The older I get, the less I cry

I often ask myself where I found the strength, courage and, above all, the expertise to manage a business. How did I give birth to so many suns spread across the country? I really don’t know where this strange destiny came from. My dad was a travelling salesman for a big company. Week after week, he’d leave with his suitcase of samples to show local shop owners around Gaspésie. He’d take their orders and send them on to the head office, in Toronto. That’s how he provided for us, summer and winter, his two hands on the wheel and his big heart heavy with sorrow. It may seem strange to mention this, but as I write these lines, I remember that my favourite past-time as a little girl was to play general store manager. I’d place lightly polished pebbles, bird feathers, beautiful shells, birch bark, clover leaves—anything that I could find in nature—on a table and sell them for a few pennies. I’d collect milk bottle caps that I used as change, and I was glad when I made 5 or 6 pennies for the afternoon. Much later, when I wanted to pursue classical studies, my parents tried to dissuade me by telling me that “folks like us should be content with just a few slices of bread.” Much later, when I was invited to speak at conferences, I elicited thunderous laughter from the audience by ending my story with “Thankfully, I had the idea of making toast with my few slices of bread. That’s right, toast saved my life!” As a new business owner and business apprentice, I held tight to the railing while torrents of water flowed under the bridges. I was afraid, constantly afraid, of not being good enough, as I had no schooling in the restaurant business, no family role model and no one to support me. My parents had passed without leaving a penny behind. In 1987, I started with close to nothing: I paid $20,000 for a small diner using the money from the sale of our modest house. I was poor, afraid, but I had my three kids: a priceless treasure and the best motivation in the world. My first restaurant taught me how to be a good cook. I quickly discovered my creativity and my ambitious desire to reinvent Canadians’ first meal of the day. I created the breakfast restaurant concept. In the 1980s, families didn’t go out to enjoy breakfast at a restaurant. Special occasions might be celebrated on Sunday at a hotel serving egg dishes, charcuteries, salads and likely a tempting array of desserts. Then there were the neighbourhood diners that opened early to serve eggs, bacon, sausages and ham to workers. Before we came along, no one had seen beautifully cut fruit alongside egg, omelette or crêpe dishes. When we started, no one stuffed their crêpes with fresh strawberries, bananas and other fruit covered in a delicious homemade custard. We rapidly became very popular by doing things differently. Thanks to my staff, our expertise was transmitted from one restaurant to the next; the cooks from the first restaurant trained the staff at the second location, and so on. Slowly but surely, a large chain of Cora restaurants was born. The more restaurants there were, the more my brain trembled. Would I be up to the challenge? Would I be able to learn fast enough? Every night, every single spare moment I had, I read everything I needed to know. I delved into the biographies of the great builders, those behind McDonald’s, Starbucks, Tim Hortons, Subway and many others. I read the great blue book of franchising, all the monthly magazines published by Harvard Business School and many business newspapers. Hungry for knowledge and expertise, my primary mission was to surround myself with talented and competent people. I’ve often thought that I became an entrepreneur because a force outside of me decided to make me an entrepreneur. As unbelievable as it may be, it seems that people are often bothered by our efforts. Sometimes it feels like they are there keeping an eye on us, waiting for us to close up shop. As if their neighbour’s failure would absolve them of their own lack of accomplishments. But we must continue, work hard, pray and finally let go. We must give the best of ourselves and believe that it will not be for naught. That’s what I did. Not because I understood all this from the start, but because I had no choice. I persisted and, through hard work, I discovered how much I loved my work. It’s this love for what one does that strengthens resolve. And perseverance is like a constant desire to learn more. Driven by my passion for the restaurateur’s work, I continued to open restaurants until I realized that I was able to teach others how to do it. That’s the very principle of franchising: teaching others your winning formula. I had finally found a way to serve as many customers as possible, as often as possible, in as many places as possible. I, who thought of myself as a poet, ended up learning the language of numbers. I know that most people think I was lucky, but I was serious and focused. I always believed in kind fairies who took good care of me. I’m proud to have created work for hundreds of people. I enjoy looking back on my wins, and yet, at noon today, I quickly turn off my tablet, grab my notepads and dash out the door. Above, a procession of wild geese crosses the pinkish blue sky. They’re majestic with their grey and white wings, like angels on a southern pilgrimage. Will I also be en route to the final destination one day? Who knows the address of my next life? Who knows how long eternity is? Sitting and watching the wild geese dance, the sun warms me. Cora ❤️

