So many things I love

This is a story I learned through the crooked branches of our genealogical tree. Ancestors Charles-Louis and Philomena Van Zandweghe crossed the ocean from Belgium to begin a new life at the turn of the 20th century. With their half-dozen children, two of Charles-Louis’ brothers and a group of friends made up of priests, a baker, a carpenter, a butcher, a notary and linen weavers, they settled in the village of Caplan, in the Gaspé wilds. The call of adventure, the chance to own farmland and the quest for a better life were enough for the Belgians to venture to this foreign land. The place became known unofficially as “Little Belgium” and later took on its present-day name, Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan. That is where the heroine of my story was born, on October 1, 1884, some 15 years before the Belgians set foot in the province of Quebec. I can hardly imagine the psyche of this young girl, condemned to live a dirt poor life on an arid earth that the settlers at that time had nicknamed “The Ordeal.” Her thoughts, her beliefs and her outlook were forged in a village where logging was the main activity. She hung around lumbermen, farmers, children who attended a one-room schoolhouse, a teacher and probably a priest. During her formative teenage years, I suppose the young girl developed her own identity, ideas and feelings. I would trade in all my wisdom to the devil to discover how she became such an admirable young woman. Unfortunately I have little information about her life to recount. What I do know is that her life took a turn when the Belgians arrived. For better or worse, dear readers, it’s up to you to decide. One beautiful Sunday morning, a smartly dressed man caught the attention of my heroine standing on the church steps. It was obvious that this stranger wasn’t a local. The young woman inquired and learned from the church official that a liner had just docked in Bonaventure. “Another shipload of Belgians!” she exclaimed. Wanting to make a good impression the next time she saw the stranger, she made herself a pretty pleated skirt with a bolero from the dress of a great aunt who’d passed. She waited anxiously for Sunday to arrive. A short while later, they were married on September 8, 1913. The beautiful bride was 29 and her handsome George, a year younger. For the sake of this story, let’s call the husband “Big George,” the one who never got his hands dirty. My leading lady quickly understood that her man preferred to show off his expensive clothes rather than weed the garden by hand. Big George hated manual labour. He always had a good excuse to get out of tilling the land, hauling firewood, feeding the animals, etc. He enjoyed going to the village, drinking gin at the general store, mailing a letter or taking over two hours to find himself a prettier, younger fish to fry and play with. All Big George was good for was helping to increase the population of the immigrant town, which was in desperate need of strong, able arms. Convinced he was doing his fair share of efforts, he got his wife pregnant eight times in 12 years: four boys and four girls to feed. It became necessary to extend the kitchen table, quadruple the size of the garden, bleed three pigs a summer, salt seven to eight barrels of cod and purchase a second horse, two new cows, brood hens, a few dogs, a metal bathtub and sensibly priced fabric to dress the kids. My heroine often cried in silence, especially when Big George had been drinking and made sexual advances that were no longer welcome. Rain or shine, she would avoid him at all costs. She cooked, sewed, did the laundry, cleaned the house and went out after dinner to weed her garden. I can picture her tired body, deformed, her arched back, her chapped hands, her cracked fingers uprooting the weeds while praying to God that the earth would feed her flock of children. Alone in her garden at dusk, she’d confide her feelings to the scarecrow. With everything she had sown, she’d tell herself, the kids would at least eat well and there’d be enough left over for canning. At the end of September, the poor exhausted mother had to be taken to the apothecary in the neighbouring village. She’d fallen while carrying a huge bucket of boiling water for Big George’s bath. Her arms, abdomen and legs were scalded, causing her great pain. She needed ointment. While she sat on a stool waiting, she overheard a few men talking about the gold mines in Timmins, Ontario. Many able-bodied men, both young and old, were headed there to make good money. The conversation didn’t fall on deaf ears. This hard-working woman decided her four sons would become miners and her four daughters would help her open a restaurant for the mines’ workers. A few days later, the woman confided her plan to the parish priest. She’d leave for Ontario with her sons who were old enough to work at the mines. She and her daughters would open and run a restaurant to feed the miners. “Make fishermen, farmers or priests of them instead!” replied the man in the neatly ironed black cloak. “God needs middlemen down here to save our souls.” The wife and mother didn’t reply. She thanked the priest for his sound advice and said goodbye. As for Big George and his new prince consort attire, the older he got, the more he hated Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan. When his wife suggested he visit his clergymen cousins who lived in Rhode Island, he quickly seized the opportunity to jump ship and escape “The Ordeal.” Very few people noticed the quiet departure of the woman and her eight children. They made their way to Montreal first, and then boarded a train bound for Timmins. When she reached her destination, my heroine was buzzing with enthusiasm. Two days after their arrival, she laid eyes on a large, abandoned house, not far from the mining facilities. At the notary’s, she shrewdly weighed her purse’s contents and offered half the requested amount. The boys started at the mine and the girls helped their mother in the kitchen and waited tables. The business immediately flourished thanks to the mother’s culinary talents and the “special favours” that some of the accommodating waitresses provided to the best male customers in the rooms above the restaurant. And so, after so much misery, that’s how my heroine improved her circumstances. I’ve often wanted to tell this story before, but hesitated each time. I was ashamed that a woman in my family had relied upon “special favours” to earn her bread. She died in Kapuskasing, Ontario, on July 5, 1967, shortly after I turned 20. Her name was also Cora. She was my father’s mother. And my enterprising grandmother. Cora ❤

