Three desires, three regrets

I read somewhere that “the way we tell a story has a great influence on our happiness.” So, this morning, I stop lamenting and contemplate the heavenly blue of the sky. Of course, like anyone with zest for life, I would’ve liked to have met an artist, a poet, a rare bird who flies far above, but I already had three children and my two feet were nailed solidly to the ground. With my heart and body invested solely in my work for so many years, numbers were much more important to me than men or words. That’s how I matured without even noticing it, until two old crows I’ve already told you about, Retirement and Old Age, came into my life. Then with age, Lady Solitude also came along. We lose a few feathers, we lose near ones, friends, sisters or husbands, and we find ourselves facing a void. Do you remember April 2020, the terror of the century disguised as a horrible virus? In all of two seconds, I was alone, worried, locked down between the hills, with only my words for company. The COVID witch sharpened my emptiness and taught me how to keep quiet. I was afraid of dying. Thankfully, I had a dozen black crows on my roof cawing and asking for my attention. I would throw breadcrumbs at them, and they’d get closer to my balcony. These first friends during my solitude kept me alive. I even came to talk to the ants, the worms and to the big groundhog living under the porch. As the weather became milder, I’d settle each morning on the grass and wait for the dandelions to grow. While the horrible virus kept passing over my home, I turned on the TV to catch the daily count of elderly souls that had flown out the window. I got scared, I got thirsty; I could see pretty streams of my childhood in my dreams. And then summer came and burst into beauty. Hand-drawn rainbows light up the streets. I’m out for a walk. In front of me, an old couple holds on to each other, welded together and moving as one. I envy them! I hear the rustling of the branches stretching out in the sun, the humming of the bees, the gentle scent of flowers. Lifting my head up high, I admire a parade of geese tracing words for me in the pale blue of the sky. Weeks fly by and the worst expires. “Don’t talk about it anymore,” repeats a host on an American TV show. Quickly, I turn on my tablet and my fingers start by thanking the universe that I’m still alive. I write to the angels, wrap my lines in golden paper and then console everything that moves around me. With my words flying, my sentences taking flight, a new life writes itself like a novel that we finally want to read. I love to create meaning by bringing words to life. I love to start a paragraph slowly, like when we enter a river, and then plunge headfirst into a revelation. It’s exactly how the SUNDAY LETTERS came to be, dear readers! In my mind’s kitchen, I started to draft delightful breakfasts of words. Short letters to whet your appetite, homemade caramel, fudge and delicious cake recipes that you could easily make yourself. The faster Sundays arrived, the stronger my enthusiasm grew. My heart, filled with love, rejoiced in your good company. Without even realizing it, I did what I’ve always done since I was a little girl: write! And so I started writing to you. First my recipes, and then the remarkable story of our business and, by extension, the entire saga of my surprising life story. I ventured into the sea up to my waist, then my shoulders and often into the open water. You followed and loved me. You painted pink all the brown spots on my body. You turned my heart into a lighthouse, a bouquet of tiny lights illuminating my written lines. Writing these SUNDAY LETTERS awoke the writer inside me. I discovered that my greatest pleasure consists in aligning words, throwing the bare bones of a story onto a page and writing it in black ink, eyes wide open. My memory is a real treasure trove, a live photo album. As I invite Lady Creativity and Lady Inspiration to visit on the white of the page, I jot down the scribbles of time. By reading me, you teach me to be a better writer. Cora ❤

Since all of us in the family are restaurateurs and excellent cooks, our Easter brunch was, if I may say so, an amazing feast! To start, my granddaughter placed three large plates of fresh, nicely cut fruit on the table, filled with strawberries, raspberries, cherries and blueberries. The youngest kids climbed onto their chairs in no time and reached out their hands and raided the colourful plates. A few minutes later, their cheeks were coloured blue and pink, and their small aprons stained with raspberry juice. I’d prepared the crêpe mix the night before, but as soon as my daughter walked into the kitchen, she took control of the helm. She still had to assemble the various elements of each service. With her daughter by her side, they first prepared over 20 crêpes filled with different garnishes: spinach-feta, ham and Swiss cheese, bacon-cheddar and delicious apples brushed with homemade caramel. They were all kept warm on the stove’s hot plate. My daughter and her daughter then cooked all the meat traditionally