Mme Cora's letter
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November 23, 2025
The soulmate
I write my letters like I used to pick berries in the summer. I delighted in filling up a large bowl and offering them to Mom. She in turn took delight in baking us a delicious upside-down fruit cake for dinner. Today, I examine each word the same way I used to select each strawberry or raspberry; I touch it, pamper it and coddle it until I am convinced that it deserves a place in a sentence. I’ve always loved darkening pages with words and sinking my teeth into a well-written sentence that makes me think. I gather the drafts in piles until my work starts to simmer.
This morning, I’m contemplating a dark-grey sky, dotted with large clouds, through my window. Suddenly, I feel like it’s swallowing all the mysteries of the vast sky: God, diseases, death, war, devastating tornadoes, Bhopal, Chernobyl and the senseless murders happening all across the planet. Sometimes, I look towards the celestial ceiling and make myself believe that it’s one huge jumble of misunderstandings. Maybe I’m wrong to think this way. My mind looks like an ant that doesn’t know what to do alongside her capable colony workers.
I try to remember the old philosophers whose truths I’ve studied, but my head gets lost in the vast fields of forgetfulness. I get lost in conjectures and wait for the sky to clear up. This may explain my incessant need for fantasy, imagination and for the huge, magical birds that agree to carry my body over the oceans. Occasionally, my friends the crows strike up a conversation with me, an eagle sends me a letter, a wolf enters my kitchen and frogs croak to lull me to sleep.
I tell myself that here on Earth, in this big world, there’s enough room for all humans to live in peace. And yet, somewhere in the minds of belligerent men, war satisfies their burning desire to constantly expand their territory. For as long as the world has existed, these so-called powerful lords kill so they can enjoy their possessions in even greater luxury. They used to burn women they called witches and, today, we continue to eliminate them for no reason. Where is the world headed? Am I the only one who’s feeling low? Is the ecosystem rebelling or is progress losing its mind? Another one of my philosophical questions for which I don’t have an answer. I only have words in my bag, tons of words to offer you for entertainment.
Life can be long and tortuous, sprinkled with questions that are hard to answer. I live in a library-house that contains thousands of books that no longer offer answers to my current worries. I often quiz Google, who’s extremely knowledgeable but soulless. Apparently, the future of artificial intelligence will be equipped with emotions. Where is the world headed? Shall we consider AI like a menace or an opportunity for humankind? Will AI become sufficiently brilliant to introduce me to the man of my dreams one day? A soulmate endowed with an intelligence compatible with mine?
I think I’ve once crossed paths with my soulmate. In April 2016, I was visiting the country of the Rising Sun and I’d already photographed the cherry trees in bloom, each one more beautiful than the other. I was dazzled! Then the guide announced our activity for the next day and promised us something more spectacular: a bamboo grove. While on route to this promising destination, I crossed paths with my soulmate. It lived in the body of a handsome Japanese man whom I walked through the Arashiyama giant bamboo grove with. I remember it as if I were still there!
In the tour bus, I was seated next to a tremendously gorgeous Japanese man. I couldn’t ignore him. My heart jumped like a small bird on the branch of a cherry tree. My eyes wanted to take root in his. We crossed the countryside and villages, which must have seemed breathtaking to other travellers, but I only had eyes for the handsome man by my side. He smelled so good; his exotic aroma was bringing all my senses to life. His hands were resting on his right thigh, one atop the other, like in prayer. I tried in vain to see the name on the tag affixed to his jacket. Then, the guide announced that we’d soon reach our destination. The handsome man and I had kept silent for the entire bus ride—some two hours of sighs tumbling into the bumpy void of my heart.
On our way, we stopped twice and, each time, the man exited before and held out his hand to help me get off the bus. I could barely look at him because I was so attracted to his face, his self-control. When we reached the bamboo grove, we were each served a nice box of sushi that we enjoyed in silence together. The moment for our stroll through the forest finally came. We made our way at a tortoise’s pace without even seeing what was in front of us since our eyes were fixated on the sky and the tall bamboos pointing like arrows directly into the heart of the clouds. My heart purred with happiness. And while I contemplated the delicate rustling of the air between the bamboos, the man disappeared. Like a feather in the wind, the hope of any intimacy evaporated. Did he run away, get lost, hide? I still ask myself the question.