I write my letters like I used to pick berries in the summer. I delighted in filling up a large bowl and offering them to Mom. She in turn took delight in baking us a delicious upside-down fruit cake for dinner. Today, I examine each word the same way I used to select each strawberry or raspberry; I touch it, pamper it and coddle it until I am convinced that it deserves a place in a sentence. I’ve always loved darkening pages with words and sinking my teeth into a well-written sentence that makes me think. I gather the drafts in piles until my work starts to simmer. This morning, I’m contemplating a dark-grey sky, dotted with large clouds, through my window. Suddenly, I feel like it’s swallowing all the mysteries of the vast sky: God, diseases, death, war, devastating tornadoes, Bhopal, Chernobyl and the senseless murders happening all across the planet. Sometimes, I look towards the celestial ceiling and make myself believe that it’s one huge jumble of misunderstandings. Maybe I’m wrong to think this way. My mind looks like an ant that doesn’t know what to do alongside her capable colony workers. I try to remember the old philosophers whose truths I’ve studied, but my head gets lost in the vast fields of forgetfulness. I get lost in conjectures and wait for the sky to clear up. This may explain my incessant need for fantasy, imagination and for the huge, magical birds that agree to carry my body over the oceans. Occasionally, my friends the crows strike up a conversation with me, an eagle sends me a letter, a wolf enters my kitchen and frogs croak to lull me to sleep. I tell myself that here on Earth, in this big world, there’s enough room for all humans to live in peace. And yet, somewhere in the minds of belligerent men, war satisfies their burning desire to constantly expand their territory. For as long as the world has existed, these so-called powerful lords kill so they can enjoy their possessions in even greater luxury. They used to burn women they called witches and, today, we continue to eliminate them for no reason. Where is the world headed? Am I the only one who’s feeling low? Is the ecosystem rebelling or is progress losing its mind? Another one of my philosophical questions for which I don’t have an answer. I only have words in my bag, tons of words to offer you for entertainment. Life can be long and tortuous, sprinkled with questions that are hard to answer. I live in a library-house that contains thousands of books that no longer offer answers to my current worries. I often quiz Google, who’s extremely knowledgeable but soulless. Apparently, the future of artificial intelligence will be equipped with emotions. Where is the world headed? Shall we consider AI like a menace or an opportunity for humankind? Will AI become sufficiently brilliant to introduce me to the man of my dreams one day? A soulmate endowed with an intelligence compatible with mine? I think I’ve once crossed paths with my soulmate. In April 2016, I was visiting the country of the Rising Sun and I’d already photographed the cherry trees in bloom, each one more beautiful than the other. I was dazzled! Then the guide announced our activity for the next day and promised us something more spectacular: a bamboo grove. While on route to this promising destination, I crossed paths with my soulmate. It lived in the body of a handsome Japanese man whom I walked through the Arashiyama giant bamboo grove with. I remember it as if I were still there! In the tour bus, I was seated next to a tremendously gorgeous Japanese man. I couldn’t ignore him. My heart jumped like a small bird on the branch of a cherry tree. My eyes wanted to take root in his. We crossed the countryside and villages, which must have seemed breathtaking to other travellers, but I only had eyes for the handsome man by my side. He smelled so good; his exotic aroma was bringing all my senses to life. His hands were resting on his right thigh, one atop the other, like in prayer. I tried in vain to see the name on the tag affixed to his jacket. Then, the guide announced that we’d soon reach our destination. The handsome man and I had kept silent for the entire bus ride—some two hours of sighs tumbling into the bumpy void of my heart. On our way, we stopped twice and, each time, the man exited before and held out his hand to help me get off the bus. I could barely look at him because I was so attracted to his face, his self-control. When we reached the bamboo grove, we were each served a nice box of sushi that we enjoyed in silence together. The moment for our stroll through the forest finally came. We made our way at a tortoise’s pace without even seeing what was in front of us since our eyes were fixated on the sky and the tall bamboos pointing like arrows directly into the heart of the clouds. My heart purred with happiness. And while I contemplated the delicate rustling of the air between the bamboos, the man disappeared. Like a feather in the wind, the hope of any intimacy evaporated. Did he run away, get lost, hide? I still ask myself the question. When the guide finally walked up to me, she pronounced two words that revealed the name of my charming travelling companion: Watanabe Isamu. If only this encounter had been a dream so I could continue to cherish it. It’s a true story, however, that occurred on April 17, 2016, in the Arashiyama bamboo grove, just west of Kyoto. During those few moments, I believed I’d met my soulmate. Seated by his side in silence for two beautiful hours, I had plenty of time to imagine myself with him for the rest of my days. Once more, I allowed the chatterbox in my head to conjure up a fabulous, unimaginable happiness, as glorious as the aura of that man who existed for only a day. Cora ♥️

