My favourite breakfast

These days, when I apply lipstick in front of the mirror, I occasionally notice little devil horns protruding from my forehead. Yes, you read that right! The green-eyed monster takes hold of my noggin from time to time. Yet, apart from the great heroines of history, I have never envied anyone. Not superstar Céline Dion, not the famous Coco Chanel, not even my idol, the great Canadian novelist Margaret Atwood (82 years old). The truth is that I admire all brave and courageous women. Yet, during this dreadful pandemic, I’ve done everything I can to get on with my life. I reflected deeply on my new reality as a retiree; I’ve reignited my passion for writing and read instructive books, entertaining novels and gifted authors to improve my writing style. Everything was fine until a giant hot air balloon of jealousy invaded my house. The balloon filled my living space, almost cutting off my breath. “Sounds like jealousy,” you say? To learn within a few weeks that four goddesses around my age recently found love…well, I couldn’t hold jealousy back! Not two, not three, but four women almost as mature as me. It’s simply too big of a mouthful to swallow. I have been single for over 40 years, my dismay overpowered me. Don’t I deserve a 007 agent, a Bradley Cooper or even a handsome nonagenarian like Sean Connery? The first lucky lady to tell me the good news was my old college friend, back in our early awkward exchanges with the opposite sex. Mireille was certainly more educated than I was about matters of life, because at home, Mom thought that school would shape us into model girls. So I learned little about love and the parade of dashing fellows or dancing the tango. In short, like me, Mireille married a stranger. We lost touch with each other during those long years that we played mothers in different towns. I got divorced at 33 and saw her even less often, as I enlisted in the race for survival. Then it was business, a few trips and her tragic phone call telling me in 2016 that her husband had passed. I was in Tokyo for another 18 days and couldn’t console her. A widow still in love with life, Mireille met the most wonderful man some two years after her husband’s death. Also a widower, they hit it off right away. I met them a few months ago and was amazed at the obvious happiness that emanated from these two lovebirds. There was so much love and surreptitious kissing binding them together that I felt little bumps on my head. It was as if my horns had grown a few millimetres longer just looking at this affectionate couple. “Tenderness,” insisted Mireille. “My David is tenderness itself.” - “Blessed angels, tell me quickly if tenderness can be detected with the naked eye and how to coax it to my heart’s harbour?” Then it was Lilianne’s turn. The one I’ve seen the least because of her work across Canada. A very attractive divorcee who is flirtatious and daring. And yet, it was her grown daughter who found a partner for her mother: a neighbour who had lost his wife to cancer. She introduced them to each other and the attraction was instant. I too have a grown daughter. Maybe she thinks I’m too old to be introduced to a prince charming? And what’s more, her new fellow is about 10 years younger than Lilianne. I’m sure it was her smile that won him over. We ate together in Bromont, and I thought they were lovely. He attentively turned the burgers on the BBQ as he smiled; she served up the toppings of relish, ketchup and spicy mustard with a naughty, mischievous air. I was gobsmacked with happiness. Surprised that a newly reunited couple could be so dazzlingly in love. That day my little horns really grew long. Then came Carole, who still works long hours. She is a real estate agent and was single for many years, always on the lookout for Mr. Right. She held out, and a good thing too! A month ago, she invited me to the town’s only Asian restaurant to tell me the news. Her shrimp curry got cold as she burst with excitement describing the new man in her life. She showed me a picture of him at dessert. I thought my whole body would go limp. A handsome, brown-eyed, former teacher, free as a bird, thoughtful and very skilled in home improvement. “And,” added the beautiful Carole, “my house needs some loving too.” Wow! My little horns grew faster than ever. Am I the only lonely one in the world? But how can I put my face on social media to promote anything other than a good breakfast? But that’s how Carole found the man of her dreams. Shame on me! You can no doubt see the little horns sticking out from my hair. Barely a week later, Cupid visited Sophie, a beautiful woman much younger than me and a yoga teacher. We met at a mutual friend’s house and immediately hit it off; enough so that she confided in me that she had recently “found a match” on social media. Lord, I am thrown into despair! She too found a handsome lover. She took her time, she confessed, considering several promising profiles. She also shared with me her horror of the lists she had to write to find the right match. "After all, Cora, It’s not like making a shopping list.” I had assumed the opposite was true. After all, don’t you have to know what to put in the basket in order to make a satisfying meal? Deep, spiritual Sophie told me that the only thing you have to do is “ask yourself what you want to experience with a new partner.” She asked the question to a few of the candidates on the platform and the one who answered, “I WANT TO EXPERIENCE KINDESS” was the one she chose and who turned out to be a magnificent companion for her. “A true soulmate,” she added. I don’t want to be jealous of anyone anymore. I just want to adopt a practice of kindness. To be understanding, forgiving, caring, gentle and attentive towards others. I truly want to open myself to happiness. To accept myself as I am, with my strengths and weaknesses. To be able to express my needs and to listen to the needs of others. I want to live for many more years with love, courage and determination. And maybe one day, KINDNESS itself will take me under its wing. “Ask and you shall receive,” the wise men have been saying for thousands of years. Cora ❤ P.S. Of course, all first names have been changed to respect the privacy of my lucky friends.