When the guide finally walked up to me, she pronounced two words that revealed the name of my charming travelling companion: Watanabe Isamu. If only this encounter had been a dream so I could continue to cherish it. It’s a true story, however, that occurred on April 17, 2016, in the Arashiyama bamboo grove, just west of Kyoto. During those few moments, I believed I’d met my soulmate. Seated by his side in silence for two beautiful hours, I had plenty of time to imagine myself with him for the rest of my days. Once more, I allowed the chatterbox in my head to conjure up a fabulous, unimaginable happiness, as glorious as the aura of that man who existed for only a day.
Cora
♥️
November 16, 2025
Heal yourself by doing what you love
Opened on May 27, 1987, the day I turned 40, Cora restaurants celebrated their 38th anniversary this year. As a divorced mother raising three teens, I had no idea that when I opened that tiny restaurant, I would receive the best gift in the world: the key that would open the door to an incredible future.
After a divorce with no alimony, I worked in the restaurant business 6 to 7 days a week for 7 years until my mind was crippled by a severe burnout. My father once said I was a force of nature; “strong as a horse,” he would say. Both my parents were already dead when burnout smothered my spirit. They didn’t have to witness this small mouse, trapped and frozen in fear. I had been working nonstop when suddenly, without warning, exhaustion took over my whole body; I became unable to cook soup for my children, unable to think, unable to respond.
I spent two long months lying flat out on the couch in the living room not knowing who I was or where I was going; it was as if my energy had fled my body. Fortunately, one day someone told my eldest about a doctor who might be able to help. I still remember that meeting. He was a very old man who resembled more of an ancient toga-clad philosopher than a modern-day doctor. The treatment he prescribed was simple: There is no medicine to cure extreme fatigue, just rest, lots of rest. “Burnout,” he concluded, “can be cured by doing what you love!”
I was completely confused. How was I going to do what I love? I was unable to think about it. Since dropping out of school to get married because I was pregnant, I had endured 13 years of daily misery. Then I had to work like a madwoman to provide for my children’s needs. And yet it was they, these precious teenagers, who found the solution, the magic remedy to cure me:
– “Mom, why not write? You loved it so much when we were little. You even wrote in secret most of the time so Dad wouldn’t know. Why not try it now? I’ll give you my ring binder,” said the older boy.
– “Please, Mom, I’ll lend you my pens,” said his sister.
And so line after line, very quietly, two or three short paragraphs a day, the pen’s ink told the story of a bad marriage, the death of the beautiful girl I had been and the hardship that followed. Day by day, my body came back to life, as if the pieces of a puzzle were putting themselves together in my mind. The children put little dishes on the living room table, they made me thermoses of coffee that I drank with increasing satisfaction.
Then one morning the pen dried up. Suddenly I had nothing to say. My body and head were getting better. They wanted to get up, go outside, see the sun and walk in the grass. Wearing a long nightgown and slippers, I started by taking the vacuum out of the closet and removing all the breadcrumbs and bits of biscuit that had fallen on the carpet as I ate. On the coffee table, three empty coffee cups were waiting to be collected. And I felt like doing it, cleaning up my makeshift camp and putting away my sad stories somewhere. Had I managed to melt the mountain of sorrows I had carried to that moment?
The old doctor-philosopher was right: DOING WHAT YOU LOVE HEALS YOU. He had prescribed 3½ months of rest, but a miracle happened before I even had time to count the days, an extraordinary miracle, a thousand times bigger than spring’s first daffodil. I was fine and started to look for a place in the neighbourhood to have a coffee and write. And, the day after, I drove my Renaud 5 for the first time after my eldest boy announced that I had to take him downtown for an interview because there was a bus strike. I said YES immediately, happy at last to be useful to this big, capable boy. I still remember putting on lipstick on and braiding my hair into a crown on my head. It was a good sign.