found in a good French Canadian breakfast and placed it on the table alongside a big tureen filled with baked beans, a big plate of smoked salmon garnished with capers and red onions, a large bowl of roasted potatoes, my famous cretons and a nice spread of homemade jams: strawberry, raspberry, blueberry, orange and citrus marmalade. I’ve long had a knack for making delicious jams. I never measure anything and my middle finger is my helper, letting me know when it’s time to turn off the heat. It never fails! My eldest son’s sons were tasked with preparing a variety of breads, toast, bagels and croissants. They cut the butter into little squares that they placed in small dishes to be arranged in front of each place setting. Then the 15 adults sat down at the table and the feast began. As they’d already swilled their coffee while talking, they switched to orange juice. Heavens! I still remember the fresh orange juice I forbade the employees and my own kids from drinking while they were working at the restaurant. In those days, the juice imported directly from Florida was expensive and precious. No one was allowed to drink any of it except the customers who paid for it. I was left penniless in 1987 when I opened our first small restaurant. It was an old wreck of a snack bar that had been closed for two years. I remember it like it was yesterday: a 29-seat room covered in cobwebs that I bought after selling our house in the suburbs. I’ll never understand why my young kids and I immediately fell in love with the place. Perhaps this was a new adventure for them? Maybe this was my opportunity to build a brilliant destiny for myself? We had to scrub, clean, paint, sew a few nice aprons and write our menu on the walls. I never could have imagined in those days that I would create an exceptional breakfast restaurant concept. Living in a third-floor apartment on a commercial street in Montreal near our tiny eatery, the kids got used to the city cacophony, public transportation and the sleepless nights their mom spent inventing new breakfast dishes. My daughter and her daughter are at the stove ready to take omelette orders. Over 15 bowls filled with omelette garnishes are lined up on the counter next to them. Service is running smoothly! By the sounds of it, you would think that all the adults haven’t eaten even a crumb in three days! Seated at the end of the table, my eyes sneak a look at each of my guests’ face. They are hungry, thirsty and are relishing their food. My oldest son congratulates the cooks, thanking them warmly. He volunteers for dishwashing even before he’s done eating his main course. His girlfriend says she’ll assist. Dear Josée is a very good cook herself; she especially excels at roasting meat and her man, a big eater, couldn’t be happier. All the guests are content. The youngest ones ate earlier, and they’re now running around in the big house, playing hide-and-seek and having fun with the toys their grandfather (my oldest son) brings them each time he sees them. All the adults are helping themselves to more coffee and chit chat like they haven’t seen each other in 10 years. Then Josée stands up and orders me to stay seated. – “You’ve done enough already, mother-in-law! I’ll take care of the dishes.” When the conversations finally dwindle, my children’s children get up and raid the leftovers, like they always do when they come to grandma’s house! Again, my daughter and her daughter busy themselves wrapping up the pastries, crêpes, meat, baked beans, cheese and the other leftovers on the table. You have to be quick to get what you want! When the table is empty and the stove and counters wiped clean, the young ones help with the dishes. Soon the kitchen sparkles and the adults move to the living room. It’s time to digest, continue conversations and tell me repeatedly how everything was delicious. I can hardly take any credit; I just have to get them together. At Christmas, Easter and a great-grandson’s birthday. How many more Easter brunches will I be able to host? Time goes by so fast! Three more short years and I’ll be 80. Perhaps I’ll have crooked fingers, cracked kneecaps and my memory will be gone? I’ll forget my superb cretons recipe, my great-grandsons’ ages and maybe my daughter-in-law’s address? For now, I still have my head on straight and I intend to enjoy every family occasion and celebration to the fullest! 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. Each 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. Each one of my writing days is different, but I can say that I’m grateful for being alive every day! I always have a good reason to be grateful for a friend, a good idea and especially for 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 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, Stephen the Irishman, who accompanied me to the annual St. Patrick’s luncheon, and to my good friend who invited us. – 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, Life, for this incredible sleigh ride. – Thank you for the spot you’re keeping warm for me up there. – Thank you for treating us to such a mild winter, with its snow so white and sky so blue. – 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 all those who bought my book Cora l’ordinaire endimanché and who talk to me about it! – 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 ❤

