S'ouvrir aux autres – Cora Déjeuners et dîners (2024)

The snow has melted, the cold weather has turned mild and the grass is getting greener by the day. This morning, I even saw a few ants in a single file climbing onto my porch. I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I open the door to the kitchen and a few gusts of warmth, a few bursts of happiness enter. I make myself comfortable to write at my large kitchen table, I type a few sentences and my fingers awaken. Two, three, five pages are darkened as I finish my first cups of coffee.It’s quite something to see winter yield its place to summer! I must have been 5 or 6 when Dad said that in 50 years’ time Gaspésie would be as hot as California. Really? Will I live long enough to burn my toes on the asphalt in January?Last night I read that writing’s therapeutic virtues have a positive influence on women’s moods. What do I know? I’m so old now. My only medicine consists of encapsulating my words in ink, and I indulge to excess.At the coffee shop the other day, a young woman declared that writing leads nowhere. Maybe she’s right. I earned a living by cooking and serving amazing breakfasts, but today, I write and will never stop because it feeds my happiness. Writing is an exquisite dessert for my life. Yesterday, a strawberry crêpe, this afternoon a pistachio cake and tomorrow, my favourite apple pie brushed with sugar fudge sauce.The young woman drones on:— “What purpose does it serve, to fill pages with ink all day long? Couldn’t you travel? Visit Spain, the Eiffel Tower or Venice and its magnificent gondolas and cafés, Murano Island and its glass-blowing artisans? Haven’t you said it all in the last 4 years?,” continues the rude woman, raising her brows.— “What’s motivating you to keep typing words in a café instead of being outdoors feeling spring’s warm breezes? Time is flying away and you, dear Cora, are writing, typing and aging. You incessantly start a new story. You sieve, you brew, you invent a plot, a few characters and an ending that’ll look like a new beginning!Clearly this young woman is a loathsome inquisitor who has no love for words! Doubt overcomes me. What a misfortune it would be if I became an empty well! I’m not hurting anyone by putting all this ink to the page. I ponder for a moment, reach into my bag and hand her the last copy of my book. The woman seems surprised, but at last, she falls silent.Tonight, at my large kitchen table, I’m writing again. Who else could describe winter’s tears falling onto the spring’s warm soil as I do? I type until the clock passes midnight when, suddenly, I see a small mouse coming out of a cupboard. I follow it with my eyes. It runs across the floor under the table, along the wall, enters the living room and hides under the red sofa. I’m so terrified of mice and here I am, all alone in this big house! I calm myself, sit back down and think. I invent a new paragraph. A path in the middle of the forest with century-old trees and a carpet of lily-of-the-valley shoots. In the largest oak tree there’s a huge hole, a refuge for my family of mice. I feed them fine cheeses, and they forget all about my home address.I never tire from chasing an inexhaustible vein of ideas. I skip a line, finish a page, I’m always eager to start a new letter. This childlike pleasure in threading words one after the other reminds me of my brother when he was little, the tireless marble player. Focused so completely on his game, he would be absolutely still before throwing the coloured glass bead as far as possible. Like him, I stop, think, invent and cast my words. I draw strength from the sap of trees to build my castles.I laugh, I cry, my emotions often all simmering together. I strive to embellish my world and the thousands of birds that land on my lines, on my words, in my stories and in my heart. My motivation to keep writing is this: a copious capacity to keep moving forward, to go further, to dig deep into the soul of the world scattered within each and every one of us.Am I the woman I would have liked to be at 20?My heart wide open, my eyes so green,Blue waves, fish discussing among themselves?Cora❤️

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I was 5 and I already knew you were terribly sad, Mom.A martyr with eczema-ridden fingers, your mummified hands, gloved and painfully burning, Mom.The morning tears when you’d pretend to go to the neighbour’s to borrow a half-pint of cream, Mom.All the sleepless nights you spent unstitching and sewing one of Dad’s old jackets to make me a pretty coat, Mom.I remember your delicious meals, and the jams you’d make for us, Mom.Sewing, cooking and cleaning. You always did your duty, but your broken heart was incapable of loving us, Mom.Your long silences bewildered our little hearts desperate for love, Mom.As you busied yourself with chores, never resting , you kept your mind occupied to avoid thinking about what had ripped out your heart, Mom.The rage, the sorrow and the disappointment must have exhausted you each day. This heavy secret you kept and took to your grave, Mom.We had no clue about your indescribable sorrow as you suffered in silence, Mom.Indiscernible and menacing, a mysterious pain had turned your life, and ours, upside down, Mom.Our childhood was muted, as we gingerly stepped around you, afraid of disappointing you, Mom.I blamed you. I needed to know about the important things in life. You failed to teach me or your two other daughters a single thing. Too young and naive, we found ourselves with our own child, Mom.Was it the lack of knowledge or fear that kept you silent? We were pristine white goslings and you let our little wings become soiled, Mom.This cursed ignorance caused us a thousand torments. Your daughters became trapped in loveless marriages. And our lives, totally lost, became battle grounds, Mom.You knew nothing about my sad life then. Miserable as I was, I sometimes thought of leaving this world for good, Mom.In that moment your car crashed head-on, you, your grief and your secret all died together, Mom.At the morgue where I went to identify you, I was terrified. I was scared of your disfigured face, of the congealed blood on your cheeks, of the open veins in your neck, Mom.As tough as life can be, it has spoiled me. At your funeral, one of your sisters finally told me your secret. That story, unimaginable today, nonetheless happened to you and ruined your life, Mom.You were the most beautiful schoolteacher in the township, in love with a Protestant that the Catholic church forbade you from marrying. Do you remember, Mom, that in those days, religion ruled our lives?You did as your father wished when he introduced you to a brave and hard-working young man who had recently arrived in Gaspésie. Grandpa liked him a lot, but you were in love with another, Mom.I hate myself for accusing you, criticizing you and blaming you, oblivious to your sad fate. I feel so remorseful, Mom.All the unused love inside me, I give to you, Mom.Wait for me, because together, we’ll begin a new and beautiful life again, Mom.Your daughter,Cora❤