In the Laurentians where I’ve lived for over 32 years, the intense summer heat followed by the cool fall nights have reddened the edges of the mountains. Right now, we are living in an art gallery as grand as the Louvre in Paris. But I know that at the beginning of November, massacred pumpkins will perish in silence in front of almost every house, giant spiders will weave silk ladders to climb down from the gutters and golden snakes will slither out from beneath our porches, teeth chattering. The weather will grow even colder, winter will cover the ground with its white blanket and, very shortly, I’ll be thinking of preparing for holiday feasts. I can already picture it: a large white apron worn over my immaculate chef’s white jacket, sleeves rolled up; a net covering my hair; comfortable shoes; baroque music playing in the background; and a thermos of steaming hot coffee. I take my position at the large kitchen table. The time to bake my spinach puffs is finally here! I place an enormous bowl for mixing the phyllo dough ingredients on the table. I’ve been making this recipe for 50 years and, without measuring a single ingredient, I already know that the kneaded dough will give me 5 large round sheets 15 inches in diameter and 1½ inches high. This will make about 20 delicious spinach puffs per baking sheet. In the large bowl, I put some white flour, Crisco all-vegetable shortening, beaten eggs, a pinch of salt and some Seven Up to bind the mixture as I knead the dough by hand. The more my expert hands get busy in the bowl, the more the dough becomes soft and yielding. I divide it in 25 small balls the size of an orange and flatten them out with the rolling pin to the size of a 9-inch plate. I brush each small sheet of dough with a thick coat of melted butter and roll them back into a ball. I let them rest for a moment while I take out a pot and quickly blanch 25 bags of store-bought spinach. I then drain the water and carefully wring out the moisture from the greens. In a large saucepan, I brown the spinach with a little butter, green onions and a generous amount of dill. When the mixture has cooled, I add in lots of coarsely grated feta. I’m already on my third coffee when it’s time for the most laborious part of the recipe. I have to take the 25 small, buttered dough balls and roll each one out again to the size of the large baking sheets. I place a thin round sheet of dough on a greased baking sheet and baste it with butter. Then I layer a second and third buttery sheet of dough. Next, I spread one-fifth of the spinach-feta mixture evenly over the top. This is covered with two more generously buttered sheets. The last sheet, however, has to have a lavish coating of butter. Since this is homemade phyllo dough, using real butter is essential. Before I place the baking sheets in the oven, I cut the dough into 2-inch squares. As soon as they come out of the oven, I cut them again to ensure they maintain their shape. I’ve always used round baking sheets, so some of the pieces end up uneven. I still remember the days when my teenage kids would hang around in the kitchen, enticed by the intoxicating smell of the freshly baked puff pastries. Under the pretext of taking the uneven pieces, they would clear a third of the baking sheet before the puffs even had time to cool down. Spinach puffs can easily be frozen before or after baking once they cool. I have to quickly place them in the freezer if I want to have any left for the holidays! Bless my hard-working hands, because almost everyone loves my spinach puffs! Cora ❤