As I was crossing Côte-Vertu Blvd., in Montreal, a RESTAURANT FOR SALE sign on the first floor of a small, rather run-down building caught my eye. I will never forget that moment. I knew something was going on in my head. A turn of events that would later remind me of Saint Paul falling off his horse on the road to Damascus. I stared at the sign and promised myself that after I dropped off my son, I would stop by and inquire.
After 7 years in a very large and popular restaurant, I had acquired an excellent reputation, a management position and a generous salary. And all the staff, bosses and loyal customers were looking forward to my return. I had it on good authority. And now, in a single moment, a little abandoned restaurant I had come across by total fluke, closed for two long years, entered my mind as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
When we neglect our balance, basic needs and inner serenity, the ultimate architect of our lives brings us back to where we need to be. Miracles happen as many times as needed until we finally get it. Without warning, and often without us realizing it, they send us brilliant ideas, prophetic dreams and magic keys.
The greatest miracle that happened to me that day was that I believed in that RESTAURANT FOR SALE sign without wholly understanding what it was telling me.
Cora
❤️
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November 9, 2025
The unforgettable recipe of my success
Early in the story of Cora restaurants, around the time when we had opened our sixth or seventh Quebec restaurant, people from all over the “belle province” began to take notice of us. Families drove kilometres, crossed bridges and lined up at our doors to enjoy a Cora meal.
Expecting a magnificent Taj Mahal of restaurants, these new customers rushed into a delicious cloud of aromas, mingling vanilla, French toast, cinnamon and crêpes. Their wide eyes looked for extravagance, opulently decorated walls, fine cutlery and fancy waitress uniforms. None of that was true. What they did find was a big grin on every face, interjections of delight coming from every table and plates bearing extraordinary looking dishes.
In a space that looked as if it had been patched together by a crew of resourceful teenagers, with the names of dishes in big, attractively drawn letters on the walls, this new restaurant concept gave customers a lot to talk about. Not to mention that we served primarily breakfast dishes, with a small lunch selection for people working nearby. Plus, with an early closing time of 3 p.m. come rain or shine, customers couldn’t dawdle if they wanted to enjoy a meal.
This huge chorus of compliments reached the ears of the Quebec business establishment.
— “Who is this middle-aged woman who’s appeared out of nowhere? Where did this new restaurant concept of only serving breakfast come from? From Europe? The U.S.?”
— “From her own head,” answered the assistant manager of an insurance company to his boss.
I remember him clearly! He was a fine young man, who, one Sunday, bravely made his way across the restaurant, navigating the waitresses zig-zagging between tables and the coffee pots swinging to and fro from the fingers of inexperienced busboys. I was in the kitchen of a newly opened restaurant keeping a watchful eye on operations. My heart, hungry for love, was absorbing every burst of delight emanating from the tables.
— “Mme Cora, here’s my card. We’d like you to share your “recipe for success” with employees at our insurance firm. We’d be pleased to have you—your reputation precedes you.”
That Sunday, after the man greeted me with his hand over his heart, my neurons simply froze, unable to transmit anything to the rest of my body that had been thrown into disorder. Cooking came easy to me. Explaining a recipe to my kitchen staff was child’s play. But speaking in front of a group of people so full of self-assurance that they are capable of selling it was something different altogether. It was as if a lion had just entered my cage. I was terrified. I had never given our success any real thought and certainly had never tried to put it into a “recipe.”
Yet the next day, an angel who knew what my future had in store for me, entered my head and switched my brain back on. The day I had decided to make real crêpes immediately popped into my mind. Crêpes like my mom used to make at home in Gaspésie. I remembered the thick white batter that she poured into a large skillet, the crêpe’s crispness on my tongue, the delicious flavour exploding in my mouth. I’d just realized the secret of my success: a lot of hard work and quality ingredients. The analogy proved to be true, and the knowing angel insisted that I base my recipe for success on my mom’s crêpe recipe.
So here is the famous recipe that has been explained dozens and dozens of times in front of different audiences at schools, universities, businesswomen’s associations, entrepreneur gatherings and large companies. I even managed to bumble my way through an English version of it for a TEDx Talk which you can still watch on YouTube!
In a large bowl of your choosing (a metaphor for a physical space, a vessel containing your business idea):
Break a few eggs (symbolizing life and creativity).