Dearest Sun, The other day I recalled my mother’s vague words that the day I was born the sun shone big and bright. - “A dazzling sun in the centre of the sky that was the most beautiful of all the month of May,” she recalled. That day, on May 27, while wandering in her garden with her taut, round belly, she had to lean on her old spade as she absorbed the violent signal that I was finally emerging from her abdomen. - “I remember,” said Mom, “when you knocked to come out, I raised my head to the sky to pray and the blinding sun stared right back at me.” I checked in the 1947 Beauchemin Almanac. That morning, dear Sun, you rose at 4:18 a.m. and waited 12 long hours. The time required to come closer to the Earth and tilt your orb towards the large first floor window of our home. Admit it! You saw us between the curtains, dear Sun. Mom who was crying out as she pushed me into this world, and the neighbour who was pulling my head with both arms. Having forgotten everything when I left my mother’s water, I let out a terrified cry as I met this world for the very first time. Perhaps you heard me? I cried for many long minutes until the woman with red hands plunged my small body in a large basin of warm water. She washed me, dried me and wrapped me in pieces of rough material. She must have doubted that your powerful warmth would be sufficient. I nonetheless settled down and slept a bit until soft pink flesh slipped between my tiny lips. Greedily I began to nurse, my body feeling the urgent need to reconnect with the familiar smells of the being that had carried me. “You nursed for such a long time,” explained my mom, “that I had to reassure your brother that you weren’t going to drain me of all my blood.” That Tuesday, dear Sun, you set at 7:35 p.m. You had begun to linger past dinner, amusing yourself as you coloured the three dozen villages strung over the Gaspé Peninsula like rosary beads with your warm rays. Remember, dear Sun. Forty years later I was also present at your birth in October 1987, when I traced your form for the very first time on a small white card. The instigator was a regular customer who, wanting to do something nice for me, insisted on printing some business cards for free. When you appeared in one go at the tips of my fingers, full, round and bright, I immediately sensed a miracle. As if a divine hand had itself shaped your beautiful, luminous yellow head, your knowing eyelids and your big, happy smile. You and the angels knew then what was in store for us. You knew that you would become a great brand and I, your humble mom, would serve you tirelessly until my energy was spent. With time, dear Sun, I learned that most miracles happen right before our unseeing eyes. We attribute these events to some guardian angel, pure luck, to merit or a reward for our efforts. As I explained to my 25-year-old grandson, Zacharie, the other day, I have always believed that the forces of the universe are capable of providing us with everything we need; so much so, that I have never lost hope. You dear Sun, must have heard me talking to that small voice inside of me hundreds of times over the years. A voice that grew louder as the business expanded. Goodness knows why! It seemed that the more I listened to it, the more it inhabited my thoughts. The more I trusted it, the greater the space it filled in my heart and mind. I even baptized this voice with a lovely name: Providence. For a woman who earned her living selling food, the word meant an “inexhaustible source of provisions.” With Providence as my ally, I was certain I would never lack anything. And because my belief was iron-clad, I ended up achieving my goal each time. Truth is, I have never lacked anything during all these years of hard work, challenging projects and lifetime aspirations. Today, having reached the three-quarter mark in calendar years, I am still amazed by the many miracles the morning brings each day: eyes that can still read and admire each detail of Mother Nature, who accompanies me on my daily walks. Strong, straight and solid bones. Good health, the creativity of a worker bee and an almost insatiable appetite for life. Mom chose the day well, since, in this world, I and my Sun, have developed an unbreakable bond. And I am certain that when the time comes, I will leave for the beyond swaddled in its warmth! Cora ❤

I don’t remember, was it in second or third grade that I discovered coloured pencils? Yes, that’s right, it may seem strange today, but in 1954, beautiful Laurentian crayons were something very precious. “Precious and expensive,” said Mom when she read the list of school supplies. She had chosen the little box of six pencils for me: red, blue, green, yellow, orange and purple. I was ecstatic despite the fact that I had insisted on the 12-colour box. Mom controlled the family’s purse strings and every cent counted. Especially since she was also going to have to buy me a block of large sheets of white paper so I could practise drawing. By the look on her face, I knew she would only do it reluctantly. But I learned. I drew the sky and sea so many times that it wasn’t long before the blue pencil was just a stub. I still remember it clearly. I was teary-eyed until Dad returned from his trip and promised to bring me a box of 12 pencils, just for me. I drew fir trees, my favourite, with thick, heavy branches and occasionally a beautiful yellow star, glittering at its peak. The orange pencil was almost never used because at that time oranges were rarely available in the Gaspé. Once, however, I drew Mom in an orange dress with a little matching headband. She had a beautiful figure, but said she would never be caught wearing such a garish dress. Today, like Iris Apfel, orange is one of my favourite colours, along with yellow, pink, mauve and lime green. Yes, I like bold colours because they give me a sense of being alive. By the way, I’m crazy about glasses and I have them in almost every colour. I amuse myself scouring flea markets for retro frames. You might even think that my wardrobe is like a big box of 24-colour Laurentian pencils. I have been drawing for as long as I can remember – on school sheets, the back of calendar pages, on well-kept notebooks, in the margins of my diaries, and later, on the walls of our restaurants. You see, we had no budget to decorate the walls, so I would illustrate and colour in the names of the menu’s dishes. I put up some 10 posters around the restaurant. For almost a decade, with each new opening, I drew these names over and over again until the day arrived when we could afford to have my drawings professionally reproduced. For a long time I drew our menus by hand, creating small illustrations which, over the years, coalesced into a very special communication style. I also designed the upper and lower case characters myself, which became our own typeface. We still use it today in all our marketing communications. The distinctive CORA typeface was programmed with software for our graphic designers to use some 15 years ago and closely reflects the original style