I do breakfast

The other day, I was invited to give a lecture about my book in a long-term care facility. My listeners were mostly women my age and three men in relatively good shape. They all seemed happy to have the opportunity to question me about my life, rave about my delicious breakfasts and inquire about my future. I took their questions about this and that, I floundered a little and shared some spicy bits of my long life. Then the host invited me to meet with a few residents who knew of me but were confined to their beds. I accepted and we went up one floor where we met a few brave women who were doggedly fighting cancer. I opened the door to Room 118 half-way and was startled by the words “For Christ’s sake, Jesus! You forgot me again last night!” The woman was talking to the gold-coloured crucifix hanging in her room. “Everyone around me is dead – my damned husband, my two brothers, my three sisters, my two daughters and the youngest one’s boy from AIDS. The devil can take me if the good Lord no longer wants me!” The host explained to me in a hushed voice that the poor woman was a living miracle, a force of nature. In the last two years, she had endured several surgeries for various issues and was still alive… despite herself, it seems. I don’t know what to say, I stutter, at a loss for words. The elderly resident pulled the bed sheet over her head, signalling she no longer wanted to speak with us. My heart searched for a few words of consolation, but nothing came out of my stunned mouth. My host then invited me to visit the kitchen and view the well-arranged dining area and balanced menu. I only have praise for establishments like this one. I leave behind a few copies of my book at the library and thank my host before taking my leave. I still have a clear mind, sturdy legs to walk on and hard-working fingers. I am blessed to be able to express myself in words almost every day and give my old brain a workout! My head is an inexhaustible barrel of memories; many of them assail me and deserve to be brought back to life for a short while. I remember it like it was yesterday: each one of us in our group of perfectly behaved girls had a rosary and was required to attend church at 7 p.m. every evening to say our prayers. If we’d forgotten our rosary or mantilla, we had to go back home to get it. I also remember all the sight-singing a nun forced me to practise for 2 long years. I had no musical talent then and it’s still true today! The only thing my memory managed to record is “do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do.” Yet another memory surfaces! It was a Friday night, right before my birthday. I opened the kitchen door, I saw my mother dipping an apple in boiling syrup. I’d seen other children enjoying them, but it was the first time she’d made us candy apples, a special treat for my birthday. The school week was over, and Mom had boiled small wild strawberries to make a red glaze for the apples. My brother was stomping his foot to be first in line, but the honour was of course given to the birthday girl. I’ll never forget those candy apples. One year for Halloween, I prepared some for my own kids, but they all preferred the coloured candies they’d collected in their baskets. Age is a wheel that never ceases to turn. We are born, we live, we die, our hearts won’t stop loving. Who can predict my last hour? I move forward, I take a step back, I climb, I fall. My translucent spirit lets the light in. Colour has always brightened my appearance. The yellow of the sun keeps me happy. The blue of the sky and sea soothes me. Orange invites me on adventures. Green gives me hope. Red and pink excite my heart. The white page bids me to write. And all the shades of black scare me. CORA ❤️

I don’t have illusions anymore. I’m too old to be a young prodigy, but my stubborn head never ceases to hope. It works its thoughts to the bone. Better than anyone, it insists, dreams, trips over details and imagines itself in heaven. I darken lines night and day lately, I pile up the pages and feed on creased papers. Desperately, I search for my path. Will it emerge from an idea sown somewhere in my past that suddenly springs from the earth? I’m worried, I’m cold. A coat of reassuring phrases might warm me up. After we escaped the apartment, my poor kids were tossed around like little frogs forced to grow up too quickly, without tenderness and cuddles. In those days, life went around in circles like a fairground ride. I had an expansive vocabulary yet had no voice to describe the carnage the horrible husband wreaked on my writing. Am I too old to start a new career? A new book might interest me, keep me busy, make me better. The process of creating a plot fascinates me. I love linking