A matchmaker named Natasha – Chapter 2

I’m writing this morning to alleviate the wild churning of ideas pounding my head. I search for a new word, an imaginative verb, a cascade of ideas that lengthen and stretch, flirting with the possibility of losing all meaning. My rattling heart trembles and throbs. Love – real, overpowering love – teases me still with small, chivalrous acts. A new friend who recently joined our group of old-timers at the coffee shop is so handsome and agreeable that I feel an uncontrollable impulse to move a little closer to him. I must be mad! What a strange adventure this desire to love is! I’ve forever carried the weighty word “LOVE” in my old heart, whose key I’ve probably misplaced long ago. My lucky friend Gisèle, who’s the epitome of kindness, found love and beauty in a dependable man her age, 6 foot 2 with blue eyes. How I envy these two! He’s a former businessman, globetrotter and art collector. She spent the holidays with her paramour, whose name is Jérôme. They invited me to join them between Christmas and New Year’s, but I pretended I’d already booked five days in Quebec City in order to leave the lovers to themselves; better that than being a third wheel. Did this white lie save my honour? It certainly didn’t save me from tears: I cried my heart out all alone in my pyjamas in front of the Christmas tree with a few caramel toasts on a pretty holiday platter to comfort me. Gisèle had also given me a box of delicious fudge, so the next morning, I pulled myself together, made myself presentable and went to the coffee shop to share the fudge with my friends and the newcomer. He flashed me that kind of bright smile you only see in a TV commercial. My second-door neighbour, who’s in his late sixties and married to his sweet Carole, told me the other day that faded old men often find love and even get remarried. These daring men put on dapper clothes, comb their hair (or what’s left of it), spritz on the cologne and go out dancing. Upon arriving, they scan the room and stretch out their hand to the prettiest lady for the next dance. I’ve never waltzed or even tried to dance again after I met Husband on that cursed dance floor that night. Only written words comfort me – those that emerge from my mind and those served to me on a silver platter by great authors. These days, however, I’m in desperate need for something or someone to electrify, excite and thrill me. Could this new friend be single? I spy on him, I’m on the lookout for him; my neck gets stiff in no time from secretly watching him. A little before the pandemic, I’d registered for an online class on living well, given by a trusted institution. Have I ever told you about this? Every Sunday morning, for three hours, I’d turn on my iPad and absorb precious tips from experts. I also had homework to submit. Each participant had to decide on a major goal to accomplish. I didn’t set my sights on climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, but I might as well have! After listening to the advice of some close friends, I decided to sign up with the “best” matchmaking service in town! It took all the courage in me to overcome my fears! After all, I’m no spring chicken but I’m still very busy – almost too much so – and a bit of a public personality. Am I too old to flirt with love? TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️

Do you remember the sweet journalist who’s interviewed me on several occasions? She’s back with even more candid questions. From what I can gather, she’s writing a book on the lives of women over 50 who are single, independent and enjoying life to the fullest. I expect this young journalist to expertly dissect my eventful life as she usually does. — “Dear Cora, can I first start with thanking you for accepting to participate in my project?” — “I’ve had many opportunities to help, listen, guide and even be a mentor to young women during my career as a businesswoman. So I’m proud to participate in this wonderful project! This old lady may no longer be in the limelight, but my relentless pen still makes its way to thousands of well-meaning hearts.” — “Are you still looking for prince charming?” — “My charming Isabel, I’ve imagined the man of my dreams a hundred times over! I know him by heart. I drown in his blue-green eyes. I write my name on his forehead. His cheeks warm me, his voice calls me, his heart bewitches me. I’d fall asleep forever in his arms if I could.” — “Everyone knows you married the wrong guy. Have you ever been tempted to try again with a better man?” — “When I was 50, an honest man put a ring on my finger, but it didn’t last. In those days, I was already a businesswoman with the pedal to the metal on the highway of success. Why did I even get married? I still don’t know. I had my heart set on conquering the entire country and I didn’t have time to play husband and wife. So the white-haired husband flew back to his native Brittany, like a white-tailed eagle, pouting slightly.” — “Wow, that’s quite a revelation! I thought I knew you well but it appears you still have plenty of secrets tucked away in your bag of memories. For now, let’s just focus on our main topic.” — “Cora, do