of our concept. This achievement makes me especially happy and proud. Not only did I have the pleasure of designing our SUN logo, all our menus and most of our decorative illustrations myself, but I also have the deep satisfaction of knowing that the little boxes of crayons from my childhood served me well. Once again, I realize that the beginnings of the CORA concept started in my childhood. The great importance I gave to the shapes of the alphabet, the constant hunger to learn, my love of reading and great curiosity were cornerstones in my success. I remember all those years ago when I watered every single seed of an idea. I watched every detail, every appetizing colour, every generous plate. Each new tremor excited my curiosity and I gave it my full attention. Even though I faced doubt, uncertainty and even the impossible with every new idea I considered, I had the blessed habit of ALWAYS WANTING TO TRANSFORM THE ORDINARY INTO THE EXTRAORDINARY. This happened so often that I came to believe a kind fairy was whispering my best ideas into my ear and that a benevolent angel at my side was guiding my success. And so, as I was struggling to weed my own garden, an amazing concept for morning gastronomy emerged out of nothing. Cora ❤

Mother 8 Heaven’s Way The great yonder above Dearest Mom, you must be surprised to finally have word from me. Since you left us in a car accident in 1982, I have written to you only once, but I never mailed the letter. Now, being much older than you and still alive, I have finally learned how to bundle all my love together and send it to you in paradise. I remember very clearly, Mom, the day I had to identify your body at the morgue. I especially remember your cracked and bloodied skull, just like your hands had been all your life. I didn’t cry on that day because my own heart was shattered into a thousand pieces too. Walking away from the cold marble, I simply tried to forget your sad life. Dad had died the year before and you decided to take my children with you to Gaspésie as soon as vacation time arrived. It worked out well, since I was working day and night then. The kids could see the sea and spot the small trout hiding in the streams. Do you remember, Mom? You had just passed the village sign when your little Austin Marina collided with a big truck carrying sheep to slaughter. I was so scared, Mom, when I got the call. Even though I had been reassured that my children were safe and sound, for months I imagined them to be those sheep on their way to meet their end. Dearest Mom, I blamed you for my own life’s difficulties for too long. I was angry at you for not loving us properly, for always being unwell in your head, so stingy with your love, so ungenerous when it came to encouraging our dreams. I didn’t want to be like you. And yet when I learned from aunt M at your funeral that your heart was already broken when you married Dad, I realized that I had done exactly what you had: I married a man I didn’t love because I carried his child. Aunt M told me that you loved literature, that you had dreams of writing and artistic aspirations, a desire to see the world and to learn. She teared up as she told me that you had to give it all up because, at that time, a young woman had no choice. Today, I understand you, Mom. And I can no longer blame you. You expressed your rebellion quietly by doing your housework well: cooking, baking, making jams, cleaning, gardening and sewing. But truth be told, your lack of love greatly distressed us children, especially the girls. But it ends now, because together, we are learning that happiness grows from within. I am making my letter longer, dear Mother, because despite everything, I still need you to love me, to rock and sing me to sleep. But don’t worry about me anymore. I instinctively knew what I needed to do. I left my noxious marriage, and in 1987, I set out to build a huge kitchen, between whose walls, my own children and hundreds of other co-workers were welcomed with respect and affection and encouraged to discover their full potential, to trust themselves and to achieve great things. Yes, Mom, it is probably because of you and our troubled family life that I found myself in the hospitality business, opening my arms wide, feeding and loving all who came to sit at our tables. Some healers of the heart might say that my leadership sprung from this need to fulfill my own childhood desires. It doesn’t matter, Mom. Never mind that I wanted to demonstrate that, despite the impoverished model I was given, I was capable of doing better, for longer. I set a big table. I gathered hundreds of entrepreneurs around a creative and rewarding endeavour. I am proud and satisfied to have created a meal here on Earth that will be served long after I join you in your Paradise. Don’t worry anymore, Mom, I am rich because I have discovered that by feeding others I have quelled my heart’s hunger. Today, dear Mom, I write to you with tears of joy; I am so happy to have been born. I thank you for having been my mother, just as you were, because it allowed me to become the person I am. Thank you for passing on to me your love of writing, literature and teaching. You also gave me your talent for sewing, and with it, the magical power to make anything with my hands. You gave me your organizational skills, your sturdy build, your thick, beautiful mane, your ability to endure irritations, pain and the malice of others. I inherited your great physical strength, your keen thriftiness and your extraordinary capacity for self-sacrifice. I remember, Mom, the first time I asked you for a dress, you gave me two yards of fabric and a pattern. And that’s how I learned how to sew all my children’s pretty clothes, dresses for myself, tablecloths, curtains and almost every sweet stuffed animal featured in the big Butterick and McCall pattern books. All of this has served me well, dear Mom, and I am so glad I am like you. I love you, I love you at last, Mom, and it is the most glorious feeling ever. Love is everything, and I know now that the world is full of mothers who, like me, still remember the painful unshackling of their own growth. I will no longer be afraid because only love truly matters. I know that now. And each time a person is gripped with the urgency of the creative act, they stumble their way toward self-knowledge like a newborn releasing their talents into the sunlight one by one. I will be forever grateful to you, dearest Mother, for keeping me alive and clear-headed until I could unravel and understand your life and my own. From up there, reach out and grab my hand, mother dearest. Hold me tight. Now that we have found each other, we are bound by the love that runs through our veins. And today, to wish you a HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, I will trace a huge pink HEART in the blue sky above! Your little girl, who loves you very much, Cora 💓 Psst: To all the women in the world who have in one way or another raised a child, to my own daughter and my two granddaughters, I offer you my heart full of love.

