I do breakfast

Dear readers, I’ve finally decided to pour my heart out. Over the next 10 weeks, starting September 8, I’ll be sharing with you the almost year-long period in my life I lived in Greece. You’ll relive with me the events that occurred in the poor and almost deserted village where we stayed. --------- In winter 1972, without even consulting me, Husband had decided to go back to Greece. We’d been married 5 years by then, had two kids, with a third one growing in my belly. I’d have to leave my country, my language, my parents. My eldest would have to say his goodbyes to his kindergarten class. In those days, a man was king of his household, and a wife had no other choice but to obey...in my marriage, at least. To take some of the sting out of this Greek tragedy, a few of my sisters-in-law secretly confided in me that they’d been back to Greece one or twice themselves before finally settling down in Canada for good. Would I be subject to the same fate? I feared the worst. A few of Husband’s friends helped carry five huge suitcases to the boat that would move our lives to another continent. Two more suitcases, filled with the essentials we needed to survive until our belongings made it safely to Greece, were coming with us by plane. My young boy and his sister laid at our feet and slept the entire way. With his head resting on the window, Husband smoked like a chimney. (Back then, of course, you could smoke onboard a plane.) He’d ring the stewardess every minute for yet another coffee. Did he know that I was sad or upset? Did he notice my eyes filled with tears or my hands cradling the new baby in my belly? I’d barely slept, but by the time the bright daylight stirred the passengers awake, it seemed like the giant metallic bird was already touching down on the tarmac. The kids woke up and were hungry. Sleepy Husband stretched out his long legs and got up. He called for a stewardess and insisted on a final coffee and snacks for the kids. When we got off the plane, I thought I’d die from the heat. Still today, I wonder if the old Ellinikon Airport was air-conditioned back then. Everywhere in the large building, hot air assailed the passengers. Sweat was dripping down our foreheads, the kids were crying, Husband was impatient, smoking one cigarette after another and looking for his distant cousin who was supposed to meet us in the arrival area. — “What time is it?” I asked Husband. — “I’m thirsty!” screamed the oldest. — “Pee-pee!” implored the youngest. My anxiety-riddled heart was racing. Would we be able to withstand such heat? Where would we live? In Athens, in Thessaloniki maybe, or elsewhere? Had Husband secured an apartment? A job? The kids were wailing, they were hot, they were hungry and they wanted to go home. When the cousin finally arrived, he grabbed the last two suitcases that were still going around in circles on the conveyor belt. Husband grabbed the oldest child and biggest travel bag. I was carrying a large bag myself filled with the kids’ clothes and our essential items: passports, the little ones’ Greek Orthodox baptismal certificates, the eldest’s Quebec vaccination booklet and my baby girl, half asleep in my dripping-wet neck. It was almost noon when the cousin dropped us off at his mother’s. The sound of the kids’ complaining became a dull clamour the moment I lifted my head to look out the window. On the right, high up on the mythical mountain, I caught sight of the famous Parthenon, literally the “temple of the virgin” and the physical symbol of Athenian supremacy in the Classical era. Astonishing! The old treasures I’d studied in my youth were right before my very eyes. Everything suddenly came back to me, probably because I’d been forced to memorize when the various monuments had been built, including the Acropolis of Athens, erected between 443 B.C. and 438 B.C. Husband couldn’t care less about archeology. He introduced me to his aunt who’d offered to take us in for as long as was needed. She also suggested we visit the Parthenon together on a few afternoons. Finally, something good was happening to me! My young heart was quivering. We slept in cramped quarters on a double bed with the two kids in the middle and the third one in my big belly. Whenever the kids moved around too much, Husband would move to the only couch in the house. His cousin had borrowed a convenient double stroller. Each day, I’d take a walk with the kids to get us used to the hot climate. Shortening my dresses or wearing pants was out of the question, since Husband would never allow it. The aunt praised the classic Greek dishes I had already mastered, and I continued to develop my skills with her guidance. Entering my seventh month of pregnancy, I felt an urgency to query Husband about our future plans. — “Where will we live?” I asked in French. — “In the village where I was born,” he replied in English. — “Is it near here?” — “Not at all.” — “Where is it?” — “In the north of Greece, about 70 kilometres from Thessaloniki. The village is called Krya Vrysi, that’s where my mother and sister live.” Would the house be big enough for everybody, including the kids? The man of a few words seemed to have a plan in mind. Two days later, the cousin drove us to a bus terminal to go to Thessaloniki. The trip, I was informed, would take 5 hours and 45 minutes. Fortunately, the thoughtful aunt had prepared a basket full of food for us. The little one and her brother were cuddled against my inhabited belly. The maternal instinct put me on alert; I kept my eyes fixed on the old bus driver, who was driving like a madman. Sitting behind me, Husband was still smoking. I began feeling nauseous and turned my head towards him to ask him to open a window when suddenly things took a frightful turn. The bus had just veered sharply to avoid hitting a few sheep, and Husband saw that the bus was headed straight for a dump truck full of oranges. TO BE CONTINUED… Cora ❤️