you see yourself as a powerful woman?” — “Have I ever been? I’m completely unable to kill an ant, a mouse or even a mosquito. I consider myself to be more of an artist, a creator, and maybe, by a stroke of luck, a serious businesswoman who dared to tap her nose on the proverbial glass ceiling. I had to embrace my unconventional path, my talents and my beliefs. I’ve never tried to compete with men, and I was never afraid to say yes or no when I was convinced of my answer. I took calculated risks and always did my homework before acting. To this day, my yes and my no are still as solid as a gold bar, and I continue to learn about all the subjects I'm passionate about. My curiosity remains my greatest power!” — “Madame Cora, would you say you are wealthy?” — “I’d say I had to quickly learn to count. As someone who missed out on love, affection and tenderness, maybe life decided to console me with success in business. I’ve never been extravagant or reckless, nor have I spent my money needlessly. I’ve saved my money – you might even call me a penny pincher – to provide for my family and causes dear to my heart. I consider myself rich in experiences, creativity and determination. Whatever I set my heart on doing, I work at it until I succeed. — “Tell me about your friends.” — “I’d love to! I have 7 or 8 good friends. This group of old-timers is a blessing from above I think. Every morning around 7 a.m., we enjoy our first coffee of the day together. We talk, we share what’s going on in our lives, what we dream of and what we’re worried about. We discuss different subjects, from our aches and pains, our fears, our doctor appointments and the few things we’d still like to accomplish before we leave this world. I can also count on professional acquaintances I’ve met who’ve eventually become my friends. Like you, dear Isabel!” — “I’m honoured to know that you consider me a friend. Thank you for trusting me. Time flies, Cora, and soon you’ll be turning 80. Will there be a huge party to mark the occasion?” — “Let’s wait until I’m 100, and I certainly hope I make it! I’m still active, I cook, I knit, I write prodigiously and I read at least 100 pages from the best authors each day. I drink two large coffees every morning with my friends. As you know, I worked in a kitchen countless mornings until late in the afternoon, so it always surprises people that I, the Queen of Breakfast, never eat breakfast! I usually get hungry around 2 p.m. I barely eat meat. I was raised in the Gaspésie, by the sea, so I have a habit of eating fish for lunch. In recent years, I make do with fresh fruit, yogurt, dates, nuts and cereals for dinner... Unless someone suggests going out to a restaurant! If a handsome man were to offer me his hand, I might just bite into a finger too without even thinking twice. Cora ❤️

The number 7 has always held a special fascination for people, transcending cultures and eras. Did you know? Its deep spiritual meaning resonates like a cosmic melody, inviting each and every one of us to explore the mysteries of existence. The number 7 is found just about everywhere in nature: 7 oceans, 7 continents and 7 colours of the rainbow. What’s more, most mammals have 7 cervical vertebrae. The number 7 is often found in fairy tales. Bluebeard had 7 wives, and Snow White meets and lives with 7 dwarves. In Grimm’s fairy tales, a brave tailor kills 7 flies in one fell swoop, and the boot-wearing ogre chasing 7-year-old Tom Thumb, who’s also the seventh boy of the family, is able to effortlessly travel 7 leagues in one stride. It’s also a very popular choice in the world of gambling. Apparently, when playing a slot machine, you hit the jackpot when you land on a trio of 7s. Numerous surveys have shown that 7 is regarded as the luckiest number in the world by far. The number 7 is easy to remember because it’s at the core of our capacity to remember and concentrate. Our brains can generally retain up to 7 different bits of information at the same time in our short-term memory. The number 7 exists in religions the world over. It’s woven into belief systems. There are 7 Japanese gods of happiness and 7 mortal sins in the Bible. The Hebrew menorah has 7 branches, and the first surah of the Quran has 7 verses. The number 7 is a mathematical beauty. It shares the characteristic of other numbers that are both odd and primary, i.e., it can only be divided by 1 and itself. No two identical numbers add up to 7. The number 7 is also important in astrology, often being associated with spiritual transformation and the beginning of consciousness. It symbolizes the passage from one state to another. There are 7 planets (moving celestial bodies visible to the naked eye). They are the moon, sun, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn. The number 7 has marked two important days in my life: I was born on May 27, 1947, and opened my first Cora restaurant exactly 40 years later, on May 27, 1987. Perhaps you’ve heard of Rudolf Steiner, the Austrian philosopher and mystic who organized human development in 7-year cycles? According to Steiner, these cycles, starting with 0-7 years, 7-14 years, 14-21 years, 21-28 years, etc., form a kind