The other evening the clock turned back. Suddenly I was 30 years old and sitting on my marriage bed, straight as the letter “i,” with the night’s black cheeks observing my movements through the bedroom’s only window. On my lap was a children’s bible, printed in large lettering, on which four lined school sheets were waiting to receive all my sorrows. I hesitated. I was afraid, fearful of the angry husband who insisted until he was blue in the face that women were not meant to write. He hated it when I pulled paragraphs out of my head that he could neither read or understand. As a precaution, I hid my writing, my pens and any pencil that was not part of the kids’ school supplies. Thirteen years of marriage and three young children had taught me to maintain the peace at home. I kept quiet, cooked, cleaned, loved my babies and obeyed the master of the house. Remotely guided by some angel, whose name I didn’t know, I entertained my little ones by reading the Bible to them. Washed, combed and perfumed with talcum powder, the three of them sat around me on the living room carpet. They often interrupted me, asking me a thousand questions about the lives of the first apostles and the parables of Jesus. I particularly remember the story of poor Lazarus, who died and was buried, only to be resurrected. At that time I had no idea that one day I too would rise from my unhappy tomb. To soften my fate, I tried to be kinder than kindness itself at times. My husband only scolded me more in return. He would try to subdue me, to bend me to his authority. But my docile attitude made him furious and I never resisted. The Dalai Lama would have been proud of me if he too had seen me through the bedroom window. Even if I was the only one of the three daughters-in-law to write to the mother-in-law in her own language, the husband still quibbled. He wanted to know what I was writing. Was I complaining? Often in the afternoon I would sit on the small third-floor balcony. I would try to think about my life, but everything would get jumbled up in my head. Each time, my tangled hopes and sorrows disappeared in the deafening noise of the city traffic. Sometimes I implored the city birds to transport my messages to imaginary friends. Once, a squirrel jumped onto my balcony out of nowhere. I reached out to pet it, but its teeth dug deep into my thumb. Apart from my young children, it was easy for me to conclude that I was unlovable in the eyes of this foreign world. Just like in the Cinderella story, the cantankerous daughters-in-law rejoiced at my misfortunes. “What an idea, marrying a foreigner,” they yammered to anyone who would listen. “Sure, she speaks our language, she cooks our food, but what does she really know about us?” In the Greek neighbourhood in the central north area of Montreal, life ground on, and one day, the mother-in-law arrived from Greece. Insisting on living with her new daughter-in-law, I prepared for my daily discomfort to climb a few notches on the Richter scale. The butter on the table upset her, the amount of chamomile in her teacup, the way the grape leaves were folded, the overly mushy orzo, the overcooked lamb… She grumbled about every detail to her favourite child, my husband. Yet occasionally I helped her wash her huge body, sitting on a stool in the small bathroom of the house. I still remember how I had to soap the creases in her neck, her cavernous ears and broad shoulders. I held her heavy breasts in my hand, rubbed her big belly, thick thighs and long legs, down which the soapy lather ran and settled in between her toes. Her body nice and dry, I untangled and combed her long, still-black hair and smeared her face with an anti-wrinkle cream that came in the luggage from Thessaloniki. In those rare moments of intimacy, I often felt that my miserable life was nothing compared to what this woman had endured. I knew her story and strangely enough, I loved her. I loved her resilient heart despite the many unbearable experiences she had endured: the loss of three husbands, her abduction by rebel soldiers, the sexual violence, estrangement from her children and the long years of misery until finally being reunited with her three sons in Canada, a land of new beginnings. All this to say, before throwing stones, it’s good to learn a bit about a person’s life to discover in which marinade they have soaked. Cora ❤

“Let your actions always speak for you, but be forever on guard against the terrible traps of false pride and conceit that can halt your progress.” – Og Mandino I’ve learned the harsh truth of this saying. As I recall, it was around mid-October and we had just opened a new restaurant. Along the front we had lined up some 20 pumpkins that the young cooking staff had transformed into witches. I was strutting through the restaurant, feeling rather proud, when a peculiar new client invited me to sit down so he could tell me about an amazing cake from his home country that would impress even the most hard-to-please guest. Sacher torte is a work of art, asserted the stranger, after giving me the gist of how to make the soft chocolate layer cake filled with apricot jam and covered in a decadent chocolate glaze. I offered him a slice of our pineapple upside-down cake for dessert, somewhat abashed. I resolved that I would try to reproduce the cake later that evening at home. A good hour’s search through cookbooks produced a recipe for this legendary Viennese dessert. My curiosity was piqued and I was ready to boldly venture into the unknown. With all the ingredients on hand, I put a new cassette by Andrea Bocelli in the player, set the oven to 350°F and started to mix the different ingredients together. I followed the recipe to the letter and whipped up the glaze just so. The result excited me; I could hear the employees’ and clients’ exclamations when they learned that this masterpiece was produced by my very own hands. And they would be even more effusive when I presented it in the beautiful cake dome I would use to transport it to the restaurant the next morning. I woke up late after staying up to clean the kitchen and left the house in a rush with the cake sitting pretty inside the dome. I had to place it on the roof of my Honda so I could go back and get my keys that I had left in the house. Where had I put those damned keys? I seemed to misplace them every other day, even on normal days. Ten minutes later, I found them under a pile of cookbooks. I hurried back to the car, started the ignition and took off for the restaurant, where several customers were already waiting outside, stomping their feet to ward off the cold. I unlocked the door, offering a thousand apologies, and dashed over to the coffee maker to turn it on. I knew the hot beverage had the power to pardon any failing. It’s when I entered the kitchen, my arms empty, that I suddenly remembered my magnificent Sacher torte! Foolishly, I ran back outside to see if the cake dome was still on the roof of the car. I spent the next few weeks wondering at what point, at what exact spot, on which incline my glorious cake had been unceremoniously thrown off? Not one day passed while I was at that restaurant when I did not think about that cake on my way to work. I pictured the beautiful cake, splitting in half despite its solid glazed casing. I saw the stunned dome, sliding toward the precipice. I heard the shatter of the glass hitting the pavement, the splatter of the apricot jam and the twitter of the bemused birds as they surveyed the curious pile of delicious dark clumps. That’s how, in the earlier days, the crows rooted out my boastful spirit. And each time afterwards, when self-satisfaction started to get the better of me, a bird of ill omen would tap me on the nose. The universe has always moved in ways to ensure my desire to please others remains pure, free and selfless. That’s the case today and this anecdote of my Sacher torte that met a messy ending before it could be admired. A GREAT LIFE LESSON FOR MS. THE FOUNDER! Cora ❤