Have you ever noticed how the never-ending cycle of daily life keeps us from thinking about our own death? I will be celebrating my 77th birthday on May 27, and because the number 7 has always been my favourite number, I’d like to enjoy one or two more if I can. To celebrate my 77, 87 and 97 years on this planet would fill me with happiness! After that, God willing, I’ll fly away. Rest assured, I firmly intend on living my final days to the fullest! Dressed all in pink this morning, I feel like my heart is still 20. My fingers type away on the keyboard and make up little tales of love about passing moments. There is so much that captivates me: a handsome man’s smile, a compliment about my clothes, cookies from a thoughtful neighbour. Aging happily may be the key to longevity. With that in mind, dear readers, lately I’ve been scouring self-help magazines for articles on the end of life, noting all the helpful ways we can positively impact our future over the long term. Without wanting to seem like I have all the answers, I’d like to share what I’ve gathered. Don’t be afraid of getting old, love your age and celebrate your birthdays. Throw the slow loss of independence, the dip in vitality and daily boredom straight out the window. Transform daily monotony into a celebration of life. A long life is Heaven’s gift – grab the opportunity by the horns. It’s now or never. Add up the good days that go by because they’re the most precious thing we have. Transfer your wisdom to loved ones so they can learn from your example in advance. Give yourself the opportunity to experience each day at least one thing that is meaningful to you. Learn a new word, visit a friend or show yourself kindness. Dare to be optimistic! Approaching change with a sense of wonder instead of apprehension allows us to remain curious and enthusiastic about the future. Write down five new things you’d like to accomplish this year. Don’t be afraid. Our abilities multiply with age. Remind yourself of the five or six most important things you have learned to do in your long life. The older we get, the closer we are to unknown territories. We’ve earned the right to freely explore the rest of our lives, without limits or hesitation. There’s always time for us to change the way we live. Open up to others, consider our best friends as members of the family. Name three or four who can become your safety net and make them a priority. Learn something new and share your knowledge with them. Give them the right to teach us something in return. Exercise without thinking about it; pedal while you’re watching TV. Get out of the house for no reason in particular. Wander in nature and admire the landscape. Let your smartwatch calculate your number of daily steps. Eat slowly and, if possible, in good company. Paying attention to what we’re swallowing allows us to eat less and savour more. Simplify your life. Clean out your closet and give away what you no longer want. Lighten your load! Birds fly because they have no baggage. Stop hesitating, and let your emotions speak. Éric Simard, a biologist, believes it’s a decisive factor in enjoying a long life. He also says that regularly seeing friends and family increases our life expectancy. Before we fly away, we should heal our souls of all the wounds that have made us miserable. Rejection, abandonment, betrayal, injustice, humiliation. They’ve all inflicted their wounds on me to some extent. At one point, I read the excellent book Heal Your Wounds & Find Your True Self by Lise Bourbeau to help restore my spirit. It’s never too late to make up for our mistakes or to learn how to live better. Old yet still spry, I’m the worst for inventing a thousand detours on the road to love! Dear readers, I dillydally, I have fun. In the end, I’m simply trying to delight you with millions of loving words. 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 ❤

Just the other night, I was twenty, a young girl clinging to my side. We were walking at dusk, scattering in the wind our excess of torments. The child and I walked on a path our four green eyes visibly moist. I loved the rain that washed our tears, the misty horizon, its pierced clouds. Prisoner of an unimaginable poem, my poor mind searching for ideas, marvellous escapes, golden islands. A tale of despair almost impossible to share. On my hip, half-asleep, the child nuzzles my neck. Her small arms hanging, her thin legs dangling. My heart, my arms, my legs, my entire body, floating reeds. My follies, my dreams, my desires, the extravagances of yesteryear. Fleeing the vicious man, We hoped to reach the open sea. Descending towards the great ocean, like the ancestor in his barge. On a road aimlessly traced, worry stops me from advancing. Wolfs howl and owls who. The ocean black, its waves raging. Falling leaves, flying feathers, all