, but our hearts are full of love for one another. I’m an early bird, so I’m already installed in the vast dining room, with its view of the lake, seated close to the coffee machine. People are coming in one after the other. They say hello to me, glance at the huge brunch table and pick the tables nearest the lake view first. The food is appetizing and the counter offering beautifully cut fruit surpasses our expectations. We’re delighted! All the employees are happy to have met. Uproarious laughter can be heard throughout breakfast. It is the first time they are spending time together, travelling here from different Canadian provinces across this vast country. We are all thrilled with the turnout. Our get-together comes to an end as we all gather in front of the big fireplace. The young president thanks Nancy, the Human Resources Manager, for organizing the event, and all the participants for attending. A big sun shines in the sky as we head towards our cars. The return trip is dotted with pretty lakes, which beckon us to return one day. 4:20 p.m., seated at my kitchen table It’s always a tremendous joy for me to meet colleagues from across this big country, especially since I don’t travel as much as I used to. I have to admit that, as I was driving back home, I got a little teary-eyed thinking that I am no longer at the ship’s helm or have a say when operational decisions are made. In fact, I sometimes miss the good old days of hard work when I was at the centre of the action. Don’t we have to die at something to be reborn elsewhere? I am of course entirely satisfied with how things turned out. But, like everyone else, sometimes I would like to be 40 again. I guess the morale of this paragraph is that we have to live each day like it’s the last. On my way to my final resting place, I should give thanks instead of thinking about regrets. Everything is perfect. I was blessed with many talents and I have used them well. Time has passed and I still move forward with immense gratitude for still being alive. Deep in my heart I know I still have one last objective, a final season. I am like an apple tree that won’t rest until all its fruit falls from its branches. Apples of happiness and good advice. I try to put every last seed of the future in the ground. By keeping up my writing, like the tree releasing its fruits, I want to release all the words left in my head. I want to die threadbare, empty and light as a feather ready to fly. I persevere at my own pace and in my own way. I appreciate every minute of the journey, every line, every hopeful word. I will be there to serve you my words for breakfast for as long as you want to read them, dear readers. I am still eager to learn, courageous and curious, looking at the world in wonder, amazed at a tiny weaver ant, capable of transporting a load 100 times her own weight. Just like her, I will try to bring you outsized joy, a bit of comfort and my silly reflections on life and constantly changing understanding of all its mysteries. The world and everything in it still interests me. All of it amazes and calls out to me. Every one of my sentences could be a question. And they often are. Line after line, I have become an observer of the living, a woman who has experienced so much, seeking to understand the human heart’s many twists and turns. Know that I love you very much. Cora ❤

7:38 a.m. at the coffee shop Blessed is the fall because it means citrus jam season is finally upon us again! Lemons, grapefruits, mandarins, clementines and oranges of all kinds. All my favourites! And since the beginning of the pandemic, I’ve had more than enough time to practice a wide variety of recipes. I’m a bit of a glutton sometimes and I love to spread a thick layer of fruit on my morning toast. Even thinly sliced orange peel gets added to cooking juices. I simply love roaming around the aisles of grocery stores and ethnic food stores where I often discover new varieties of food. That food trek takes me back to the time when I was starting out as a cook in a small breakfast diner. My curiosity was insatiable, especially when it came to selecting fresh fruit and leafy greens to decorate our breakfast plates. I remember it so well. My youngest son quickly became an expert fruiter – peeling, cutting and shaping fresh fruit. His thing was preparing an apple in the shape of an arrow; he could do it with his eyes closed! He later taught his expertise to hundreds of younger fruiters. This striking garnish is now the emblem of all breakfast plates at every competitor restaurant everywhere. Perhaps we’re the only ones today who remember that this breakfast revolution, from ordinary to extraordinary, was born in our first restaurants. Yes, I am bragging a little! I was the instigator of a breakfast renaissance. Families would not leave the house to have breakfast out 35 years ago. Special occasions would be celebrated at hotels that offered a Sunday brunch featuring egg dishes, charcuteries, salads and usually a wide array of desserts. Then there were the neighbourhood snack bars that opened early enough to serve eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, toast and commercial dehydrated pancakes to early