The urge to write is so strong some days that it’s able to draw a dream out of nothing and bring it to life. When I open my eyes each morning, I grab my notepad and pen, always waiting at the same place on my bedside table, and try to quickly jot down everything that appears to me. So, this morning, when I emerge from under the covers and opened my eyes wide, I see a huge, tall red double door with a golden handle. Where am I? Keeping my feet warm, I switch on my neurons. The world before me is almost too real to be imagined.   I'm on a narrow road, I can't see anything behind me, but I'm sure I’ve been walking awhile. Perhaps all my life. I am walking on a kind of invisible Chinese wall. Turning my head skyward, I can almost reach out and touch a cloud. The road is like a tunnel, a long open-air corridor with large paintings here and there showing pieces of my own life, pictures that are alive, like giant screens at a drive-in theatre where everything moves. I can feel emotions, hear sounds and even my own voice changing as I grow older. There, on my right, head first, I see myself emerging from my mother's womb. Women's hands welcome me, all red and slick, and plunge me into a basin of warm water. Then I see myself crawling on the yellow kitchen floor, my little fingers trying to grab the food that has fallen from the table. Further on, there is Mom looking so pretty as she cradles my brother on the Caplan porch. Later, she is in the kitchen, cutting long ribbons of cloth from an old sheet, mummifying her eczema-scarred hands, tightly wrapping the flesh of each finger with strips of cloth. And further on, I hear her cry out as she dips her hands into a sink filled with boiling water.   I move forward and Grandpa Frédéric is coming to his daughter’s rescue with a big brown bag of hazelnuts for the children. He sits on the ground with us and I listen as he explains that when the moon is red, it will be warm the next day. When the earth freezes before the snow comes, it's a sign that the maples will flow in the spring. And further on, it is summer. He and I are on the seashore. For fun, he wraps a few long scarves of brown seaweed around his neck and hops around, squawking like a hungry cormorant trying to scare me.   In several pictures, I watch as my father comes and goes with his small travelling salesman’s suitcase. I hear Mario Lanza (American tenor, 1921-1959) singing at the top of his voice in the living room while Dad cries. Further on, two little girls are playing in a sandbox, two blonde heads with curly locks like sheep, while a Mr. know-it-all tries to make them believe that the Bonhomme Sept Heures (a terrible boogeyman-like creature that snatched children who weren’t home by 7 p.m. and stuffed them in his burlap bag) still exists.   What is happening to me? Has an angel filmed my life to remind me of it at the fateful hour? Am I really on my way to the afterlife? Will all these moving pictures plead my case or make it worse? Have I really glimpsed the great gateway to heaven?   I have never walked the Compostela. Yet for a moment I feel as if I am there with an angel holding my hand. And a good thing too, because a few steps further on, a great sadness comes over me. I am wearing my wedding dress, my belly already full of life. I cry when my husband takes off his wedding ring on the church steps. Thank goodness, the angel pulls my coat tails at that moment and I fast-forward through the years. I am older now. In several scenes, my three children grow up before my eyes, their lives magically condensed into a brief moment. All four of us working, surviving and succeeding together. I am often wearing a white kitchen jacket. I smile. I am happy because I enjoy delighting others. And I especially enjoy creating new dishes to amaze guests. Does this long road really lead to heaven? Am I still far away? I straighten my pillows and turn on a small lamp to light my notepad. Outside, the night sleeps soundly. AM I DREAMING OR IMAGINING A DREAM? The rumpled quilt repudiates my peacefulness. Placing one foot in front of the other, I advance. Thunderous noises send shudders through my ego; fear grips me and I try to pray. In the magic picture, I find myself imploring the creator above. And when life is good, when a dazzling sun illuminates my desires, I carelessly forget this divine presence in my heart.   What can I do? The road moves across the sky, bumpy, rising and descending to the cadence of the clouds as they expand and retreat. Am I on the right track? I'm afraid I'm still a long way from heaven and even more uneasy that I am too close to that massive door as red as the fires of hell. The angel places their hand on my shoulder. What do I know about this heavenly place? I try to remember the instructions I received from the Small Catechism during my childhood and everything gets confused in my head. Does paradise really exist? I ponder these questions. Have I been a good person, a good mother? It seems I always had a good reason for working too much. Fear continues to immobilize me. Acid rain strikes my eyes causing all the pictures of my life to blur. Am I already dead? On my way to the Last Judgement? Suddenly, something happens. The golden handle moves, it creaks and turns. I'm afraid, I'm just an old woman looking for a little more peace. A minute, an hour, an eternity, an immaculate silence imprisons the space. My mind tries to run away, to dive into an ocean of sharks, to hide at the ocean’s floor. Then just like that, with a huge crowd gathered outside, the high red double doors swing open with the weight of all the sins of the world. I panic, I thought I was alone on the road. Where am I? What is going to happen? A thousand-year-old man appears to me. He walks towards me in a white toga and pink slippers. He stands motionless before me. When his eyes look into mine, my heart splinters into a thousand pieces. Then the ancient man stretches his neck, opens his arms wide and embraces the crowd’s soul. I shiver with hope. Will I be among the chosen ones? And as if he had heard me, St. Peter's cracked lips deposit in each one of us our last rites, a blessed absolution: “Enter, my dear children. There is room here for all the souls of the world.” Cora ❤