ideas together, fragments of phrases, souvenirs that are still warm and even strange words that signify something. The accumulation of lines provides new perspectives that serve as fertile ground for fresh ideas. In my eyes, even a nonsensical sentence deserves to be put on paper. It may never move beyond the scribbling stage, but it may also have enough vitality to become an article, an amusing letter or even a road laid with a hundred pages. I suffer from emptiness this morning. I open the window and welcome dawn. The promise of sunshine simmers behind the village’s steeple. Writing is like dancing: one word forward, one word back, then the music starts. My FM radio keeps pace. Between a rain shower and a sunburn, my heart sways. A memory resurfaces. A certain afternoon in May before turning 17. There had been a power outage at college and, since we were all boarding students, we were forbidden from leaving the gated school grounds. I had a few apples in my bag, two dates and a piece of Oka cheese. At the time, I was sweet on a certain guy named Paul, whom I hadn’t even spoken to. The heat was heavy that day and several of the boys removed their vests, rolled up their sleeves and unbuttoned their shirts. Beads of sweat were rolling down my forehead, but my heart shivered with fear! Writing often breaks like a tidal wave, entering our minds and shredding everything in it – the judgements we make, our expectations, impatience, ego, received beliefs and all the terrible faces of fear. Writing liberates us from this existential prison. The more I read, the more I dream, the more I live, my imagination becomes increasingly elastic. I write to learn how to write, to know myself better, to discover which category of mechanical pencil I belong to. I scribble in my bed, resting in a hammock, dipping my toes in the pool or admiring the song of the finches and sharp caws of the intrepid crows. Summer is my best season. No matter how much I implore inspiration, search for it, beg for it, I must abide by its time. I know she cares for me and keeps watch over my writing. I appreciate all the different facets of writing and work joyfully because of it: when I’m researching topics for my letters, when I have to document a subject I am unfamiliar with , when I jot down a million details in order to master a subject, when my mind races and my heart pounds. I drink a dozen coffees a day, eat lightly, listen to Gregorian chants, snooze for two hours and darken paper until a final period shuts me up. I don’t write to perform, I write to talk to my loyal readers. If I keep it up, surely they won’t forget me. Cora ❤️

A few months ago, my good friend Éric and I went on a road trip to Ottawa. I wanted to stop by and say hello to a few of our franchisees in the area and then visit Whole Foods Market on Bank Street, the Moulin de Provence and ByWard Market. The highlight of the day was going to be dinner at a world-renowned Chinese restaurant, famous for its delicious egg rolls. I enjoy doing this kind of trip from time to time to visit our restaurants all over Canada. I take the opportunity to meet with our franchisees and get acquainted with our talented training staff. They are my head and eyes in the restaurants, and they always seem happy to see me. We have lunch or dinner together when our schedules allow. I’m extremely grateful to all of them who keep a close watch on everything and support our dedicated franchisees. When I close my eyes for the last time, I’d like my ideas to be spread at the foot of a huge apple tree. Every day, with my remains entwined with the roots, I’ll imagine a thousand apple seeds that will one day grow into orchards. That’s how I picture my franchise network. Since I won’t die any time soon, let’s get back to my road trip! On Highway 50 to Ottawa, I noticed that a caring angel was sweeping away the final remnants of winter while we discussed cooking and food. My friend Éric, originally from Switzerland, immigrated to Canada more than 30 years ago. He studied the great culinary wisdom in his country and worked in the great palaces of Geneva and Lausanne. A seasoned traveller, he scours the world in search of new flavours. His palate is a close cousin to the great Bocuse’s palate. The friendship that ties us together tastes incredibly delicious! We frequently cook together, and we experiment new ways to reinvent recipes and surprise our friends. Once in downtown Ottawa, we made our way to Bank Street to the extraordinary Whole Foods Market, which I discovered during one of my road trips to the United States. The environmentally responsible supermarket offers fresh, organic, natural and ecological products. I feast my eyes as I stroll the aisles at a snail’s pace. I discover