of “road map of an individual’s life.” I’m now 77 years old and, according to Rudolf Steiner, I’ve already reached my eleventh 7-year cycle. At the end of this cycle, will I have travelled enough? What do I have left to look forward to? In 2022, Statistics Canada data showed that our country had almost 13,500 centenarians, an increase of 48% from 2018. Over the next 25 years, the segment of the population aged 85 and over is forecast to triple to almost 2.5 million, and more than half of them will be women, who generally live longer than men. That is something! Today, I see my life as a huge cake! If I stick to Rudolf Steiner’s theory of 7-year cycles, how many pieces of cake do I have left to enjoy? How many more 7-year cycles lie before me? If I complete 4 more, I’ll make it to 105! How wonderful! Cora ❤️

The other morning at the coffee shop, my friends were salivating just thinking about the pâté chinois that Claude was reminiscing about. Back then, he claimed, his dear wife Roselle would make it every Monday in a large baking dish to start the week right, with plenty left over to last until Wednesday. The smell that filled their small kitchen was so intoxicating that Claude couldn’t get enough of the pie topped with homemade ketchup. The recipe was simple: ground beef, corn kernels and mashed potatoes, to which Roselle added a big dollop of margarine. When the timer beeped, Roselle would slip on her asbestos mittens, open the oven door and take out the piping-hot pan. Dear Claude, you’ve eaten this dish so many times, but do you even know where it comes from? Even I, who was raised on five or six meals of cod every week in Gaspésie, remember Sunday night’s pâté chinois as a festive occasion. When my dad took out his small stainless steel meat grinder and installed it on the corner of the kitchen table, my sister and I couldn’t wait for the dinner party to begin. Memory is failing me; I can’t recollect if we had bottled ketchup back in those days. According to my friend Google, it turns out that this humble and hearty dish has many origins and variations. In Quebec, the dish is a staple of French Canadian cuisine. Its genesis remains unclear, though one theory associates it with the China pie from China, Maine, USA, that French-speaking workers brought back to their home province and rebaptized “pâté chinois.” The similar shepherd’s pie version known to English Canadians traces its roots back to northern England and Ireland, where it was a frugal solution for using up leftovers from the Sunday roast. Since all roads lead to Rome, I could say that all pâté chinois pie recipes are equivalent and equal in taste. I remember when I first started cooking in my restaurant, the chatterbox in my head instructed me to surprise and delight our loyal customers with different variations of the recipe. I’d put veal instead of beef or I’d mix the two; sometimes, I’d throw in leftover creton pork. On other occasions, I’d add two or three sweet potatoes in my mashed potatoes simply to impress the clientele. Now and then, I’d mix the corn kernels with green peas. When I do it my way, I sauté a large diced onion in a heavy pot with hot oil. Then I add about two pounds of beef or veal and I let it cook until the juices have entirely reduced and the meat starts to stick to the bottom. Then I throw in two tablespoons of HP sauce and a pinch of dried thyme. I remove the meat from the stovetop and transfer it to a dripping pan. Then I layer a 12-ounce can of creamed corn and the same quantity of corn kernels over the meat in a baking dish. I’ve been using frozen corn for a few years now instead of canned corn because it stays firm even when thawed. I mash seven or eight large cooked potatoes to cover the corn entirely. I sprinkle the dish with salt and pepper, and add a few knobs of butter. Tip: After the potatoes have cooked, remove the water and place the pot on the stove for a few moments to allow the potatoes to dry, being careful that they don’t stick to the bottom. Make sure you get out all the lumps when you mash them. I’ve never done it, but you could also add three egg yolks to the purée for better consistency. Dear readers, the cold winter months are already here. It’s the perfect moment to warm up with a generous serving of pâté chinois. Cora ❤️

The other night, I was perusing the pages of the November LIRE (“to read” in French) magazine when I came across an article about a writing workshop by well-known Franco-Belgian novelist Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt. The author described three types of writers: the one whose mind is faster than the pen, the one whose mind works as fast as the pen and the one whose pen is faster than the mind. What type of writer am I? I often fall asleep with a fabulous idea that I nurture, embellish and tightly hang onto until the next day. If it’s raining when I open my eyes, there’s a good chance my idea has already drowned. Since I’m not a writer by trade, my fingers flutter and twirl in all directions; they instinctively grab a few words or a handful of smart sentences, or instead strike out a paragraph. What is this appetite for writing that incessantly torments