During the 13 years of marriage to the man who desiccated my life, I was forbidden to write and socialize with family, childhood friends or even the few neighbours that made friendly overtures. Back then, I couldn’t even imagine that I’d somehow survive and eventually strike out on my own to reach such great heights in the business world. But since I’m terrified of heights, I’ve never made it a life goal to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. This makes me think of Suzan, one of our long-time employees. This brave woman, much braver than I, has been a single mother all her life. We are very similar in many ways, both being audacious and roughly the same age. She also shares my passion for the Cora business. Unlike me, however, she’s clearly not afraid of heights. On January 6, 2025, as people get back into the post-holiday swing, Suzan and her partner will be climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. That’s right! It takes my breath away just thinking about it. They'll be climbing to the very top of one of the world's tallest peaks, where “the earth meets the sky” as the locals say. For this great female adventurer, sports have always occupied a big part of her life. “I love the challenge mainly; the competitive part is much less important.” she tells me. Suzan’s dream of climbing Kilimanjaro is one of the biggest challenges she’s ever taken on. During our lunches together, Suzan often talks about all the preparation that goes into getting ready: the long hikes of varying elevations and in all kinds of weather conditions; strength training to build muscle; lots of walking; and a variety of cardiovascular exercises. She explains that “the goal is to improve our endurance and cardio capacity, as oxygen becomes increasingly scarce the higher you go.” The climb itself will take 7 days of hard physical effort. The descent is over in just one day. Wow! Can you believe it? I feel gripped by fear just imagining the height! Twelve months of hard training for a vertical trip that will last less than 10 days! “It’s an adventure of a lifetime for us, and we want to share it with others,” explains Suzan. “I was wondering how we might do this when the idea to organize a fundraiser came to me. We’ll be climbing over 6,000 metres, so we thought we'd raise a dollar for every metre. A total of $6,000. Every penny raised will go directly to Breakfast Club of Canada.” Suzan and I, and all our employees, understand the financial challenges that many parents face every day. Providing their kids with food is typically one of them. For many families, the first meal of the day is vital. For over 15 years, Cora has partnered with Breakfast Club of Canada to help ensure Canadian kids can thrive and grow up with the belief that they can do anything. Plus, since October 2019, when customers choose the Breakfast for the Club dish from the menu, 50 cents goes to the organization. We also run a number of activities that enable us to make a difference. For example, during our $1 Kids’ menu promotion, every dollar raised directly supports the Club. It's our way of helping children in need realize their full potential – one breakfast at a time. In Canada, one in three children are at risk of going to school hungry. Their performance and development suffer in a number of ways as a result; a hungry child lacks energy, creativity and concentration. Their ability to learn and behaviour are also impacted. The Club gives children the chance to start each school day with a nutritious meal. Just like on a quest to summit Kilimanjaro, nothing in life is guaranteed. However, if we put our hearts into it, we can, step by step, most definitely achieve it. I’ll share more news with you about Suzan and her partner’s trip of a lifetime in the coming months. Until then, I invite you to take part in their adventure by following them on their Facebook page! Cora ❤️

For over two long weeks, not one brilliant idea, not one speck of inspiration, not a single trigger word has emerged from my head. I’ve written to you every Sunday since the beginning of the pandemic; I’ll soon have 237 letters piled high. Perhaps it’s normal that the ink in my fountain pen is starting to dry up? Up until now, I’ve always caught my ideas mid-flight. This morning, all I can do is confide to the crows dancing on the roof of my house that my mind is blank. I get the distinct impression that I’m no longer able to write a single word; staring at the empty page is giving me goosebumps. After a quick search, I learn that what I’m experiencing is known as writer’s block. According to the Oxford dictionary, it refers to “the condition of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed.” Ugh, this describes me to a T! Maybe I overworked my brain in early June when I started writing a long story called “HUSBAND’S DREAM, MY NIGHTMARE.” I’ve divided it into 10 letters and I’ll start sharing them with you starting in September. I also have to tell you, dear readers, that I’m doing double duty these days as founder and senior executive of the Cora business. I’m required to weigh in on a thousand and one things, such as new dishes and wonderful surprises we’re preparing for you. Unearthing new ideas keeps my mind extremely busy! I promise you, dear readers, that writer’s block won’t get the best of me! I will rest while I’m on my Alaskan cruise, when I’m certain my creativity will take the helm once again. While searching on Google for a few tips on how to beat writer’s block, I discovered a writing expert called Alphonsine. She explains that the phenomenon is perfectly normal and offers a few strategies to get the words flowing again. According to Alphonsine, the blank page doesn’t only represent a lack of inspiration. It can also come from the writer’s overwhelming desire to create the perfect copy. I think that’s exactly my case. I’m sorry, dear readers, that I’m experiencing this block, the first since I started writing to you each week, and I wanted to explain it to you in the right way. The expert goes on to explain that most authors face this obstacle at some point. So they take a break, go on a short trip or vacation. All these ideas inspire me! A big thank you to Alphonsine for elucidating the problem for me. I’ll sit down again in front of my iPad, type a few erratic lines until I can write a good story. From now on, I will master this writer’s block and won’t be afraid anymore. Instead of writing, I’ll bake a nice apple pie, my favourite lemon poppy cake or a few sublime spinach puffs. And I won’t forget Ernest Hemingway’s trick to stop when you know what you’ll write next. When you sit down again, your mind will quickly pick up where you left off. It’s an excellent idea which makes me impatient for tomorrow to arrive. This wonderful tomorrow that I know nothing about! CORA ❤️