lots of excellent products each time I visit: food, pastries, unusual cereals, exotic fruit, cosmetics, soaps and fish of all kinds. I’m also crazy about their take-out dishes. Since we had just enjoyed breakfast at our CORA restaurant in Kanata, I’m reasonable and only buy smoked salmon to bring home. Éric has a passion for magic facial creams and spends over a half hour in the section stocked with these miracles in a jar. I’m hardly exaggerating! The man just celebrated his 70th birthday, but he looks like he’s 50. He only eats quality, and if possible, organic food. He’s a big lover of meat, which he skilfully cooks, and he’s an excellent saucier. I may be an expert in delicious morning dishes, but I have no talent with meat, probably because I eat so little of it. Like my family says, I’m a woman who was raised on Gaspésie fish, who now eats cod from Iceland. It’s the best cod in the world, according to my friend Éric. Time flies when there are so many things to see and we still have to visit our CORA restaurant on Rideau Street. I thought I remembered the address, but my memory is as old as Mississauga’s former mayor, Hazel McCallion, who reigned for 36 years. I had the chance to meet her when we inaugurated our first restaurant in Ontario, and then a few weeks later at her house, when she invited me for tea. This extraordinary woman passed away just two weeks short of turning 102, in 2023. She was a model of efficiency, and I hope to match her longevity too. We take a few breaths of fresh air as we stroll towards the huge blue-coloured CORA with its walls covered in pictures presenting a visual history of our brand. In this inviting setting, I have the honour of shaking hands with my franchisee. We take a few pictures to capture the moment and, as is often the case, a few customers approach me and ask for a photo with “Madame Cora.” My heart, like a true queen, loves all its subjects. I might not know romantic love, but my life overflows with love. I have extraordinary friends, brilliant colleagues, well-intentioned franchisees and patrons who have always chosen me. A turn to the right, a turn to the left. We’re looking for the ByWard Market and its famous Moulin de Provence. When Barack Obama was on his official visit to Canada on February 19, 2009, he went into the Moulin de Provence to buy cookies for his two daughters and wife. He picked the red and white cookies with the name “Canada” written on them. After his famous visit, people went crazy for these “Obama cookies.” The Moulin de Provence sold so many that the shop’s owner thanked the President by donating $10,000 to the Obama Foundation. We enter the market and I quickly plug in the next stop on my phone: the GOLDEN PALACE. I’ve only been once, some 10 years ago, and I’ve wanted to go back ever since but was always too busy opening the next restaurant. Life goes by so fast! Then the pandemic shut us away and I forgot about my old favourite addresses. My friend kindly indulges me and agrees to drive us to the old Chinese restaurant. It’s not the type of food he enjoys, and when he sees the building that looks as old as Noah’s Ark, he seems reluctant to set foot inside. The Golden Palace celebrated its 63rd anniversary in 2023, and I’d swear it’s never been renovated. Everything is dilapidated, worn by time and wear. There are two wobbly chandeliers and, in a corner, a decorative cat or perhaps a giant tiger. All the waiters look like they’ll soon celebrate their centenary birthday, but they are exceptionally polite, welcoming and warm. I’m almost certain they’re all related. Smiling broadly, they present us with menus as old as they are. I suggest that we order dinner No. 2, for two. It includes two wonton soups, an egg roll each, a chicken chow mein dish, BBQ spareribs, chicken fried rice and two almond cookies. When Éric bites into his egg roll, he swoons. He’s never tasted anything so good! Every dish is delicious, and we quickly make short work of our meal. I hadn’t told my friend that I was already familiar with the Golden Palace. Since he likes egg rolls but never finds any that satisfy his demanding palate, I wanted to surprise him and introduce him to the rolls that have made the Golden Palace world-famous. They are so popular, they are delivered in two-dozen boxes all over the world by overnight express. Of course we leave the restaurant with a dozen delicious egg rolls each. I’d only been to the Golden Palace once prior to this trip, but a few thoughtful staff members from our Ottawa franchise network would bring me back a dozen of these deep-fried wonders when they visited the head office. Last night, before I sat down to write this letter, I popped 3 of them into the toaster oven to heat up for dinner. Cora ❤️