my beautiful certitudes disappear. All that remains is an untellable tale, an almost inconceivable run-for-your-life! The spiteful man is unforgivably handsome, his evil heart tawdrily dressed. A few lines come to me in fragments. His mother, his sister, a few sisters-in-law. The city lights go dark. The horizon falls into the void before us. The child covered suddenly in frost seeks the door to my belly. Again tonight, reality’s cruelty obstructs our path to the moon, prevents us from catching a star, sliding over the tops of clouds, and jumping into the ocean blue. “I’m on a stroll,” my body tells itself. Up there, on a cloud, the yellow star dazzles me. The light slips between my ten fingers. It streams down the little girl’s neck. And I write! — “Mom!,” she cries out. Cora ❤

I dillydally, I have fun, I ramble on. I often feel like I’m writing as if I were taking my final breaths; as if I want to write everything before departing, dry up my well of nicely written sentences and then escape. The flesh of words has always been my motherland, where reality is born, where, this morning, my worn fingers try to sow torn hopes together; a life story that’s been patched a thousand times. I keep going and plead with Chronos, the god of passing hours. From the depths of time, will this son of Zeus answer me? I bow and beg all the divine beings of the Pantheon. My black inked lines form a long appeal, a prayer for my heart parched for love. Once I wanted to love and had to cross over the wailing wall with its barbed wire. I searched for a bit of affection in my own way. Thank heavens, I was blessed with the drive to push straight ahead in my studies and business. It seems heaven has watched over me so I never feel alone on earth. A few angels unfailingly unfurl a flying carpet, an eagle throws a few feathers my way and I write my truth. I’m glad to leave the kingdom of dreams. I love the rosy face of dawn. In my large kitchen, I count my blessings. I’m amazed. How many days do I have left to hastily paint my last desires? I kneel and pray for the great reaper to forget me, not take me. My heart slides between the lines, my ardour arranges the rhymes. I dillydally, I have fun, I imagine my outrageously withered body swimming in the ocean. Who will take it to the paradisiacal shore of eternity? A whale could snack on my flesh. I tremble and worry that it may also swallow my heart. Please throw me in the earth as pittance, hide my words in the veins of streams! My fingers shiver, but they charge into these blissful mornings of writing. They throw back the hands of time as they see fit. They use the hours like free minutes in a parking meter. In a big bowl, time mixes the chapters of my busy life. When I turn on my tablet, a spray of sparks shoots from a half-complete sentence. It’s a trick I use so I never lose the trail of a story I started the day before. And so this morning, I hurry to describe the last volcanic flows of my heart. A fiery cloud of desire dries up the black ink of my words. I imagine leaving this world without anything holding me back – no regrets, no cadaver and no notepads. I ponder in front of the glowing page. This morning like every morning, my mute fingers fold and unfold dozens of drafts. They strikethrough, erase and then tap and tap away until emptying the dawn of all its waking dreams. Without fail, new sentences hover and fly between the clouds. They touch the peaks of mountains, brush against eagles, knock at the doors of angels and ask the heavens’ blessing. When will I be able to fly away? The globe turns and turns, but life can only ever be lived once. Cora ❤

After my letter appeared recounting my shopping spree at the town’s grocery store (published on February 18), many well-intentioned readers reached out to console me. I always read all your comments, and this time, I almost wept. That night, I was in a bit of a funk. I hadn’t eaten lunch and was starving, but nothing tempted me. The weather was mild, so I thought I might drive to the nearby Asian or Italian restaurant. My Mini Cooper, however, decided otherwise and drove me to a long-time acquaintance, the town’s grocer, for one of our usual chats. I arrived only to discover he had left for the evening. I felt like I had been left high and dry. This morning, I turn to your comments, which I find so delicious, and have decided to share a few with you here! Sylvie Choquette, a regular reader, consoled me by writing in her comment that she also felt morose that night in the aisles of her local grocery store. She realized it was a new moon. This celestial body that, according to her, turns our emotions upside down. “Let’s stay strong,” she urges! Many thanks, dear Sylvie. Nadia Lesage shared this precious advice: “If you want to find hope again and convince yourself that it’s never too late, read my book entitled J’ai attrapé le bonheur au vol (“I caught happiness on the fly”). Dear Nadia, I love everything that flies in the sky: bees, butterflies, birds, planes, and most likely, your book that I’ll read attentively. “Thank you for taking us with you to the