Opened on May 27, 1987, the day I turned 40, Cora restaurants celebrated their 38th anniversary this year. As a divorced mother raising three teens, I had no idea that when I opened that tiny restaurant, I would receive the best gift in the world: the key that would open the door to an incredible future. After a divorce with no alimony, I worked in the restaurant business 6 to 7 days a week for 7 years until my mind was crippled by a severe burnout. My father once said I was a force of nature; “strong as a horse,” he would say. Both my parents were already dead when burnout smothered my spirit. They didn’t have to witness this small mouse, trapped and frozen in fear. I had been working nonstop when suddenly, without warning, exhaustion took over my whole body; I became unable to cook soup for my children, unable to think, unable to respond. I spent two long months lying flat out on the couch in the living room not knowing who I was or where I was going; it was as if my energy had fled my body. Fortunately, one day someone told my eldest about a doctor who might be able to help. I still remember that meeting. He was a very old man who resembled more of an ancient toga-clad philosopher than a modern-day doctor. The treatment he prescribed was simple: There is no medicine to cure extreme fatigue, just rest, lots of rest. “Burnout,” he concluded, “can be cured by doing what you love!” I was completely confused. How was I going to do what I love? I was unable to think about it. Since dropping out of school to get married because I was pregnant, I had endured 13 years of daily misery. Then I had to work like a madwoman to provide for my children’s needs. And yet it was they, these precious teenagers, who found the solution, the magic remedy to cure me: – “Mom, why not write? You loved it so much when we were little. You even wrote in secret most of the time so Dad wouldn’t know. Why not try it now? I’ll give you my ring binder,” said the older boy. – “Please, Mom, I’ll lend you my pens,” said his sister. And so line after line, very quietly, two or three short paragraphs a day, the pen’s ink told the story of a bad marriage, the death of the beautiful girl I had been and the hardship that followed. Day by day, my body came back to life, as if the pieces of a puzzle were putting themselves together in my mind. The children put little dishes on the living room table, they made me thermoses of coffee that I drank with increasing satisfaction. Then one morning the pen dried up. Suddenly I had nothing to say. My body and head were getting better. They wanted to get up, go outside, see the sun and walk in the grass. Wearing a long nightgown and slippers, I started by taking the vacuum out of the closet and removing all the breadcrumbs and bits of biscuit that had fallen on the carpet as I ate. On the coffee table, three empty coffee cups were waiting to be collected. And I felt like doing it, cleaning up my makeshift camp and putting away my sad stories somewhere. Had I managed to melt the mountain of sorrows I had carried to that moment? The old doctor-philosopher was right: DOING WHAT YOU LOVE HEALS YOU. He had prescribed 3½ months of rest, but a miracle happened before I even had time to count the days, an extraordinary miracle, a thousand times bigger than spring’s first daffodil. I was fine and started to look for a place in the neighbourhood to have a coffee and write. And, the day after, I drove my Renaud 5 for the first time after my eldest boy announced that I had to take him downtown for an interview because there was a bus strike. I said YES immediately, happy at last to be useful to this big, capable boy. I still remember putting on lipstick on and braiding my hair into a crown on my head. It was a good sign. As I was crossing Côte-Vertu Blvd., in Montreal, a RESTAURANT FOR SALE sign on the first floor of a small, rather run-down building caught my eye. I will never forget that moment. I knew something was going on in my head. A turn of events that would later remind me of Saint Paul falling off his horse on the road to Damascus. I stared at the sign and promised myself that after I dropped off my son, I would stop by and inquire. After 7 years in a very large and popular restaurant, I had acquired an excellent reputation, a management position and a generous salary. And all the staff, bosses and loyal customers were looking forward to my return. I had it on good authority. And now, in a single moment, a little abandoned restaurant I had come across by total fluke, closed for two long years, entered my mind as if it were the most natural thing in the world. When we neglect our balance, basic needs and inner serenity, the ultimate architect of our lives brings us back to where we need to be. Miracles happen as many times as needed until we finally get it. Without warning, and often without us realizing it, they send us brilliant ideas, prophetic dreams and magic keys. The greatest miracle that happened to me that day was that I believed in that RESTAURANT FOR SALE sign without wholly understanding what it was telling me. Cora ❤️

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m crazy about magazines and, recently, I discovered another one. It turns out the magazine “Bel âge” (the French Canadian version of “Good Times”) is incredibly interesting! It’s not a new publication, but I had never truly read it. And you know what? I recently mentioned it to my very good friend, a retired literature teacher with whom I spend my mornings at the coffee shop, and she offered me a big box full of old and newer copies of “Bel âge.” What a tremendous gift! Thirty-eight editions I can flip through with great interest when boredom threatens. I ask Google and learn that “Bel âge” was founded in 1987, the same year, dear readers, I started out in business and opened my first Cora restaurant. Coincidence? At that time, I was so incredibly busy creating an amazing breakfast concept that I didn’t stop, not even for a minute, to read anything else apart from recipes and books about business development. For nearly two decades, my head and heart were fully focused on creating a country-wide chain of over 100 Cora restaurant locations. Anyhow, let me get back to the magazine “Bel âge” and, most importantly, its page where a well-known personality is invited to reveal 10 things they love. I dilly-dally, I have fun, and since I still haven’t been asked to answer their 10 questions, I’ve decided to create my own list and share it with you! 1) An unforgettable moment The birth of my daughter’s first child. That morning, I cried tears of fear and happiness. I held her hand and wanted to take her place. When the tiny, hairy head emerged from my daughter’s womb, my heart drummed with pride. I was holding a small baby boy in my arms. Today, this wonderful young man occasionally eats dinner with his grandma. 