bird workers. No one had seen nicely assorted fruit plates served with an egg dish or large homemade crêpes before we opened to serve them. When we started, no one else was filling large crêpes with delicious strawberries, bananas or mixed fresh fruit in delicious homemade custard. I remember it so well, like it was yesterday, the expressions of amazement on our customers’ eyes. A smile as big as their appetite lighting up each new face. They would stretch their necks to catch a glimpse of what kind of magic we were cooking up in the kitchen. We were living in a moment of creative euphoria back in those days. Each day, tens of new pairs of eyes would be completely transfixed by their breakfast plate. And when we had a few minutes of peace before or after the lunch hour rush, I noted down everything we had just created that day so we wouldn’t forget it and could recreate the dish again. We had no clue at that time what gargantuan task awaited us and what it meant to create a new restaurant concept. Creating new dishes was how we dazzled our clients. And we’re still doing it today, 35 years later. Of course, our way of delighting customers is now available outside our establishments too. Is being copied the price of fame? I could really do without it. But would we be able to serve this amazing restaurant concept to all our fans? It cheers me to think that Canadians everywhere can treat themselves to a delicious breakfast thanks to us. My heart fills with happiness knowing that I had a hand in this incredible morning gastronomy revolution. 9:40 a.m. Dear Louise D., I learn from your comment that you live in Saint-Sauveur, minutes away from the coffee shop where I write. Enjoy Mexico, its sun and beaches. Will I ever go back to Riviera Maya myself one of these days, where I’d escape to during those years of strenuous work? It’s strange how I’m just content with my simple life today. Writing fills me with happiness, I guess. Writing and reflecting upon the time I have left; thinking about this last quarter of a century that is softly pushing me towards the exit door. I often think about it, especially when I drive. I have to tell you a very dark secret, a fear that is nearly impossible to tame. And, I must confess, I have never talked about this with anyone. Why am I sharing this with you, my dear readers? I’m telling you because you have been the most caring listeners in the world to me. And maybe a few of you will know how to disperse this awful fear. My mother died in a head-on collision with a big truck that was transporting lambs to the slaughter house. The accident happened right at the green road side announcing “CAPLAN,” the village where my poor mother was born. My mom had decided, the summer after my father passed, to take my kids to Gaspésie. None of the three children suffered any physical harm, but my mother died on impact. In that moment, when I had to identify her broken face at the morgue, the fear that I would know the same fate immediately entered my bones. And I can’t help but think about it when I drive; not every time I get behind the wheel, but often enough. I drove across Gaspésie last summer. I did think about it, but you were right there with me, in my car, and I was far too busy talking to you and thinking about new tales to regale you with to fear anything. Come to think of it, the fear does seem to have faded a little. Now that I write regularly, you are always here with me, as I share what I see and feel. Truth is, I’ve come to think of you as my guardian angels. 11:12 a.m. I often get the feeling that a superior form of intelligence takes over me when I write. By doing what I love, I am learning to trust and take a chance on that inner voice and the message it dictates to me. The universe’s creative energy is within our reach. Imagine a huge warehouse where we can harvest as many pearls as we want. I daydream about it often. Writing fulfills me and the more I darken the blank page on the screen with words, the more I learn to trust my intuition. I often seem to hear the words running through my head, as if I were no longer alone at the keyboard; as if I were possessed by someone who absolutely needs to express themselves. I am learning to channel my creative energies as I write. And I often take risks, explore hidden areas of my personality or confess unspoken facts like I did today thinking back to the death of my mother and the dread it instilled in me. My destination is always the same, but it is composed of a thousand and one detours bringing me life’s surprises that I embrace. The barriers of my imagination, so far apart from one another, are almost invisible. But be aware, imagination speaks, tells tales, converses and discusses, just like the plastic crows perched in a row on top of my kitchen cabinets. Imagination is a wonderful addition to real life and sometimes proves to be the tastiest part of the story. I sometimes find myself telling rather eccentric tales to my dear plastic-feathered friends. — “So, dear crows! Tell me, what will we have for dinner?” — “Yesterday’s leftovers or a nice cod filet?” Cora 🐠