grocery store. Many of us are alone, without a companion at the moment. We must keep up hope; our companion will arrive when we’re ready to welcome them. These blues you’re talking about often visit me too.” Dear Lilianne Blondeau, we’re all mature and magnificent women. Let’s stay positive. Michel Tanguay, another one of my Sunday letter regulars, quizzes me in his comment. “Is the word AVAILABLE starting to appear on your forehead?” What a surprising question, dear Michel! As someone who still believes that all men of a loving age choose to skip their turn when they meet me, perhaps I should embroider the magic word on my jacket? Sylvie Chamberland wrote: “Madame Cora, walking by your side in the grocery aisles was delicious and moving at the same time. I felt so much love in your moment of melancholy. I have to admit that I sometimes think of you as my grandmother.” What joy it would be to run our errands together, dear Sylvie! We could even cook together if we were neighbours. Maria Domenica Sabelli is another very loyal reader. For her, reading my letters is “such pleasure! Your descriptions inside the grocery store make my mouth water.” Thank you, Johanne Simard Pomerleau, who suggests I innocently drop a can of soup just like we dropped a handkerchief in the old days to catch someone’s eye. What a good idea, dear Joanne! Perhaps I could try to reach for a box of cereal on the highest shelf and a handsome fellow might appear to assist me? “Madame Cora, don’t despair. Your man is nearby, just keep your eyes open. Perhaps he’s a mechanic or a doctor?” Dear Rachel Lavoie, I would prefer the mechanic who could cook for me and maybe wash my car on occasion. “This morning, your melancholy hit me straight in the heart. Not the bit about not having a man in my life – for me that’s a done deal – rather the fact that I eat alone, that I go grocery shopping for one. It’s the biggest regret of my life as a single person.” Dearest Diane Gagné, I understand you so well. In an ideal world, we’d be the best of friends. We could share recipes and, from time to time, we’d eat together. “Dear Cora, it’s so peaceful to no longer dream about men. We don’t die from it. Quite the opposite! We are reborn to life and to others.” Dear Michèle Paré, perhaps you’re right, but I still have hope! I only knew one man, and he wasn’t a good model. Please, let me hope! Let me dream of a nice white-haired head on my pillow. “You describe the feelings I experience too well. Where’s the man who’s my perfect match? Should we resign ourselves to being married to celibacy until the very end? Let’s not lose hope!” I agree with you, dear Suzanne Duchaîne. We won’t give up. “There’s a lot of emotion in this text and, as usual, I’m very moved by your words. I understand your sadness. There are days when even the sun isn’t able to warm our hearts. But love takes many forms and sometimes it hides in the unexpected. I wish it for you from the bottom of my heart.” Thank you, dear Danielle Locas. “Madame Cora, I have an idea. Maybe you should invent an imaginary boyfriend, your ideal man and, by writing him sweet love letters, he’ll appear. Like a visualization exercise.” I will think about it, dear Lucie Beauregard! I love to write and my heart would be able to describe him. But would I have the pluck to publish his description in a letter? Probably. What do I have to lose anyway? “Happy Sunday, Aunt Cora. You should come visit the ready-to-eat counter at the grocery store where I work. Maybe that’s where your Romeo is hiding.” Thank you, Ann Mary. I will certainly visit you! “I so hope you find a nice man to warm your heart and your bed very soon! In the meantime, cook yourself something nice and enjoy every morsel with a small glass of that spicy rum.” That’s some very sound advice. Thank you, Louise Gagne. “Madame Cora! We love your weekly musings. How I wish I were your neighbour. We could shop and eat together,” declares Jayne Amero Cogswell. We totally would! “A sad read this morning. February blues, perhaps? Chin up, Cora. The sun will come out tomorrow.” Rest assured, dear Gayle Ginger, that the gloom has passed and the sun shines again. “It’s so comforting to read you, even through the maze of your gloomy thoughts,” writes Paulie L’Italien. “Those handsome and mysterious greying gents are just waiting for us around the corner,” assures me Katerine Ka. “Love comes with its suitcase full of tears,” reflects Lorraine Bowles (91). Thank you so much for being by my side so faithfully through this amusing adventure. I dillydally and have fun, interspersed with the occasional moment of doubt. I hope you’ve appreciated these inspiring words as much as I have. Cora ❤