me, like a waking dream, a great hunger, a banquet among friends? I still don’t know what destiny has in store for me. A nebula of intentions, chimeras and desires swirls inside of me. I strive to do my best in my head, in my heart and with each strike of a finger on the keyboard. Confused, my pen advances at a snail’s pace, but never retreats. A topic, an interesting verb and a few exclamatory adjectives suffice to create a living draft. Do I need an expert to evaluate the coherence of my words? I sleep, I dream, I write and the pages come together. The embryo stretches and grows; it’s now ready to tell me something. Exclamation point, semicolon and full stop. Writing is to give birth to a story. In the interstellar emptiness of my head, I welcome this new life like a mother who sees the face of her newborn for the first time. My work surface becomes a birthing bed, a long, darkened page that I reread and fold. I pray for its being. Sometimes the brain of a great author works at the same speed as their pen. Form and function go hand in hand, pushing against and reinforcing each other day after day. It certainly isn’t true in my case, but I still hope. Every morning, my desire to learn to write inflates like an irrepressible dirigible. Returning to our expert, Mr. Schmitt, there are also writers whose pen is faster than the brain. Those who try out words, watch as formulas emerge, step back as entire sentences roar to life or listen to consonants and vowels arguing among themselves. Is my mind still quick, supple and nimble enough to embellish my words? All those years spent making a living immersed in multiple universes have invaded my brain! It’s probably why I can’t even remember the great poems that I once proudly recited as a young scholar. Today, I try to make light of it, I try to write, I shout, I fabricate. One by one, I calculate each comma. Whence this stubbornness to constantly reinvent my daily life? Am I ever satisfied? I remember a quote from MOON PALACE by Paul Auster, who passed away in 2024 and whose writing I love: “I began to notice that good things happened to me only when I stopped wishing for them. If that was true, then the reverse was true as well: wishing too much for things would prevent them from happening.” Another eminent master (Thomas Bernhard, 1931–1989) comforts me. He explains to me that writing isn’t complicated; all you have to do is to bend your head towards the page and let the contents fall out. “Daring to write is like catching a moving train without knowing its destination. And yet, the adventure is worth it; I live it daily. Whether you’re passing through a long tunnel, over a bridge suspended between two volcanoes or through a field covered in poppies, you’ll slowly realize that your mind can open windows, knock down doors and learn how to express the best of yourself.” A translation of an excerpt from my most recent book entitled L’ORDINAIRE ENDIMANCHÉ, published in French in 2023 by LIBRE EXPRESSION. Cora ❤️

After reading my November 24 letter, Carmen Jobin, a loyal reader, reminded me that maybe it was time I revisited my bucket list. I’d written about it last August in my letter entitled “Before I turn off my heart,” but I’ll gladly tell you about it again. Thank you, dear Carmen! It’s certainly a good time, maybe the last occasion, to rack my brain in search of some gentle excitement! My mind works at full steam, but it’s often my darned kneecaps that prevent me from moving. During the fall season and all through winter, I wear nice knitted wool socks. I used to knit them myself, but these days, I’d rather save my precious fingers and keep them for typing on the iPad. For a while now, especially when I’m watching television, I notice that my stalwart toes have the tendency to curl around each other. I write, seated at my large kitchen table, the oven giving off smoke in front of me. Did I forget the frozen pizza? Ten times a day, I lose my reading glasses. Have I been to the mailbox this week? I forget to take my vitamins every second day or so. I never should have said it out loud. All these small holes in my memory are adding up and it has my charming daughter worried. It seems like my fingers are my body’s only truly reliable soldiers. Standing at attention or hiding between the lines, they always have nice things to recount. So, dear Carmen, does this old woman really feel like revisiting her bucket list? Maybe I should forget about my aches and pains and consider a few road trips since I love driving so much. I’d love to tour my native Gaspésie once or twice more. To see the whales, converse with the seagulls and, mostly, to fill my head with new memories. I’m also planning to visit our two Cora restaurants located in Newfoundland. I could stay there for a few days and take some time to visit the large island, Gros Morne National Park, and Bonavista, the small fishermen’s village and its collection of small brightly coloured houses scattered along the rocky coastline. I can’t forget Cape Spear Lighthouse and the famous humpback whale I still haven’t seen. Why not go back to Boston, revisit Quincy Market, the New England Aquarium, Cambridge and the illustrious