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

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

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

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

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

Dear readers, this week’s letter wasn’t written by your favourite author. Instead, we handed the honour to Gigi, Mme Cora’s daughter. Gigi wrote this homage to her mother on her birthday, and we’re delighted to share it with you here. MAY 27, 2025 Seventy-eight years ago, my mother was born to a couple that married out of convenience and duty, not for love or passion. Her mother was in love with a Protestant man. That union was unacceptable to her family and to her religion. She accepted the first Catholic man willing to take her, but the groom had no idea of his new bride’s despair. His joyful heart would soon be broken, his dreams of a loving family dashed. My mother grew up in a home devoid of happiness, with a mother suffering from bi-polar disorder and a father lost in drink and sadness. She later reluctantly married a man newly arrived in Canada, carrying with him his own baggage of mental health issues and beliefs of male superiority. She was with child, and in her eyes, she had to pay for her sin of sex before marriage. She endured 13 years of violence, both physical and emotional. My father beat her, berated her, cheated on her and bet all his money away in card games. She left him on the day he hit me, with nothing more than the family station wagon and her purse. She worked tirelessly to support us, receiving nothing from him. He moved abroad, “so that I don’t kill her,” he later justified. Her parents helped her with us until they both died suddenly, her father on the day of his leukemia diagnosis, and her mother in a deadly car accident. Alone to raise us, she worked 100-hour weeks for years until finally, she burnt out and spent a year on the couch trying to learn how to take care of herself. On this date, May 27, 1987, she opened the first of what would become a beloved chain of breakfast restaurants in Canada. She worked and worked, falling asleep with recipe books on her face for three years before we sent her away on a vacation for fear she would have another burnout. When she came back from that trip to Paris, where she slept for 7 of the 10 days she was there, we were excited to show her that we hadn’t poisoned any of her adored clients! “Find something else to do,” we clamoured. “We can run this place.” She did. After much exploration of what else she could do, she seized an opportunity to open a second restaurant that would delight even more customers with our, by now, spectacular breakfast offering. When she signed the lease to the new store, we celebrated around a table in our tiny 29-seat diner, the first of the chain, clinking coffee cups. We were excitedly talking over each other about the bright future before us when my mother raised her cup and declared to us, and to the universe, “I’m going to change the karma of my family. Maybe not my kids, but one day, my grandkids will never want for anything.” That was the start of it all, her legacy. When I was a child, I was so often frustrated by my mother’s refusal to promise anything, for she couldn’t be sure she could deliver on her promise. I didn’t see it at the time, but her word meant something to her. Even a hasty promise spoken to her undiscerning children to appease them and get them off her back would be a betrayal. She wouldn’t lie to us or to herself. We would later discover that her word was her superpower, her instrument of creation. Today, my mother is 78. She has long since delivered on her word. My children want for nothing. I’ve never known the pain and struggle of not knowing where my children’s next meal will come from. I’ve never worried about providing shelter for my children or education, or anything. I’ve had the luxury of security, to heal my own wounds and to grow into the woman I am today. I’ve been afforded the opportunity to create joy and growth, and discovery with my family, instead of a life of trial and survival. On this day, her birthday, I celebrate my mother. To this courageous warrior who gave me life and a life I love. I wish her peace in her heart, ease in her living, and knowing that she has done her work. The rest is up to us. Like many children, I’ve not always seen the whole picture, and I’ve cried and complained, argued and fought, resented and blamed. I do carry some shame when I confront my pettiness and impatience against the enormity of her accomplishment. I suppose that can be chalked up to immaturity and privilege. Either way, I’m fully aware that my gorgeous life with all its trimmings, my beautiful, thriving children and my journey of healing and contribution, stands on the shoulders of what my mother has done with her life. Her legacy has allowed for my legacy. I am grateful and humbled, and proud and happy. Thank you, Mother. I see you. I hear you. I honour you. I strive to be worthy of the gifts you’ve given me. Woman to woman, I’m proud of you. I look up to you. Gigi ♥️