I need you, dear readers! This is the 211th letter that’s being published and I wonder if I’ve told you everything. I can’t make things out clearly in this huge warehouse of my memory. I imagine mice dancing under the bottom shelves while crows scavenge and dig up old things on the top ones. Like the crows in the warehouse, I open my notepad filled with quotes I copied from famous people and fall upon a few lines by Mahatma Gandhi: “As human beings, our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world — this is the myth of the atomic age — as in being able to remake ourselves.” As I reflect upon this sentence, my courage returns. I thought I was depleted, but realize it’s never too late to recreate myself. It’s never too late…to sort through my life, to keep what is precious and get rid of the clutter. It’s never too late…to listen to my heart more often because it knows things my mind doesn’t comprehend. It’s never too late…to want to care for a pet. A cat or a dog would teach me to be more sensitive and affectionate. Everyone says I should get one. It’s never too late…to visit my native Gaspésie more often and contemplate its blue waves. I always feel like going yet I often hesitate to let the road take me there. It’s never too late…to be amazed, to let my eyes take in the world, admire nature and the tall firs surrounding my home. It’s never too late…to say thank you more often and mean it from the bottom of my heart. A sincere thank you requires so little effort. It’s never too late…to create new bonds, open my heart to new friendships and new adventures. It’s never too late…to improve the life of others around me; mine will only be that much better for it. It’s never too late…to spice up my life and stop the daily routine from numbing my mind. Fortunately, writing allows me to go a little wild every now and then. It’s never too late…to learn to let go, to unburden myself of the things weighing on my shoulders and shackling my ankles. It’s never too late…to age gracefully. We’re as old as our thoughts, not whatever age the calendar says we are. Adventurous projects help us stay young apparently. It’s never too late…to cultivate something, to sow a seed, watch the flower bloom and care for it. My kitchen counter is filled with plants and I blow them kisses so they grow faster. It’s never too late…to forgive someone who’s hurt us. Resentment is a heavy burden. Forgiving saves us from fixating on our sorrows, frees the mind and lightens our heart. It’s never too late…to start something. I started all over again at 40; my career as a trailblazing businesswoman is proof. It’s never too late…to say “I love you.” It’s a precious gift. Say it often and with sincerity. I’m dying to be able to say it to my prince charming one day! Where on earth is my soulmate hiding? Cora ❤

I’ve spent the day penning a love poem. I’m hungry, but nothing tempts me. Not even the Asian restaurant I always love to go to when feeling gloomy. I need dishwashing soap, healthy berries, a ripe papaya, a few slices of ham and, I can’t stop dreaming about it, a nice solid rib to hang my heart on. Aging alone is a very effective appetite suppressant. It feels like I have always been alone, but I had my wonderful business as a partner. We learned together, worked together, developed new markets together, and I was ecstatic. Jumping from one ray of sunshine to the next, I was in paradise. I need cream for my coffee. I drink so much of it! Every time I’m bored, I press the button on the Keurig. The hot liquid quickly refuels my mind. There is never any sugar in my coffee, and almost never any man on my mind. The grocer’s fruit displays make me happy. I used to force myself to eat fruit, but today, I relish it, especially when I make a dinner out of it. I create beautiful colourful plates to which I add a serving of yogurt and keto granola. In the summertime, I often add a few edible flowers. It looks so pretty and it cheers my lonely heart. I leave the pale pineapple pulp in the plastic jars behind me and move my cart towards a large table covered with desserts. My eyes devour the raspberry upside-down cakes, the chocolate ganaches, the pouding chômeur and the big new date cookies by Madame Labriski. Everything looks so delicious! Thanks, but no thanks. I no longer bury my sorrow in such sweets. I stoically embrace my reality as an obsolete old person. I quickly make my way through the tea and coffee aisle. I don’t have a sophisticated palate for liquids. However, a very good friend of mine, an entrepreneur and creator of spice blends, recently gave me a bottle of rum called “L’Assemblée.” It’s a fine elixir flavoured with a blend of spices from my friend Catherine’s line of “LA PINCÉE” spices. I love it! I don’t drink it every night of course, but when my old friend the blues sits down to watch a movie with me, I enjoy a few sips. For a moment, it revives my dormant hopes. In the frozen food section, I sift through old ideas again and again. Where has the best ice cream gone to? And the golden youth that was stolen away from me? All my words snap straight just thinking about it. Will I see the Baie-des-Chaleurs again, with its fire-red cliffs, its old sunken dock surrounded by eels with tiny sharp teeth? I went two years ago and was afraid of going into the freezing water. In front of the frozen pizzas, my toes freeze. I open a large freezer door and then immediately close it. Even with boxes proudly featuring the handsome faces of celebrity Quebec chefs, I’m