7:30 a.m. at the coffee shop I’m so glad I’ve taken up writing again after my bouts with COVID. The five vaccines seemed to have done the trick to get me over the worst of it. It was like the flu: a sore throat and serious fatigue. For a moment I was a bit worried because I couldn’t even concentrate enough to write. Believe it or not, I didn’t turn on my iPad for 12 consecutive days. I was beginning to worry I would lose my ease with words. However, on the 13th day when the magic screen lit up, a miracle happened. I wrote “Surprise, I have COVID,” and in a matter of seconds, I became the happiest woman once again. You might know this personally, but writing is like a daily drug that doesn’t damage your health, a source of happiness to the one typing away on the keyboard. It is certainly true in my case. I try and deplume the bird that’s still chirping in the bushes while I’m still alive. I try to dry each feather and empty the ink that’s left in the depths of my soul. I want to leave this place feeling lighter than a butterfly’s wing, having lived well and long, with no regrets. Imagine scrubbing a pan in your kitchen sink. Scrub, polish, strip and remove any rust or remaining crust, then sanitize. I want to imagine my empty head becoming a transparent cloud with my life’s tears suspended in the atmosphere, ready to rain down and wash away any trace of me. To leave unexpectedly, like a stream rushing down a mountain top. To leave with the eruption of a volcano, arms clutching Paradise’ balcony. To leave in the hollow of a bed, half-conscious. To depart in my sleep while dreaming of being 20. To leave while ignoring what is still on the road ahead. To leave bruised. And alone. 9:42 a.m. The weather is still so nice that it pulls me towards the mountains and I decide to head out to Mont-Tremblant. A buy a third coffee and hit the road headed north on Highway 117. It’s even more pleasant because my car is sage green like the fir trees. Of course, the fall colours have faded, but the air is mild and the sun is with me. I love driving my car while listening to Radio-Canada, especially when the brilliant Pénélope McQuade is at the mic. Sainte-Adèle, Val-David, Sainte-Agathe, and finally, Mont-Tremblant. My first stop is at a bookstore called CARPE DIEM, located in a cluster of nice shops. I buy a few new books on writing and two books on Japan: one about the city of Tokyo and the other about Mount Fuji’s surroundings. That’s right! The books are about this extraordinary country that my granddaughter adores. She hasn’t been yet, but we are planning a trip for her fifteenth birthday. Until then, she is learning Japanese and draws manga characters. She has the same talent as her cousin, my daughter's daughter, when it comes to drawing. One could say that creativity runs in the family. Right across from the bookstore, I walk into what I consider to be the best women’s clothing store in the Laurentians. I don’t buy anything, of course, because my closets are already full. I walk for a good half-hour, sitting down from time to time to catch my breath. The Mont-Tremblant village is very welcoming. I almost want to walk into every food shop and bakery to eat a bit, but I refrain. It’s so nice outside and I want to soak in every last ray of sunshine. I grab another coffee at Tim Hortons for the drive back and I make a mandatory stop at CAVEAU (“the cellar”), a high-end gourmet grocery store in the countryside. My eyes are always bigger than my stomach and I end up buying a large orange and chocolate brioche bun, a few nice tomatoes, my favourite brand of capers, fresh Quebec garlic and what will be the last corn of the season. My eyes alight on some chicken pâté. Damn singlehood! How many times do I stop myself from buying something delicious because I’m alone for dinner on most nights? The fridge is so well-stocked too! The scrumptious selection includes lasagna, lamb moussaka, beef bourguignon and beef meatball stew. It’s enough to make you dizzy! I’m a cook who suffers from eating alone much too often. Even the take-out counter, with its dishes prepared for two, is a heavy reminder. I stop at the optician’s in Sainte-Adèle on my way home to inquire about my next eye exam. It has become a kind of reflex whenever I feel lonely: I start thinking about new eyewear. — “January 2023,” replies the good-looking older man. “Thursday, January 26, to be precise,” he adds flashing his pearly whites when he smiles. Darn it! My mouth is still watering just thinking about the chicken pâté from the Caveau. How do mature, intelligent women get away with eating the same chicken pâté four nights in a row? Cora 🐓🐓🐓🐓