I’ve already confessed in a few of my letters that I’m constantly purchasing books. New or used, all I need is a catchy title or a recommendation from a friend or reviewer to convince me to add an umpteenth volume to my collection. I’ve been reading books since forever. Did you know I’ve been reading just as many magazines for the last few years? I developed this delicious habit of collecting magazines during the pandemic, and ever since, I’ve devoured each one as if it were an essential supplement for my health. In fact, they’re as good as gold. I learn so much by reading! I wait for the latest arrivals on the magazine stand around the 25th of each month as if it were Christmas. Last night, my eyes glued to a special edition of the French monthly magazine “Psychology,” I jotted down the main keys to vibrant creativity. The art of creativity isn’t only reserved for artists. It’s a state of mind that needs to be protected and nurtured daily because it can become the earth that supports real self-transformation. I may be blowing my own trumpet a bit, but I hope my weekly writing has improved a little with every Sunday letter! In order to create it takes more than a gift from above. You must make room for an inner temperament that’s open to all and resistant to routine. To write, I also have to take risks, be empathic and embrace the unknown. Sometimes I find myself in a tussle with the things that inhibit me or hamper me from moving forward. I often worry that my words stumble and slip, especially when I insist on adding too many decorations to the Christmas tree. My well-known personal touch appears like a brushstroke on a painting or the fifth line of a 4-line poem that no one else but I could invent. I add my grain of salt to the soup and sharpen my critical thinking instead of joining the uniform opinions of the masses. Rejecting mindless responses, I try to hear my needs and desires; what my heart truly wants to say. Following coach Julia Cameron’s tips for tapping your creativity, I write every morning for one or two hours straight. First to flush out all the thoughts, the worries, the insignificant and heavy fixations; in short, everything that stops me from expressing my imagination and creativity. It’s a bit like sweeping the entire kitchen floor before sitting down to write at the table. The best ideas and promising projects often emerge in the middle or at the end of my writing. The wise say it’s essential to regularly allow our mind to lay fallow, sheltered from reasoning and the usual writing activities. I must take some time to roam, daydream and let my thoughts and my vagabond imagination drift about. To take a walk in the forest, admire the tall fir trees that cover our magnificent Laurentians, pick berries and take a moment to listen to the birds sing. With my head overflowing with ideas, I sometimes forget my notes and to-do’s. One morning, a quarter of the way into a text, I improvise. At night, I add a few words that connect me to my emotions and desires. This improvisation allows me to become aware of the full range of possibilities that can be imagined and add a new reality that teaches me how to leave my comfort zone. I try to write short poems similar to traditional Japanese haikus, short three-line poems that capture the essence of a particularly inspiring moment. The flowers kneel talking to the ants. The theatre laughs behind the actors’ backs. The flower is fragrant for as long as we look at it. War, a marriage without an heir. Most of the time, my creativity starts with work that occurs underground and emerges without warning. I struggle, I toil. From a barren land that is neither plowed nor sown, I hope for a good harvest. Like the child pounding at their toy chest, I examine all the possibilities. I draw from the past, imagine the future and make fun of today’s so-called rules. Cora ♥️