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WARNING: This letter contains graphic details related to death that may offend some readers. Reader discretion is advised.This morning at the coffee shop, I have the terrible fortune to hear straight from a real police officer’s mouth about all the horrible moments that some humans tolerate and suffer through until the day they expire. Why am I sharing this almost unthinkable story with you this morning? To encourage all of us to get to know and spare a moment for our neighbours, friends and all those who seem to be in need.While he was on duty one day, my officer friend received a call from the janitor of a 6-unit apartment block complaining about an unusual smell and insisted that he come by for a wellness check. As he approached the building, which was already known to him, a foul odour was noticeable. Could it be dirt? Had something burned? Rotten meat? It’s likely something much worse, he suspected. The two men walked up the stairs and stopped on the third-floor landing in front of apartment No. 6. The officer recognized the smell of putrefaction.— “Someone died in the apartment?,” asks the janitor.— “A dead body starts to smell within 72 hours, depending on the cause of death,” replies the officer.I asked my friend how the other tenants in the surrounding apartments hadn’t smelled the strange stench of death. “Most probably because they weren’t familiar with it.” He adds that it’s a smell that’s impossible to forget.When the police officer enters apartment No. 6 with the janitor’s master key, he immediately sees the body of a man in a wheelchair presenting signs of obvious death. Flaps of brown and black flesh hang from the man’s skull, his cheeks are sunken and empty, and a battalion of large black flies cover the dead man’s eyes.The police officer noticed that the marble threshold of the bathroom had likely blocked the elderly man’s wheelchair. Unable to move, he may have died from exhaustion or starvation. “A real tragedy,” says the building janitor, with tears in his eyes. The officer continues his apartment check and, as he enters the single bedroom located next to the kitchen, he discovers a second inanimate body, covered with a sheet up to the chest, the head darkened.The officer immediately turns back, calls his superior and requests the presence of a detective and another colleague to fill out the two death reports. According to the janitor, the two elderly people were over 80. Were they sick? Alone in the apartment? Did the couple have any children? The police set out to find the answers and determine the cause of their deaths.When the second police officer arrived to write the report, the two of them worked diligently to preserve and keep the scene intact. Wearing protective gloves, one of the officers took a notebook from the night table next to the deceased woman. Under the watchful eye of the detective, the officer opened the book and found the first names of three women, no surnames. He dialed the number under the first name, identified himself and asked the woman at the other end to identify herself. The woman instantly asked what the man was doing at her parents’ place. He explained that the two tenants in the apartment he was calling from had just been found dead.— “That’s impossible!” said the woman, panicked. “I spoke to Mom yesterday morning!”The officer didn’t contradict her. Given the advanced state of decomposition of the two bodies, their deaths occurred approximately 10 to 15 days prior.Dear readers, I am telling you this profoundly sad story because it breaks my soul and because my officer friend says that it’s the tragic fate of too many elderly people. The old man in his wheelchair and his wife, who was barely able to walk according to the janitor, lived in a single bedroom apartment on the third floor of a building with no elevator. Who cared for whom?My officer friend has been retired for 20 years now. Last year, he found himself single again. As he recounted this sad story, he wondered if he would be able to care for himself in his cottage until the end. He has two long staircases to manage – one that goes down to his basem*nt workshop and another that leads up to the second-floor bedroom.The story my friend shared with our little coffee shop trio this morning stirs up a lot of questions, in him, in George (82) and in me, of course. We stay to drink a second coffee and to think aloud. “We have to think about it fast,” says the retired officer, “for age flees like a thief, and we could be left alone, isolated, poorly setup, far from our loved ones and ignored by our neighbours.”“We are all alone,” continues George. “We are born alone and we die alone, like old, confused, starved mice, hidden away in the back of the cupboard more often than not...”As for me, a few weeks short of 77, I believe that, if old age is a time when the body gradually declines, it’s also an incredible opportunity to finally slow down. It’s a time when we can take care of our mind in a way we never had a chance to while making a living. Today, this intelligent body is forcing us to slow down most of the time, so we can pamper our little hearts and the friends who surround us more.Let’s take care of one another. Call your friends, keep in touch with your neighbours, take it upon yourself to check in with lonely and aging souls that so desperately need our care. Let’s love every minute of our life today. Perhaps the more we stretch it, the more likely we’ll deserve a few drops of wisdom.Cora❤