I have finally had time to think, cooped up in my big house with six sofas. For the last 30 years, I have been travelling all over this vast country, setting up beautiful big breakfast tables from coast to coast. I pretty much needed to be prescribed time-off in order to calm my hormones. The pandemic and its long confinement have finally done that. At first, like everyone else, I raged against this terrible calamity that no one had seen coming. I mourned the early death of far too many elderly people. Masked from ear to ear, I feared for my own life, for those of my children and grandchildren. I prayed for our loved ones, our franchisees, our employees, our customers and for the entire planet. Every morning I walked a few kilometres in nature to calm my mind and clung to the unfailing wisdom of the trees. During this compulsory isolation, I had all the time in the world to reflect on my life, my foolishness, my excesses and my stubbornness to succeed at all costs. As if my life depended on it, as if the number of restaurants was the only yardstick I could measure myself by. And then the dreaded virus arrived, upsetting our habits, our beliefs and my firm conviction to live to a hundred. I still want to, but with a little more detachment, like I feel when I send out a wish to see the sun tomorrow. It’s a fact: I am no longer at the helm of anything important. And I am surviving, happy to still be alive, with faith in the future. Wishing to keep in touch with our valued customers, I started writing a letter every week at the beginning of the pandemic, and I am now approaching my 150th letter. I have reconnected with my former passion! Writing, I confess, has been the most effective therapy. It has cleared my head of a heavy past. My best and worst memories are now lost in a jumble of paragraphs, most of them swallowed up by oblivion. I used to get so upset about not being able to accomplish everything I wanted to. Sometimes hope abandoned me completely, but I stayed upright, holding tight to the wing of a crow or, even better, a wolf’s paw. Today I am much stronger. I have lost feathers, but I have won the battle. Hardships scarred my life, but these inflicted marks were also the blueprint for my success. I understand this now, and I am taking the time to appreciate my resilience, count my blessings and scatter most of my small hardened sorrows in the forest. It’s true, I hardly hear my heart bellow anymore. Lying on the red couch in the living room or on the kiwi green one in the solarium, I’ve had plenty of time to revisit my past, my achievements, my trials and tribulations, and I’ve concluded that it was all necessary. Inaction has forced me to recognize and acknowledge inner strengths that have helped me succeed: creativity, audacity, perseverance and courage. Confinement for me was a long emotional convalescence that yielded a new vital energy. The sense of suffering has fled and my appetite for life could devour a volcano. I’ve learned to reflect, to own my strength and fragility. I’ve learned to see clearly and look beyond the tip of my nose. Having had very little to overwhelm me, I’ve been much calmer, less enterprising, deeper and more in tune with nature and my real needs. Disappointing friendships have dried up and dizzying magpies have left my vicinity. I have also made peace with the two bullies, Retirement and Old Age (letter published on March 13), and instead of running away from them, I have accepted to be part of their club. At almost 75, it’s not a moment too soon! As normal life returns, the joy and pleasure of socializing resurface. A good lunch at a restaurant, a children's party, a visit to a bookstore, coffee with friends…the music is soon playing in our heads once again. It seems these days a crown of possibilities encircles my head. My first road trip will certainly be to my native Gaspé once again to breathe the sea air, eat fresh fish and capture stunning landscapes with my mind’s eye or the click of a camera. Don’t you also have the impression that you’ve come back to life, lighter, more curious and even more in love with the world? I will also be returning to my honorary role as founder, eager to visit our indomitable franchisees across Canada. And, at the beginning of the summer, I will have the great pleasure of presenting to you a little masterpiece produced by the company’s creative team: an all-new breakfast menu. Cora ❤

What is this strange feeling that has come over me this morning? I’m afraid a wolf has entered my head. A wolf hungry for wild stories. A wolf whose endless howls echo off the walls of my cranium. And how am I going to tell the real world – my dear readers, all those who commended me on my writing yesterday? What is happening to me? Did the angels lose my address, carried away by strong winds? Will the imperturbable sky fall on my head if the wolf devours my paragraphs? What would become of me without stories to tell, readers to entertain and words to feed me? What does this yellow-eyed beast, fresh from some nightmare, want with me? Should I tremble in fear? Still wearing my nightclothes, I spin around the kitchen table several times as if I were going to run the Boston marathon. The wolf’s mysterious gaze pierces me at every turn. Suddenly, I shiver. I’m terrified that everything is going to disappear – my imagination, my hopes and the crazy goal I’ve just set my mind on. It is perhaps precisely this new madness that has awakened the animal! The heart of this old woman is finally looking for its soulmate. I freeze in front of the animal, which suddenly stretches its big head towards me. A strange howl interspersed with inaudible words flows from its mouth, as if it were trying to speak. A howl soft and precious, like he was offering it to me with his paw. Trying not to stare at him, I notice that the yellow of his irises has turned a deep green, as if signalling the animal has suddenly turned gentle. My throat, as dry as a desert, struggles to react. Is this beast as mean as I imagined? Does he too, like the lady crow, have something to say to me? For a long time, the wolf remains motionless and silent; his eyes transfix me. Perhaps he saw my prayers escape my lips and float heavenward? Perhaps an invisible angel was even stroking his nose? What was he doing in my kitchen if it wasn’t to make a meal of me? My insides are getting impatient. I am in urgent need of caffeine. Daring to move, I fill the water tank, turn on the machine and take the cream out of the fridge. Dare I offer him something to drink or eat? What do wolves eat for breakfast anyway? Even after so many years spent in the kitchen, it turns out I still have much to learn about my trade! Suddenly the animal opens its mouth. - “So, old grandmother, you’re looking for love,” the mysterious animal proclaims. Boldly, I explain, “I want to live the fullest life possible before I leave this world. I am looking for a big, warm hand to hold mine, a kind heart, tender words and eyes as attractive as yours in this magical moment.” - “Don't worry, grandma, I will help you in your quest. This is my mission on earth: I help the elderly live happier and longer lives.” And suddenly, as if to seal his promise, a flash of sunshine lights up the kitchen. - “Sweet wolf, would you like to have breakfast with me, enjoy some hot coffee and a slice of crispy toast?” - “No, thank you, dear new friend. My kindhearted companion is waiting for me at the edge of the woods. We’re having a picnic by the river.” And with that the animal leapt out of the house as quickly as it had entered. The older I get, the more I tend to exaggerate my fears; to turn them into wicked wolves capable of slaughtering me. Some days these imaginary beasts invade my present and threaten my peace of mind. Ever since I declared my bold desire to find a soulmate, it seems that fear assails me in all its forms. Fear of being too old, fear of being ridiculous, fear of not pleasing the one I meet and fear that no one will be interested in me. By staying with this fear, perhaps I will get to know it better the more I experience it? Maybe I’ll discover that it’s just a faint ghost, a fleeting shadow pushing me out of my comfort zone. As I’ve aged, I’ve perhaps forgotten all about my courage, boldness and tenacity; all the qualities that once made me a leader. Now that I have a good wolf around, I won’t be afraid anymore. I’m happy to have met this visitor in my kitchen. I will continue to write until my life is worth its weight in gold. 🐺 Cora