Harvard University where I was once invited to give a talk? When I was younger, I dreamt of going to Iceland where my favourite authors reside. I even looked up how to get there just a few days ago, but I hesitate. I weigh the pros and cons. I don’t know on which foot to dance. For so many years, I was the one who gave orders. What’s happening to me? My mind elaborates a getaway, and my poor heart enjoys the sweet yellow flesh of a mango. Dear Carmen, maybe I could forget about my list and reflect upon what I still like? In this bookish house I so cherish, there are three couches in which I disappear, sometimes in one, sometimes in the other, carried away by a gripping story. I bless all the trees that surround me; I fuss over the lupines, with their spectacular colours, in the summertime. I transplant them here and there around my two porches as if I were living in their native paradise, on Prince Edward Island. I also love each season, which I find as beautiful as the masterpieces of the great artists. I sincerely appreciate the crows, my best friends who caw, coo and squawk and who always seem to be taking good care of me. I simply adore the language of poetry, especially the very short poems called haikus. For nights on end, I calculate each line, each word, and it eases my mind. Of the few countries I’ve had the pleasure to travel to, I most prefer Italy (2004). There I visited Rome and the Vatican, where I admired Michelangelo’s work of art on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel from close up. I'll never forget it: God stretching out his finger to Adam to give him the spark of life. A few years later, I found a sublime reproduction, at a very good price, which has hung above my bed ever since. In Norway (June 2006), I had to purchase a big bag to bring back a large quantity of the country’s well-known pure wool that I had bought. That winter, I knitted scarves and mittens in assorted colours for everyone. Another year I walked several kilometres on the Great Wall of China, which runs some 9,000 kilometres. The construction of this imposing barrier began around 220 BC under the Qin dynasty. I also visited Japan in the spring, when the cherry trees don their floral coats. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. I’ve visited so many countries. Where will I go tomorrow? I often go to the movies and once in a blue moon a show. When I'm feeling a little gloomy, I call on my memory and it always offers me a plateful of good memories. Cora ❤️

Caramel, caramel, you spin me like a carousel! I certainly don’t have a sweet tooth, but I adore caramel. Truth is, I’ve always regarded caramel as a precious elixir, an extra-special treat, much like the chocolate crafted by Quebec’s own Geneviève Grandbois or the celebrated baba au rhum. A specialty so rarified that I would never attempt to make it myself. In 2020, confined at home, I discovered the virtues of DIY ingenuity and creativity. I realized that there is great satisfaction to be had in devoting oneself to a subject and bringing it to life or improving upon it. Manual work quietens my mind and uplifts my heart. Putting our hands to work gives us enjoyment, but there is also the joy of contemplating the creation itself. Whether a delicious raspberry pie, a pretty fabric mask, a plateful of fudge, a splendid drawing or a woven ring of flowers to crown our head. They all give happiness. It’s as if tinkering here and there, doing things for ourselves fills us with a whole bunch of well-being hormones. All these hours of contented creative concentration have generated so much enthusiasm! To take my mind off things during this period of isolation, I transplanted celery stalks to sprout fresh ones, drew owls, decorated the house, strung pearls together into pretty necklaces and bracelets, I wrote you letters each week, and, of course, I tried new recipes. While flipping through an old food magazine that talked about caramel, I puffed up my chest and told myself I too was capable of making caramel. I looked through several recipe books in search of a recipe. There turned out to be many, and none of them were exactly the same. Some said to add corn syrup to white sugar with a few drops of lemon juice; others to use brown sugar instead of white sugar; and others to add water and cream to the sugar and finish with a little butter. Feeling a bit bewildered, I called Éric, my old friend who’s a chef. He suggested a pinch of potato starch to thicken it. At that point, I began to suspect that caramel is like shepherd’s pie or Christmas tourtière – everyone has their own version, and theirs is the best in the world! Caramel is an addictive treat that entices and comforts. It’s only when you apply heat and the sugar begins to burn that the colour, texture and flavour turn exquisite. It’s amazing how this caramel came to have so much meaning for me. Maybe because I finally dared to try it, believing in my ability to do it well. Perhaps that’s the magical ingredient in any concoction: to have the confidence that we are capable of creating our own life, each in our own way, with our own ingredients. I’ve concluded that caramel is a little like life: a