2) A delicious address On Main Street in Saint-Sauveur, in the Laurentians, La Tonkinoise serves wonderful Asian fare. All my friends rave about it, and I’d eat there every noon or night if I could. The spring rolls are divine, the large soups are aphrodisiac, the General Tao dish is succulent and the shrimp pad thai is my favourite. The restaurant isn’t very big, but it has a large patio that accommodates everyone in the summer months. 3) My next travel destination Believe it or not, I dream of visiting the island of Crete, Greece’s largest island, with its impressive landscapes, picturesque bays, numerous beaches and turquoise sea. By myself or with a handsome fellow, maybe I could come to terms with the time I lived in a small Greek village with my three young kids, mother-in-law, sister-in-law and awful Husband. 4) Something I cannot do without I cannot do without three or four cups of coffee every morning and one or two more around 4 p.m., when I come home. My good friend Claude sometimes chides me. To limit any potential damage, I started allowing myself a small glass of orange juice from time to time in the evening. You see, when I worked at the restaurant, I strictly forbade anyone – the staff and my children included – to drink this elixir because it was so expensive. We could drink the coffee and pop, but not the orange juice! 5) A few big sources of happiness My three kids, their six children and my two great-grandsons The success of our business and our loyal staff My peerless friends! My need to write every morning My Mini Copper that takes me where I want to go All the walls of my house, covered in books The wildflowers in my yard, with which I create magnificent bouquets in the summer 6) A favourite photo on my cell phone There are so many! Here’s a recent one: my three-year-old great-grandson ready to jump in his great-grandmother’s pool! Every Sunday during the summer, his mom, dad and older brother dive in the water and swim like fish while I hide under the parasol. Click, click, a dozen photos to look back on next winter. 7) An inspiring book The book “Big Magic” by Elizabeth Gilbert, which I rushed to read when it was published. I often re-read some of the chapters just to learn more about how to write. For 10 years, this author has inspired and influenced tens of thousands of readers around the world. The book reveals the gifts we possess and encourages us to go on a quest in search of our own creativity by putting aside our pointless sufferings. Learning to write is a blessing from above. 8) A favourite dish During the last few years, I’ve gradually given up meat for no particular reason. Born in Gaspésie, I was raised on fish five or six days a week. As a teen, when an older cousin or Grandpa Frédéric took me fishing in their boat, I couldn’t sit still after casting my line. Whenever I caught something, like a big fat cod, a common sunfish or catfish, I was ecstatic! Today, I’m an old woman who still craves fish: salmon, cod, shrimp, scallop, crab legs and lobster when in season. I also love smoked salmon with a drizzle of olive oil and some capers. 9) A few of my favourites stores Shopping at Winners because it makes me walk! Even if my closets are full, I love heading there because it’s good for my legs and easy on my wallet. I also love going to the second-hand bookstore in Saint-Sauveur, one of my favourite destinations. I’m enthralled by the shelves of poetry; it’s like standing in front of a candy display. I stumble across treasures at this store: novels, practical books and masterpieces like “Les mots de ma vie” (the book hasn’t been translated, but the title means “the words of my life”) by Bernard Pivot, the man of my dreams. I love rummaging around the market in Val-David in the summer. Every time I go, I discover a new gourmet treat: chocolate caramel, hazelnut-filled bread and, for dinner, a delicious buckwheat crêpe. 10) A very precious souvenir A few years ago, an article I read prompted me to watch the 1998 Japanese movie AFTER LIFE, directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda. The movie asks the existential question, if you could keep one single memory and bring it with you into the afterlife, which one would it be? What would you do if there was a life after death and all your memories were erased except for one? Which memory would you decide to keep with you for eternity?  Which single memory is so important to you that you would want to remember it forever? In the movie, a group of people who have recently died find themselves in a place between heaven and earth – in limbo, I suppose – where they are given one week to choose a single memory from their past life. One single memory they will take with them into eternity. The movie shows and records the memory each person chooses; they can then watch it as many times as they wish thereafter. I can’t decide! What about you? Cora ❤️

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

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