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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❤

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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❤

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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❤

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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. ÉricSimard, 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❤

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Dear readers, it’s the end of March and my journalist friend reached out to me, suggesting I answer a few of her weighty questions to remove the dust from my mind. I’m happy to play along.—What are the three things that give your life meaning?My children give my life meaning. They give me the assurance that I belong somewhere, that I’m part of a family and an important link that ties the siblings together. Also, the business I created and which has shaped me into a successful entrepreneur. I truly don’t know how I acquired my business acumen. Maybe it’s because of my creativity, hard work and remarkable knack for grasping the franchising concept and doing business in Canada. Last but not least, although it only came to me later, writing is part of my everyday life now and, like a big ocean liner, it allows me to be a tourist in my own life and revisit each port before the final getaway.—What are your three greatest qualities?Courage, creativity and perseverance. All my efforts have been wrapped in courage. A bit of creativity drops from the sky every time I need it, and I constantly work on improving myself and my writing. I try to grow flowers in the desert. For hours on end, I can refine my words to make them white Bengal tigers, mandarinfish or fabulous birds of paradise.—What are the three most courageous acts you’ve accomplished?The first was to keep my baby although the father wanted me to have an abortion. Then it was to flee with my three children in tow after 13 years of conjugal misery. Finally, without a penny to my name, I opened the first small breakfast restaurant, which miraculously became a major restaurant chain.—What are three memories that remain with you to this day?I will never forget my mother’s mummified hand, incessantly plagued my eczema. Her broken face when I had to identify her body at the morgue after she had a head-on collision while she was driving with my three children. The extremely difficult delivery of my firstborn, who had to be taken out of my belly with forceps.—Name three regrets you’ll never be able to forget.When I was young, it was easy to regret something: a bad grade in school, a bad tennis game. As I grew older, I learned that everything was necessary. Like salt and pepper, the better and worse are also part of a life’s recipe. To quote the famous ÉdithPiaf, whom I still like a lot, I would also say Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. (“No, nothing at all. No, I have no regrets.”)—What are the three most difficult things you’ve had to accept?Many difficult things have come my way in life, it’s true, but I refuse to count them. You’re more or less familiar with my life story by now. With time, a big obstacle turns into a small flood, which eventually dries up. I try to avoid the extremes: very high/very low, yes/no, the good/the bad, white/black. I prefer thinking of myself as squarely in the middle.—Name three things that still torment you.I am terrified of snakes, even the small ones that lived in the fields behind Grandpa Frédéric’s house. I’m also inexplicably afraid of mice. My old country house is right up against a forest. I love the deers, wild turkeys, groundhogs and big crows I come across, but I’m frightened by a mouse’s small black tail in a cupboard! I’m also a bit wary of the police when I’m driving through the towns of our beautiful country. Distracted by the beauty of the surroundings, I sometimes forget to stop at intersections.— Who are three good friends that are still in your life today?Generally, you can count your best friends on your fingers. As I get older, however, I’m working less and writing more. For the past three years now, I’ve been typing away at the local coffee shop. As a result, I have more and more good friends around me, and I’m glad for it! I introduced them to you, dear readers, in my letter Thirteen for dinner, published on January 21.— Tell me about three desires you still haven’t fulfilled.What a huge hill that word is, desire! A small thing happens to me, like a compliment, a look, a smile, and my heart hits the “desire” switch. Haven’t I passed the age to take my desires for reality? I’m not so sure! I still snatch at the crumbs of affection that fly up when I shake the tablecloth.—What are the three compliments you receive the most often?Since I read all the comments my loyal readers write, I honestly think that my letters are my greatest object of praise. My colourful glasses and clothes come in second. I stand out, I have fun, but I firmly believe this originality does me good. Dressing up in bright colours, choosing matching accessories and lipstick, styling my hair – these are all small creative moments that bring me joy each day. Lastly, it’s true that I get a lot of compliments on my culinary skills! They once helped build the business, but I continue to use them to delight those close to me, especially my grandkids.A thousand thank-you’s, dear Isabel.Cora❤

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This is a story I learned through the crooked branches of our genealogical tree. Ancestors Charles-Louis and Philomena VanZandweghe 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 October1, 1884, some 15years 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 eighttimes in 12 years: fourboys and fourgirls 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 circ*mstances. 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❤

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Just the other night, I was twenty,a young girl clinging to my side.We were walking at dusk,scattering in the windour excess of torments.The child and I walked on a pathour 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 frostseeks the door to my belly.Again tonight, reality’s crueltyobstructs 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❤

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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❤

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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 MiniCooper, 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!SylvieChoquette, 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.NadiaLesage 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❤

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