dangerous and addictive adventure, yet so seductive. Like life itself, the best caramel is the one for which we choose the ingredients, attentively maintain the heat and gently savour at home. I’ve loved caramel ever since I first tasted it as a child biting into an apple dipped in the sweet sauce. I’d never dared to make it though, and you only have my word that it’s delicious. I was proud that I plucked up my courage to attempt such a rare treat and overcome my fear of failure. According to my taste buds, this is the world’s best caramel, but only because of what it means to me. So here’s my version of the best caramel in the world! Pour about 2 cups of white sugar into a medium-sized saucepan on low heat. Gently stir with a whisk until the sugar becomes liquid and begins to boil and slowly brown. When it reaches the desired colour, add a cup of slightly warm 35% M.F. cream and a heaping teaspoon of cornstarch mixed with a little bit more of the warm cream. Mix until fairly thick and remove from the heat. Allow to cool (try placing the saucepan in a snowbank or at least in the fridge) and give yourself a pat on the back for daring. Enjoy! Cora ❤️

As you already know, we opened our very first Cora restaurant in May 1987 and it was an immediate hit. The weekends were especially memorable: the infernal congestion of cars looking for a spot in the tiny parking lot. Families, amazed by what they had heard or mesmerized by descriptions of certain dishes, ran to join the lineup of customers that encircled the building where we occupied the first floor. At the back of the kitchen, my eyes skimmed over the hubbub of the 29-seat space to the bay window at the front, where I could hear the excited clamour of the crowd eager to enter. For a laugh, I’d sometimes whisper to the kids that we were like some creatures on show at an amusement park with six fingers on each hand and hair down to our feet. My youngest would always get annoyed at my dumb imagination, and of course, because they were the only teens whose mom made them work every weekend of their lives. Thank goodness, the crowd wasn’t there to gawk at us, but rather to marvel at what was on their plates. They came to see for themselves if it really was as extraordinary as the rumours. As time passed, the need to offer new items to delight our customers became an ongoing challenge, so we put together a small group of people who were “nuts about food.” We would get together once in a while to whip up some ideas. Nothing was off the table, as long as the new dishes rekindled some childhood memory that still lingered on our tongues. And that’s how, one morning, the beautiful, tall Annie, athletic and lively, arrived to tell us about the story of the famous grilled cheese her mom used to make her when she was little, accompanied by a bowl of Campbell’s tomato cream soup. It was her favourite meal, she declared, her voice trembling slightly. I wanted to know more, but Annie remained mum. We focused on the idea of a grilled cheese that would be so delicious, it would make the rain stop. For the next few weeks, we tested a thousand and one ways to glorify this grilled sandwich and turn it into an amazing meal full of goodness. A simple dish to enjoy as is, accompanied by attractively cut fruit or potatoes crisped on the griddle. A dish that, when made at home, would increase the astonishment at the table fourfold. As a young girl who ate codfish five days a week, served up boiled, pan-roasted, in nuggets, salted or topped with white sauce, Annie’s grilled cheese made my heart cry. Among the best attempts the team presented, I leaned towards the version that we would eventually christen the “TUNA MELT.” Imagine a sandwich sizzling happily away on a hot griddle or in a pan, its belly stuffed with a generous helping of canned tuna perfectly mixed with sliced green onions and just a touch of mayonnaise. Add two beautiful slices of yellow cheese, each one hugging the bread and preventing the fish from slipping from its hideaway. Imagine the first mouthful releasing an explosion of flavours. The tuna’s flesh mixing with the hot, tasty cheese, running onto your fingers. Feel the thrill to your taste buds, the rustling of your memory as it recalls the irresistible draw of forbidden fruit. Of course, you can choose the type of bread as well as the DNA of your cheese. Your little ones will gobble down this simple grilled-cheese sandwich – especially if served with a delicious canned vegetable cream soup or even some chicken and rice soup. With a little creativity, a heat source and a sprinkling of love, you’ll most certainly transform these two staples, bread and cheese, into a true culinary masterpiece. You too will be able to metamorphose this plain grilled cheese into a dazzling meal for your loved ones. The possible garnishes are infinite! “Once familiar and comforting, delicate and refined, the grilled cheese is a sandwich with multiple facets that’s always irresistible, whatever form it takes.” Cora ❤️ Psst: I add a little finely chopped celery to the garnish because it adds a pleasing crunch-crunch to the texture, and also because I’m crazy about celery. I put it everywhere!