still tempted to say that all the good pizzerias are dead. I remember a time when I was crazy about pasta and pizza! Where on earth are the frozen green peas? My granddaughter is coming over for dinner tomorrow night and I’m preparing her favourite meal, arakas (a Greek dish made with peas). In a saucepan, sauté small veal cubes with finely minced onions and crushed tomatoes. When the meat is tender, add small green peas, salt, pepper and loads of fresh (if available) dill. Let simmer on low heat until hunger orders the lid to be removed. Do I still have bread at home? Maybe a baguette from Première Moisson? At the fish counter, the grey-haired man smiles at me. I like him so much, but his shiny wedding ring can still be seen under the fish scales. Seems to me like all the good men have already been harpooned. What have I done to deserve this misfortune? Seriously. I suddenly feel like I’m going to bawl: the cod counter is empty! — “I promise you, I will have some tomorrow!” the fishmonger tells me, an apologetic look on his face. I want to be consoled this evening. A few slices of ham in half a baguette could perhaps do the trick? Everything is blurry in my mind; all is empty in my heart. Will I ever stop proclaiming my lack of love? Wise men say that “what you focus on becomes your reality.” If I change my tune, will all the men be at my feet? It might happen! Hanging onto my cart, I move slowly. In the spaghetti, linguine and rigatoni aisle, nothing strikes me as interesting; not even my old heroes, the handsome Stefano and Ricardo. To my right, the white sauces, to my left, the red ones. The sky is all white and hell all red. In the potato chips and soft drink aisle, a paunchy old man pats the big bags of chips. He looks over and smiles, and I respond: — “Yes, yes! The Kettle sea salt potato chips are the best!” — “It’s memory that goes first,” says the elderly man with a gap-toothed smile. “My mind even forgets the name of my wife’s favourite cookies.” I skip the aisle with the pickles, olives and marinated veggies. Maybe I should grab a jar of beets as a side for my famous salmon pies I intend to make soon? The cans of salmon have been waiting for me in the pantry long enough. I realize that I’m definitely not as undaunted in the kitchen as I used to be. Is age throwing me off? Or is laziness flirting with me? My egg sauce is the best in the world. I’m hungry just thinking about it! I stand in front of the BBQ chicken warmer, imagining my last hour: my body seasoned with hot spices, my breast a touch crispy, my thighs well-cooked and trussed together. I’m wrapped in aluminum foil and kept warm. Hungry mouths pass back and forth in front of the hot counter and, just like in my youth, I feel invisible. We all end up at the check-out eventually, and I firmly believe that the bill with all our good deeds will turn out to be the least expensive one. And about my heart’s Romeo, maybe I should widen my hunting ground? I’ll drive out of town and browse the big box stores selling discounted clothing. I dillydally and have fun. These words drunk with sorrow stretch out the hours with daydreams. Who will take care of me on the other side? Sometimes I feel afraid and cry in the aisles. So scared that my fingers can no longer speak to you! Cora ❤

Rain or shine, at the coffee shop where I write, handsome men go to and fro in search of a coffee. Hungry, intrigued, clumsy, they smile, glance at the pastries, and place their order. Most often, they take their coffee to go. Silent thoughts flutter with light wing beats and dive deep into the foam of double lattes. In the distance, my heart beats like a spring chick’s, spins and bounces like a weathervane. The wind blows and I imagine all these fine-looking men thrown towards my table, their eyes drowning in mine. All summer and late into fall, a man disguised as a golf player came in around 10 each day. I locked my eyes on him, so gorgeous! His smile spoke words to me. Leaning over my keyboard like a nun in prayer, I’d catch his warm “hellos.” I resuscitated long-silent words only so I could write them to him one day. Time comes and goes, and autumn falls to sleep. Winter’s howling gusts bring cold and snow. The backdrop is set for the great seduction. All the fir trees in my village kneel on a white carpet. They pray for me of course, for my head enveloped in hope, for my heart thirsty for love. I think about what I am writing, I look up and see him once more. The man of my dreams enters the coffee shop dressed in a stylish woolen suit. My brain scatters, my heart goes boom, my fingers freeze over the keyboard. He looks and smiles in my direction, I want to stop the hands of time. This man of the same settled age, will he finally talk to me? Filled with squiggles, my pages beg for springtime, with its lush greens, and the joyful song of finches. Always, always, my heart hopes. I dream of giving in to the temptation of stray small white balls landing in my backyard, of large lattes enjoyed under the silver maple. I picture his build, his welcoming chest. His arms so strong and long, his muscular legs the colour of exotic caramel. His eyes are a magnificent mauve blue. His cheeks, candy-apple red. Oh how I’d love to seek my teeth into them! I dream, I fantasize, I imagine his head filled with giant sunflowers. His curly grey-white hair, intertwined with my lacquered strands. “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” I dillydally and have fun. I’m inventing a February 14 for all the lonely beings. CORA ❤❤❤