Betty lived just across from our first restaurant, in a new, rather swishy-looking residential complex. Still in her 40s, she was a dead ringer for Sally Field, the famous actress who portrayed the flying nun in the TV show of the same name that aired sometime around 1967-68. I can still remember Betty’s first visit. She stepped into the restaurant rather tentatively, and like a member of the family, she left only to come back the very next day. These visits became daily occurrences. Straight away, Betty had become a regular. Stationed behind the counter in front of her, I listened in detail, pouring one coffee after another, as she recounted her life’s story. Love at first sight, her husband’s climb up the career ladder, teens who asked “where’s Dad?” And finally, the “Honey, I don’t love you anymore” that fell on her like a ton of bricks. Betty, who was one of the nicest women you could meet, for whom I often shed sympathetic tears in my own heart. She was so affable, so sweet and shy, with a deadpan sense of humour at times. Once the King (as she nicknamed him) left home, she was forced to work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week in a drugstore located two blocks from the restaurant. She stopped by around 11 a.m. on the days we were open for a “big tasty breakfast,” as she liked to say. A meal that would keep her going until the evening. Betty would sometimes pause in front of the board announcing the dish of the day and “cheat,” giving into a temptation occasioned by a chicken vol-au-vent or meatloaf with tomato sauce. You see, Betty was simply crazy for our breakfasts, whether our Spinach-cheddar or Western omelettes, “perfectly accompanied” egg dishes or three big crêpes on a plate with a mountain of always fresh fruit, beautifully cut and arranged. It was one of those middays for “cheating” when Betty’s story takes a surprising turn. The date was April 1, 1989, and being my usual quirky self, I had purchased a few small goldfish the night before, which I was keeping under the counter in soup bowls full of fresh water. As usual, Betty stopped by around 11 a.m., sat down at the counter and began to mull over her options. I had just written the dish of the day on the board: spinach and ricotta cheese lasagne. Catching my eye, Betty asked me about the soup. - “A Maritime consommé,” I replied. - “I’m cheating,” she proclaimed. At which point I placed in front of her a soup bowl containing one of the goldfish, going around and around in search of its mother. Betty, glancing down at the soup, threw her arms in the air and shouted out my name, nearly falling off her stool. Looking at me as if I were a crazy person fit to be tied, she exclaimed, “Honestly, Cora, this is too much!” Of course I was only having fun, and all the diner’s customers were roaring with laughter. Our favourite divorcee laughed just as hard in the end, making me promise to do her a big favour someday to make up for her traumatizing maritime experience. The following day, as Betty approached the counter, I took the lead and declared: - “Tell me whatever you want and I’ll make it for you!” - “Umm,” she hesitated. “I’m not sure, Cora. I want to eat crêpes with fruit, but I don’t think it’s exciting or spectacular enough to make up for the little fun you had with the live fish.” - “Could you put the fruit in a big, big crêpe with whipped cream or with some vanilla cream like my Italian neighbour served me?” - “My dear Betty, just give me a few days.” Instead of making the usual three crêpes topped with fruit, I ladled a big thin crêpe onto the griddle and allowed it to cook before flipping it. I covered it with fruit and folded two crispy sides towards the middle to cover up the sweet garnish. I then transferred this new treat to a large oval plate. Bedecked with real whipped cream buds and dusted with icing sugar, it set off little tremors in my mind even before Betty had tasted her first forkful. It’s remarkable really, how each one of the star dishes on our menu came to us as a delicious kernel from a customer’s lips. Betty expressed her delight as she took a bite of her new crêpe and quickly swore that she would happily swallow goldfish every day if, the next day, I would serve her such fabulous creations. ❤️ Cora From the bottom of my heart, a thousand thank-yous to all the Bettys who helped me, in one way or another, to create the most impressive breakfast menu in North America. Whether by sharing an unusual recipe, bringing in an old cookbook, suggesting a dish discovered on a trip or by simply describing an indelible childhood memory.

A large caravan of clouds crosses the sky this morning, pulling behind it the beautiful memory of a trip to the Riviera Maya. It’s been over 20 years and yet my arms can still feel the warmth as I think about the sun shining down on Quintana Roo on the Yucatán Peninsula. Did you know, dear readers, that a lemon soaked in hot water or microwaved for a few minutes releases more juice? And there I was, soaking up the heat of the warm white sands of Mexico with my skin smeared with Ombrelle 45. I couldn’t help but notice all the attractive men hanging off the arms of women who were almost as plain-looking as me. How in heaven’s name do they catch them, I wondered. Have they simply been growing there forever? Did they meet at the dawn of time? Aboard Noah’s Ark? Did they somehow blossom together? I am desperate to understand how people are attracted to each other. How does love between people work outside of children and careers? Some of my girlfriends explain that they are blended couples for the most part. Like adding two eggs and a cup of water to a dry mixture, stirring it until consistent and then putting it all in the oven for 35 minutes? I remember Pauline telling me that it is almost as good as the original recipe. And Sophia, herself in a blended relationship, swearing that it is often better. Even though I’ve spent my life cracking eggs, it seems I still haven’t learned how to put a few of them in the right bowl. And how could I? When I never had time to leave the kitchen, to take an interest in anything other than business? With a life so out of balance, I didn’t know how to compartmentalize my life or take the time to exchange romantic looks. What a shame! The Adonises spread cream on their partner’s shoulders. They ran after their straw hats carried away by the wind and, when evening came, handsome and scented, they cracked open the small fried crabs from the buffet for them to eat. Young or old, morning, noon or night, the couples went about in their blissful bubbles, making friends, laughing at their mangled Spanish or simply tanning against each other, stretched out on the sand like two pieces of toast of the same sandwich. Unbelievable! I even spotted one removing the stringy bits of a tangerine for his beloved. I guess that’s what being in love is all about: always wanting to be useful to the other person. Always trying to please them. How could I have contemplated this when the