Thirty-seven years have passed, and yet, I still remember as if it were yesterday the excited energy I unleashed when I made the outrageous promise to put up four 6-foot-tall Christmas trees in our first tiny restaurant that we had decked out for the holiday season. The idea came to me as I was cutting out small molasses cookies in the shape of trees that I was going to serve for dessert in December 1987. The restaurant had been open for over six months and, as our clientele swelled, so did our audacity. — “Boss, did you fall on your head again after putting up your signs?” exclaimed Platon, our new dishwasher from the Caribbean. “Just make us a Christmas log like you see in all the store windows.” I struck a deal, promising to make him a carrot cake to take home if he helped me install my towering surprises one afternoon after closing. I got down on all fours in the living room of our apartment and cut out four huge padded trees from a large piece of bright green material to put up in the diner’s side windows. Each night during the week before Christmas, I sewed on different coloured felt circles by hand, various ribbon garlands, white cotton ball snowflakes, small blue satin stars, big silver buttons, real small candy canes and eight small pink-feathered cotton birds that an elderly customer had brought me one day “in case I might find some use for them in the restaurant.” The trees were “planted” and installed some days before Christmas, reaching right to the top of each window and within reach of delighted small hands, who were given permission to take the small red and white striped candy canes if they waited until the day after Christmas. Atop each tree, a large star in sparkling yellow brocade perched comfortably, as if content to rest after climbing to the top. In actual fact, it was our brave Platon who got up on a chair, placed on a table, and made sure that each star was securely attached to the top of each tree. — “Platon, I need your help. I’d like to prepare a free Christmas dinner for our most loyal customers. For Mirella, Jean-Claude, Carole, Marcel and for our taxi-driver friends, the brave firemen and for all those who perhaps don’t have a family. What do you think?” — “Are you sure, Boss? It will cost you an arm and a leg to feed all those hungry people who are going to stuff themselves full.” — “Platon! I’d like to make them a really nice dinner, like a Christmas Eve party with turkey and tourtières, and maybe a few of the Greek specialties I’m pretty good at making.” — “Boss, who taught you Greek cuisine?” — “We’ll talk about it later, Platon. Take a piece of paper and write…” — “Boss! You’ve never taken a single day off since the restaurant opened and now you’re going to do dinners?” — “Platon! Stop talking and listen to me. I want to throw this big dinner party on Sunday, December 27.” — “OK, Boss, if you insist. We have 12 days to get everything ready.” — “Platon, let me check the grocery list. Add pork and ground veal for five or six large tourtières and meatball stew. And so my young teenagers, my faithful Platon and I worked with love to surprise and delight 28 people invited at the very last minute to our Christmas feast. All the food was laid out over two red tablecloths covering the long counter. An appetizing, delicious-smelling feast served piping hot! Five large tourtières cut in pieces, a steaming pot of meatball stew, a turkey right out of the oven that Platon quickly carved up, our delicious baked beans with small cubes of ham, a plate of my secret cretons recipe, braised pigs’ feet you could eat with your fingers, a huge bowl of carrot and parsnip purée, my sublime sweet potato gratin and an entire assortment of holiday condiments. Caroline, our morning waitress, had wrapped four large fudge squares in wax paper for each guest to take home for the next day. Marcel turned on the radio, and Mirella and Jean-Claude playfully danced a few steps to the Christmas tunes. My eldest hurried to move the tables towards the Christmas trees to open up space for a dancefloor. Everyone was moving, singing, swinging and twirling real teenagers on vacation. Their bellies full, their hearts satisfied. I was suddenly the happiest woman in the world. The moral of this true story is clear: we should GIVE BEFORE WE RECEIVE. Happy holidays to all of you, dear readers! Below you’ll find a little gift… the recipe for my famous fudge. Enjoy! Cora ❤️ My famous fudge Ingredients 3 cups (750 ml) light brown sugar 2/3 cup (150 ml) melted butter 2/3 cup (150 ml) 15% or 35% M.F. cream 2 cups (500 ml) icing sugar A pinch of love Preparation  Grease a 6-inch x 10-inch pan. In a saucepan, mix the brown sugar, butter and cream. Bring to a boil. When it reaches a boil, continue cooking for 5 more minutes. Remove from the stove. Add the icing sugar while whisking vigorously by hand or with a hand mixer until smooth. Transfer the mixture to the pan, spreading it out evenly. Let cool and cut into squares. Enjoy with a cold glass of milk!