The first Cora restaurant opened its doors on May 27, 1987, exactly on the day I turned 40. Life up until then had been difficult and much later, I’d realize that this birthday would mark a dramatic break, like a revolving door sweeping away a submissive woman’s bleak resignation with one strong turn and replacing it with a liberated woman’s confident hope. That morning, when I opened the small diner with my name on the front, my kids and I were a thousand miles away from knowing it, but we were in fact celebrating the burial of our unhappy past. Year ONE of our reconstruction began when we greeted our first customer. If, by any chance, you were among those who visited us back then, you may have noticed to what lengths we went to delight our clientele and how much we truly cherished them. I confess today that I and the kids were the ones starving. In the kitchen or behind the counter, we were the ones who needed love, who were slowly learning to accept tenderness and affection. Working hard, we were so desperate to have normal lives that a small compliment felt as if we were being handed a gold bar. It’s perhaps because of this deep gratitude towards our customers that I can still remember today these large chunks of life floating in my mind like glaciers making their way out to sea. I worked tirelessly. I devoted myself to the venture for 14 months solid, 7 days a week, without a single day off. I put all my energy into the restaurant and our customers: finding new recipes, designing the menu, placing orders, washing uniforms and then did it all over again. I was anxious about leaving my baby, anxious that a customer might swallow a chicken bone, anxious that a violent wind would take out a window. And especially anxious that it would all go awry and customers would receive poor service if I wasn’t there. “Afraid that the world would stop turning,” remarked my daughter Gigi. The first time the kids forced me to take a break from the restaurant’s kitchen it was for a weeklong trip to Paris. “A room with a view of the Eiffel Tower and a $300 traveller’s cheque for spending,” they added in a matter-of-fact way, placing the envelope in my hand. They bought the airplane ticket and chose Paris because they had overheard me say to the plumber that it was my dream to visit the city one day. Just the thought of leaving the following Saturday kept me awake for four nights in a row. – “Trust me, Mom. The tickets are not refundable, you have to go.” I saw nothing for the first few days, incapacitated by exhaustion in the small room with a view of the Eiffel Tower. In the little time I had left, I walked the streets like an unplugged robot. I suppose that Paris is splendid when one’s eyes are able to contemplate its beauty, but mine were directed at the malevolent crows flying over my little diner. How did I let myself be convinced that I could abandon it? – “So you can rest, Mom! Take a week’s vacation and unwind. Don’t worry, we bought the package with money that our older brother gave us. Relax and enjoy yourself. We love you and we’re going to take care of the baby.” How could my poor little chicks understand that it wasn’t the restaurant that needed me but I who needed it? How to tell them that even in my sleep I flipped eggs on the gridle? How to explain to them that I was a part of the diner’s furniture? That when customers came through the doors, it was they who nourished me. My love of books had evolved from literature and poetry to recipes. From the window of the plane that brought me back I saw the world wrapped in cotton. I couldn’t wait to touch down, to see the kids, to put my apron back on and cook a French-style cream of pumpkin soup. In the baggage hold, my suitcase overflowed with new recipe books for extra-thin crêpes extravagantly garnished and folded. I was so excited to tell the kids about the delicious fruit coulis I’d tasted, the mocha coffee and the extraordinary flavour of the pure butter used in pastries. At 5:45 p.m. local time in Montreal, the huge metal bird touched the ground and all the passengers aboard applauded. I was hoping to be greeted by the kids, but it was Platon, the dishwasher, who was waiting at the arrivals gate. His white jacket, splattered with egg yolk and ketchup, stood out clearly from the crowd that was waiting with arms outstretched. – “Let me take your suitcase, Boss. I came straight from the restaurant.” – “Did something happen? Where are the kids?” – “Don’t worry, Boss, I just finished the dishes. Everything is running smoothly.” Our dishwasher confirmed that the world had not stopped while I was away. Business was brisk, and sales, according to the lovely Gigi, continued to rise, even after I left. The next morning, I briefly had the impression of entering a movie that had already started. Everything was humming. Gigi was at the gridle, the youngest was pouring the crêpe batter and Marie, the waitress, was heading towards the large round table at the front carrying three generous plates of food in her diminutive hands. “Hello? I’m back!” I wanted to shout out. But I held it in. I made my way across the busy dining room like a tiny mouse on a big cheese platter, trying to make as little noise as possible. I went downstairs and sitting on an upside-down margarine pail, I released the ocean of sadness flooding my heart. I repeated to myself the sentence that Platon had said without wishing to spare or hurt me: “Everything is running smoothly.” My little chicks no longer needed me to place bits of food in their beaks. They had grown up. They were right; I was no longer as indispensable as I had thought. And suddenly, as if the universe had heard the echoes of my suffering, I heard my daughter scream “MOM!” – “Mom, the meat guy wants to talk to you about a new cut of ham. Are you interested?” Everything in the kitchen interested me, especially everything to do with our morning specialties! The very next morning, we started to practise all the wonderful ideas that I had brought back from the City of Light, and the world began to spin just like it had before my visit to the Old World. The only change was my new habit of leaving earlier, just after the lunch service. No one objected. It was only then that I started to realize that our breakfast specialty was quickly eclipsing our small diner, becoming more independent and more important than the cook at the griddle. The kids had offered me a wonderful gift and made me realize that they too were now more independent. Together, we could operate more than one restaurant. And with that miraculous epiphany, I started to criss-cross the city looking for a new location. As you know, I went on to found more than 125 across Canada. So many that I have never thought about returning to Paris. But it’s never too late to change one’s mind. Cora ❤️

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

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