Pour sufficient milk (representing rigour and unique expertise).
Add the ingredient you need the most of in the bowl—flour (representing work, tenacity).
Season with a pinch of salt (representing doubt, reflection). A tiny amount keeps you humble and motivated to constantly improve. Be careful though! Too much of it will eat away at your business like a horrible ulcer.
The last ingredient, which is also the most important and must be used generously, is you—your devotion, passion and optimism, as well as your entire character.
Lovingly mix in your business’ DNA and mission.
There are no measurements in this recipe for success. You are the measuring cup. No strainer to sift the flour (work) or whisk to froth the eggs (life). You must add enough creativity to stand out from others. You must focus on your specialty without allowing yourself to be distracted by others.
Almost from the start, I noticed the burst of delight, as brilliant as an auspicious star, in our customers’ smiles. Courage, tenacity and determination will help your business grow while enthusiasm acts as a divine vessel for your best plans. And when success does finally arrive with silver hair, it too stops to ask itself how it managed to get there. Like I did, it looks for a recipe that explains its accomplishments.
Since that very first morning in May 1987, reinventing the art of breakfast with original dishes that treat people to memorable times has been central to Cora restaurants’ DNA.
Cora
☀
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November 2, 2025
Things I'm grateful for
A gratitude list is an expression of thanks for the people and things that make you happy. Ideally, you should create one each day, paying homage to the little moments that brighten your day. Note everything that elicits a sense of gratitude in you during the day; things that you feel thankful and lucky for.
Experts on the matter say that it can be a difficult exercise at first, but one that quickly becomes second nature. You can also thank life every night before you fall asleep or each morning when you wake to another day of being alive.
I personally have my own gratitude ritual. Every Saturday afternoon, after my nap, I pour myself yet another coffee and open my pink notebook which I fill with huge THANK YOUs. I discovered gratitude during the pandemic. Instead of worrying I’d die, I started to thank the universe for being alive each day. Fear faded away, and I slowly learned to recognize the good things that were happening to me.
I can say that I’m grateful for being alive every day! I always have a good reason to say thank you to a friend, to a good idea and especially to the wild woman inside my head who keeps me alert and inspired.
Here are a few sentences taken from my gratitude list:
– Thank you, my friend! Your burly arms and enjoyable company were just what I needed to install the two new IKEA bookshelves in my living room.
– Thanks to my children who shaped me into a courageous mother.
– Thank you, dear Pénélope, your love keeps me alive.
– Thank you, dear grandchildren, for visiting and keeping me company.
– Thank you to my generous neighbour for giving me such delicious jams!
– Thank you to my friends who invite me along on outings and events.
– Thank you for all the coffees I’ve enjoyed with great company!
– Thank you, dear Claude, for repairing the thermostat for my heated floor.
– Thank you, dear Bruce, with whom I always have deep conversations.
– Thank you, Marie-Pierre, our circle of friends’ favourite aerial host, for all the delicious, privately imported chocolate she’s brought back on her flights to the Old World.
– Thank you for the inspiration I am gifted with from above.
– Thank you to the wild woman in my head who inspires me and governs all my thoughts.
– Thank you for my perseverance, my patience and my love of words.
– Thank you for my advanced age, and to this sublime life that keeps me strong and healthy.
– Thank you, Time, for this incredible sleigh ride.
– Thank you for the spot you’re keeping warm for me up there.
– Thank you, dear life, for allowing me to recognize what’s good for me.
– Thank you to my ex-husband for being just vile enough for me to finally decide to leave him.
– Thank you to all my cherished readers, who follow me each week through my Sunday letters.
– Thank you for all the comments you leave for me week after week.
– Thank you to the sea, who’s fed me all my life and continues to do so.
– Thank you to all the handsome gents who grace my dreams and feed my hope.
– Thank you to my 10 well-practised fingers that still allow me the pleasure of cooking for my children, grandchildren and even for my colleagues at the head office occasionally.
Since I’ve started making these lists of gratitude for the universe to hear, I always look forward to tomorrow to see what I’ve learned to appreciate more.
“VERBA VOLANT, SCRIPTA MANENT.”
Spoken words fly away, written words remain.
Cora
♥️
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