Yes, you read that right! A friend asked me to go for a walk with him on a new path in the woods. I first declined his offer because the vacuum was parked on my kitchen floor, ready to be put to good use sucking up all the bits and crumbs left behind after a busy week. — “Hey there, Cora”, answers my friend Éric, “thumb your nose at the vacuum. The weather is a bit chilly, but we can certainly walk at least 3 good kilometers.” — “I don’t think so.” — “You know, Cora, instead of sanding the floor in your nearly spotless kitchen, you should write about the benefits of laziness.” — “Well, maybe!” That is how we ended up walking in single file down a narrow path, just on the edge of a forest. The weather was perfect for a stroll in nature, especially with several clusters of wildflowers embellishing our path along the way. “Why not admire them?” is what I thought to myself. The damned dust can certainly wait until I get back home. Enchanted by the landscape, I walk at a brisk pace. And wouldn’t you know it, a bird of ill fate reminds me that sloth was one of the seven deadly sins as described by Saint Thomas Aquinas in the XIIth century. I’m almost certain that these perilous vices are still part of the Catholic Church’s catechism. The sky above darkens just thinking about it. I implore the great trees to give me wisdom. Wasn't it when we formed a young flock? A time when the confessor’s bullying forced us to invent anything just to get away? I have never been lazy, or at the very least, I have always been very quick to accomplish what I enjoyed doing. To knit a large sweater in a single week, draw a picturesque landscape before going to bed, pick four pints of strawberries while others pick two, sow a nice dress in an evening and embroider a few flowers on the collar. It was all child’s play to me. I have always been a hard worker. And when I had to go into the world to earn a living for my children and myself, it was full steam ahead, working very long hours on most days. I thrived on projects, praises and awards. And for the very first time in my life, as I walk on this narrow nature path, I have to admit that I was greedy. I was overly ambitious. I finally exhausted my appetite for conquering new cities and I’m quite pleased with what I achieved. Now I can spend time contemplating the splendid pines and the intense red of dying maple leaves. And I also want to consider my dear friend’s suggestion. Of course I can write about the benefits of laziness. Like the neighbour’s orange cat, why wouldn’t I roll in the lawn and inhale all the goodness nature has to offer, like the scent of the recently planted lilac bush? Slowing down will help me improve my physical and mental health. With more time to reflect, I can learn to appreciate the slow lane. Doing things slowly is also a wonderful way of being present in the world. Writing almost every day is making me a happier, more balanced woman, who is ever more creative. And it’s all thanks to you, dear readers. Will I be able to sit down on a tree stump and simply listen to my dear friends, the crows, and get to know and love them? I recently ordered a book titled How to Be Idle: A Loafer's Manifesto at the local bookstore. In this 304-page book, author Tom Hodgkinson advocates for a lifestyle based on the small pleasures of everyday life. The book is perfect at my age. “Idleness brings health, creativity and time to be spent with loved ones,” writes the author. Perhaps it is this idleness that is stimulating my newfound creativity? I must admit that everything I did then was necessary for our wonderful company to flourish. And now I realize that I have reached the “dessert” portion of the journey. I increasingly have the feeling that I’m on vacation. I take in the soft scent of the flowers, I listen to the cicadas and marvel at the wild mulberry trees full of ripe fruit. Nearly every day now, I realize that slowing down allows me to breathe more easily and to calmly welcome the ideas that emerge. I am in a much better place to greet Lady Inspiration when she visits me. And, each time, I am even more prolific. Author Tom Hodgkinson claims that resting activates various parts of our brains and that we are sharper after a good night’s sleep. Thank goodness I have retired and have learned to slow things down. Slow living. Never would I have believed that one day I would sing the praises of laziness! My poor mother thought laziness to be the mother of all vices. I understand what she meant. She worked relentlessly, from dawn to dusk, her reddened hands raw from eczema. Mom would have preferred death to indulging in a little afternoon nap. Would she have dared to close her eyes before the house was spic and span? Not a chance! She would have turned her back on laziness and started washing her husband’s clothes or crossed off making jam from her list. Our little undergarments were immaculate. I remember it so well! The clothesline was forever holding up a huge load of towels that needed folding almost daily. Not to mention all the clothes that needed ironing and socks that needed mending. Did she ever rest on a lawn chair on a summer’s day? I don’t think she ever did. Mom was “earning her place in heaven,” as the parish priest used to say. She passed at 64, tired, worn out and much too young to leave us. Cora ❤