I’m the type of writer who finishes a letter on Tuesday and wants to start a fresh one the following day. You’ll rarely find me with idle hands. I either have to make an appearance at the office or start some big cleaning project at home. I’m also constantly on the lookout for bits of information that’ll spark a story for your Sunday mornings. Quite often these days, I dillydally and have fun, I write poems that I store in the back of my mind. I force my fingers to dance on the keyboard like I’m worried they’ll get stiff from thinking too much. The white page is an empty house that must be taken possession of. I open the door and everything is white, completely empty. I can barely make the height of the walls, the size of the rooms. I move slowly in a blinding light. A bird flies in through an open window; it’s a blackbird, as black as my ink, with a pretty orange beak. Suddenly the colour starts singing in my head, and my senses awaken. I hear timid chirps, the broken sound of words coming from nowhere. The bird, drunk from the ink, summons the voice inside my head; a surreal imagination defies all reason and the text appears. Taking the shape of a cloud dancing in the sky, a thousand birds flock together and fill my pages with meaning. Writing is the most magical passion. It opens the door to daily miracles. I love poetry, with its short sentences, rhythm and suggestive words. Like a garland or rosary of good intentions, the poem dresses up each precious word. Without knowing if my readers appreciate reading the occasional poem, I throw a few out, here and there. I always, always try to find the right form that best conveys what I want to say. A short story, a highlight, a memory from childhood that surfaces; everything feeds me, everything is grist for the mill. I’m still just a novice who’s learning. I had to take a thousand detours before finally dedicating myself to my passion for words, but it’s never too late, and I insist on pursuing it. I’m a good storyteller of lived experiences. Sometimes I embellish human nature, especially when it comes to my old prince charmings! I want them to be impressive, intelligent and promising, even if it means forgiving their dishevelled appearance and audacious remarks that make my words twirl. I’m not a writer who expounds worldly causes. I’m very much a teller of everyday stories who’s able to ennoble the smallest of details, the desolation of a place, a string of words or a broken heart. I have a propensity for elevating the everyday. I observe, I read a lot and take notes. I have dozens of notepads blackened with words I like. The tenacity of bees has always inspired me. Dare I dream that one day my humble words could be as sweet as fine honey? Since the Salon du livre de Montréal (Montreal book fair) and the recent publication of my work, I’m thrilled to find people are now acknowledging me as an author. This makes me wonder if I shouldn’t try my hand at a different form of writing. Perhaps short stories? A brief fictional story that can be read in one sitting and typically ends with a climax, or unexpected twist. Since the narrative is brief, the short story has only a few characters, not much action and a handful of locations. The plot often revolves around one or two main characters. I wonder if a short story could run the same length as a Sunday letter (1,200 words or so). Wow, I’m getting carried away! Writing allows me to grow and experience new possibilities. I don’t think writing is a privilege reserved only for poets, philosophers and other novelists. We can be the best of friends; I simply need to work at it with passion and determination. I’m already looking for my protagonist, a fictitious character that I’ll have to pluck out of the void and invent from start to finish. Will I be able to tell a story which is not entirely true? Can I learn how to flesh out the psychological portrait of the story’s lead? Create an unexpected plot in only 1,200 words? Am I capable of such a feat? I can already imagine a short story where the protagonist’s inner world takes up most of the space; their feelings and emotions serving as a defining element of the plot. I’m already sketching the outline of two old stubborn toads. Sounds terrible! Would the story be too simple? When you’re older, the only thing happening in your life of any importance is your pill regimen. And yet the ending of the story has to be surprising, breathtaking and totally unexpected. What a challenge! I’m starting to get comfortable on the page, but I will have to learn to respect the need for brevity if I want to write a short story. Angels above, please help me shorten my sentences! Cora ❤