time came? I had so little free time and so much work ahead of me. I remember, right after the divorce, how hard I had to work to be able to feed the kids, clothe them, pay the rent and gas up the car. Anxiety and self-pity filled my head. I was 33 years old, I was attractive, and yet I didn’t realize my own worth. I didn’t know then that another man could genuinely love me and cherish my happiness. I dove into my work with a heart, body and mind totally free of all such attachments. No wonder I was so prodigiously productive. On the rare occasions when I did think about something other than work, I tried to convince myself that when a nice suitor did cross my path one day, I’d be able to make room for him. Little did I know, however, that I had plunged into the bottomless Sea of Business. I swam bravely on, and time passed. Yet, today, I envy those lucky women who have their lovers clean the sand between their toes. The famous Maslow and his hierarchy of needs would be displeased with me: having achieved a reliable level of security, I completely skipped over love. Curse this independence that opened the door to success while at the next table, the man removed the skin from small Mexican chicken wings for his sweetheart. I see her taking the lean meat with her fingertips and bringing it to her pink, delicate mouth. I see her turquoise eyes whispering sensual promises to her beau, which he savours between sips of cerveza. I was so envious of all these small gestures; this shared affection and complicity. All those years while I worked in the kitchen, I would hear customers talk about their southern travels between orders and it seemed incomprehensible, unimaginable to me. Thank goodness in the end those happy pursuits never distracted me from my life’s work; I was unaware of their existence. 4:32 p.m. local time Now hanging around the edge of the private VIP pool wearing the same colour bracelet as me, the couples continue to sun themselves. Red as lobsters just out of the pot, the princes bring the princesses their daiquiris dripping onto the expensive marble of the Iberostar Grand Paradiso. Content and splendid, the lovers stretch their lazy limbs, get up from their lounge chairs, take a few steps and sit down on the pool steps to sip their drinks. They exchange pleasantries about their favourite celebrities and TV shows they’re watching, and the trips they dream about taking next. 5:40 p.m. local time The sun has just slipped behind the horizon and a gentle darkness dims the Mexican paradise. Having returned to their rooms, the couples prepare for the nightly dinner ritual at the themed restaurants. The patio is silent but it is still very hot. All alone in the large lapis lazuli pool, I float with my arms stretched out and my head almost completely immersed in happiness. Yes, thinking about it, I was happy too. I am happy with the path I have travelled, proud to have persisted and succeeded to finally have the luxury to enjoy a real vacation. I accepted responsibility for my family, I worked hard and discovered a boundless energy. It pleases me to think that by doing all this, I have also inspired my children and colleagues to do the same for themselves. Now that I know myself better, I am learning to appreciate myself. And the more I am able to love myself, the more I can believe that someone else can too.   ⛱ Cora Psst: It’s noon right now in the Laurentians. The sun has chased away the large clouds, and the air feels almost warm. Instead of wanting a good sandwich for lunch, I miss the big buffet at the Iberostar. I also miss the blue sea, beautiful flowers, giant cacti, delicious papayas, margaritas, and especially, the spicy guacamole.    

That’s right, I have finally met them. Retirement and old age – two big bullies that go hand in hand. They come at you without warning, as violently as a bee sting right in the centre of the forehead. Old age announces its arrival with sharp pains. Worse, after a few parting gifts from co-workers, you suddenly realize that your 10 fingers are now idle. Thank God, writing saves me; the fearless words bubble up through the ink and strengthen my resistance. But how much longer will I be able to live the life I want? To eagerly await the future, certain of its brightness? Will I still be able to fulfil my dreams? See Paris again? Go to the opera for the first time? Visit Iceland and its many volcanoes? Attend my grandkids’ weddings? Go back to Hawaii? Publish my Sunday letters? Write more? Again and again, until the pen releases its last drop of blood? Old age is relentlessly taking hold of every square inch of my frame. It digs its way into my flesh, leaving it flaccid and wrinkled in deep folds. Worse than a powerful tide, it leaves its rippled marks all over my fine face. Will I still think the woman in the mirror attractive? How shall I react? How do I re-emerge as someone I still recognize? Might this late bloomer still be the mistress of her future for a long while yet? At what age do we lose our confidence in the future? Both my parents died before they became old, so I had no opportunity to observe the failing body. Will I suddenly die like my mother from a head-on car collision? Or like my father, from an aggressive cancer? I didn't see their bodies slowly fade away. And what will my own infirmity be like? Will I live to see a hundred? The statistics give me hope. Old men everywhere seem to look younger and younger; grandmothers seem increasingly dapper. I am too greedy and extreme to not go on living despite everything. Even if my bones occasionally object. This fall, for one long week, I couldn't bend over to pick up a baby bird that had fallen from its nest or a fork that had landed under the table. It was as if a troublesome devil had put fire to my lower back. I was reluctant to sit down, let alone stand up. And the devil left as quickly as it had arrived. I have always tolerated pain well, but I must admit these new assaults have shaken me. Will the wear and tear on my body affect my daily activities such as my morning walks and errands or running after my great-grandson, taking road trips to the Gaspé or cooking for 20 people? I often think that at my age, it is no longer the destination that matters but the daily ride that enlivens our orbits. Learning to cherish the moment is perhaps the greatest lesson of old age. Let's celebrate the small daily victories such as taming a crow, talking to the majestic fir trees and letting the dawn unravel our dreams. I have been doing the “Daily Thanks” exercise for some time.  It consists of noting 5 things each day that I am grateful for. For example, 1) Thank you above for the bright sunshine today.  2) Thank you to the new neighbour who finally said a warm hello. 3) Thank you to the Greek mother-in-law for my especially tasty lentil soup.  4) Thank you to the creative genius who keeps the words coming so I can write this letter to you. 5) And a big thank you to you, dear readers, who encourage me to be the person I am. Always an optimist, I allow the waltz of time to keep my curiosity alive. Accepting to grow old is like setting off on a journey to an unknown destination. We are no longer at the helm of the ship; we move forward with eyes half-closed towards an unpredictable future. Is old age really a golden age, or an age of fissured clay? And where does this free gift of life go? Trembling and toppling when the fateful hour sounds?   ❤️ Cora