7 :45 a.m. at the coffee shop Dear Lise S., go ahead! Grab your pencil and your notebook and write. Scribble down anything that comes to mind. Empty your mind and take a break afterwards. Notice how good it feels, how much lighter you feel, just like we do after putting our kitchen drawers, closets or the library’s bookshelves in order. Why do think I write? To put my life in order before I close up shop, to leave empty-handed and with a clear conscience. It’s been a while since I began fading away in small doses. I started writing these letters at the beginning of the pandemic, when we were threatened with having to close our restaurants to customers. We were totally distraught. How would we keep in touch with our customers who meant the world to us? How would we continue to show them our love, be near them, serving them delicious breakfasts? And that is how, dear Lise S., we came up with the idea of serving up nicely presented words every Sunday morning, just for you. Of course, I became the lucky one appointed to undertake this sublime mission. Today is my 144th dish of lovely words. And believe me or not, my fountain of inspiration still bubbles with ideas. It’s hard to admit that a nasty virus has given me such an enormous gift. I humbly admit: writing these SUNDAY LETTERS saved my life. Retirement had already slowed me down quite a bit and the global pandemic had imprisoned me in my own home. I really wasn’t doing so well. I would sit and reflect upon life, but my well of inspiration was drying up, nothing was coming out. Each morning, I decided it was a good day to start cleaning up this big old house of mine, but instead of getting my cleaning rags and buckets out, I would drink one cup of coffee after another as I sat on the couch reading. Suddenly, a miracle happened. I wrote my first letter entitled “It’s going to be ok.” I remember it like it was yesterday. It was so easy for me to type one sentence after another, stringing them together into paragraphs. The words came naturally as I wrote to people who already knew and loved me, the very same people who had tasted my delicious food. Everything turned out well and I never stopped writing. Every Sunday, I pen a letter to you shaped by my aches and pains, my ups and downs, my fears and joys. My long life put into words. My true passion, in my youth and as a young woman, had been to become a writer. A dream sabotaged again and again. And now these SUNDAY LETTERS have turned my lifelong dream into a reality. Dear Lise S., you’re telling me that we must empty our minds before leaving for our final and longest journey. You are absolutely right. WRITING allows us to do just that; it soothes our overburdened hearts. Let us fly away, liberated and light as orange-breasted robins. Let’s rid ourselves of all the bad memories that we grew in the flower beds of our lives. Let’s empty our pockets from all the remorse that we carry around so easily wherever we go. Let us scream, at the top of our lungs, the burning phrases that we never dared to utter. Let’s escape, let us free ourselves from our shackles. We have time. 11:10 a.m. A small black squirrel comes to tell me a tale on the other side of the window. He comes closer, bumps his nose against the glass, takes a step backward and then forward again, as if he’d known me all my life. Perhaps he’s right. Would he remember biting my thumb some 45 years ago? I was a young mother then, sitting on the balcony of our third-floor apartment. It was a miserable place to raise my three children. I didn’t have to imagine the worst at that time because it transpired every day with no warning. Will I ever be able to forgive that horrible man for treating us as awfully as he would have a family of alley cats? Thank goodness, we also had nine lives, but we still didn’t know it then. The area we were restricted to was very limited: four streets north to the children’s school. Three streets to the west to the Greek grocery store where we shopped. Two streets south to my cantankerous sister-in-law’s house. And some 12 streets to the east side to the El Dorado of all distractions: McDonald’s, where we’d go for a soft ice cream cone. We only went occasionally, but each time was a real treat. We would return home with the youngest one sitting on my shoulders, ice cream often trickling down my neck. I would have done anything to make my poor kittens believe they were lions. With age, they have, one by one, all become capable of helping others. I was often tempted by the thought of plucking the evil bird they had for a father, especially after I had regained my self-confidence. But I resisted. I remained calm and placid during all those years of tireless work. My anger subsided with the years, soothed by the few ounces of wisdom that time gradually provided. I have even come to thank him, not in person yet, but a little bit, in my mind. The misery he put me through forged an incredible strength in me, and I had to mature to finally appreciate it. That man shamelessly and unscrupulously destroyed many of my dreams, including that of becoming a writer. Low and behold, I did not waste my time. I created a great company and my children learned the value of a job well done. Today the words pour out like maple water flowing in the spring without pause. Wherever I am, I simply have to turn on the magic screen and the sentences appear at my fingertips. And thanks to the awful husband, I have tons of stories to tell. 1:47 p.m. As hungry as a tiger chasing a gazelle, I turn off my iPad. Will my lentil soup satisfy my appetite? I’m hypnotized by the round loaf of cheese bread. I buy the biggest one I can spot on the shelf. My eyes are always bigger than my stomach! Cora ❤