I’ve already told you the story of a delicious recipe a sweet customer had given me back in the early days. Do you recall? Her husband, an Irishman, ate big wieners for breakfast. Almost every morning, he’d show up just before 8, sit down on one of the stools at the counter and order three sunny-side-up eggs, a mountain of potatoes and three large sausages he’d swallow in one go. I couldn’t quite understand why he refused to try our delicious omelettes or generous stuffed crêpes. But, like clockwork, he’d faithfully come in every morning to eat the same comforting dish. This customer, an anglophone, was called Maurice and I eventually named his breakfast order after him: “Eggs Maurice.” This dish appeared on our menu for a very long time and was a best-seller with hearty eaters. As a way to thank me for honouring her husband, his wife brought me a lovely plate of delicious date squares with her own recipe hand-written on a neatly folded, piece of white lined paper. Date squares are just the thing when you want to enjoy a comforting treat that’s both crispy and moist, nourishing and delicious. Read on for Maurice’s wife’s recipe, to which I’ve added my own touch based on some 37 years of experience as a self-taught restaurant cook. To make 9 big squares, you will need a well-buttered 8-inch square ovenproof baking pan. I always double the recipe and I wrap each piece separately before freezing, so I always have some on hand for an evening snack. True, I don’t really have a sweet tooth, but give me a cup of black tea, a good movie on TV and one of these squares, and I’m in heaven. I love dates and I often eat some because they’re rich in vitamin C, E, B2 and B3, and they’re apparently excellent for my old muscles and bones. Did you know? Dates contain zinc and iron and help reduce blood pressure and joint pain. It even turns out they’re rich in antioxidants and have anti-aging benefits. Hallelujah! And now, the recipe! Set the oven to 350°F. Place 2½ cups of chopped pitted dates in a pot with 1 cup of water, 1 cup of brown sugar and 1 teaspoon of vanilla. My secret? I use orange juice instead of water and replace the brown sugar with a small can (398 ml) of crushed pineapple with its juice. Slowly cook the dates, stirring until you obtain a purée. Allow to completely cool. In the summer, I place the pot in a large bowl filled with ice cubes or in a snowbank if it’s winter. A snowbank is ideal for cooling fudge and caramel while you whisk or even a big pot of soup when you need to quickly serve a warm bowl to hungry kids. For the crumble, combine 1¾ cups of quick cooking oats, 1 cup of regular white flour, ¾ cup of brown sugar, a pinch of baking powder and ¾ cup of softened butter in a bowl. Spread half the crumble over the bottom of the well-buttered baking pan. Press down firmly with a fork or your fingers. Next, evenly spread the date mixture on top. Finish with the remainder of the crumble, pressing very lightly and taking care to completely cover the layer of dates. In recent years, I have been reducing the quantity of oatmeal in the crumble slightly and replacing it with slivered almonds. It’s a great idea that I got from a specialty magazine whose name escapes me now. It seems to always make the squares extra crunchy and every mouthful a bit tastier. The key is to make sure you divide up the crumble evenly. Make sure you don’t put too much on the bottom and run out for the top. Maybe date squares are a bit like life! Everything is a question of balance. “Knowing how to love is just as important as knowing how to work.” Oh, how those words hurt my ears: I’m certainly no master when it comes to balance. We can always improve, however, and it’s never too late to surprise yourself. Cook for about 50 minutes or until the crumble is nicely golden. Allow to cool at least 4 hours or overnight before removing from the pan and cutting into squares. I cut them up directly in the pan once they’ve completely cooled and use my egg spatula to carefully remove each piece. I then wrap each square of happiness individually and slip them into the freezer. I divvy up the squares as follows:  two or three for myself, two for my neighbour, two for my granddaughter and two for the beggar, like my Grandpa Frédéric, in Gaspésie, used to say. I thanked Maurice’s wife several times for introducing me to date squares. My Mother had never made any, probably because dates were hard to come by in the Gaspésie in 1950. After Maurice’s wife had shared her recipe with me, I began making them in my first small restaurant, following her handwritten instructions to a T. The customers loved them for a lunchtime dessert. The taxi drivers were the first to ask for a few to take on the road. I had to double the recipe just to meet demand. Recently, while perusing an old menu displaying “Eggs Maurice,” the famous date squares of the wife of Maurice, the Irishman, came to mind. I had to rummage through my memory, my archives and my old handwritten recipe books to find this famous recipe for date squares. I thought you might like this recipe so you can treat your family and friends over the holidays. You should double it too! From me, to you, with all my love. Cora ❤️

I believe that creating is more than a gift from heaven. After publishing some 250 letters, do I still have it in me to fight routine? Being creative is a state of mind I cultivate daily. Others do it while drawing, knitting or composing amazing music. Sometimes the flame inside me flickers, wanes or soars. Writing for me has become the soil of real transformation. To create, I have to take risks, open myself to the unknown, be empathic and advance slowly like a mouse from a cupboard. I feel my way forward, always worried I won’t be able to successfully pull together ridiculous lexical behemoths. When I was a businesswoman, my favourite hobby consisted of threading lovely beads on a string to make myself bracelets or necklaces I’d wear with pride. I love to create. Today, I assemble vibrant paragraphs to embellish the page. I employ beautiful words; golden agates colouring the meaning of each sentence. All my lines wish to rid me of fear. I’m training to be at peace with making mistakes, surprise myself and be the sole defender of my viewpoint if need be. So many letters have come from my fingers, so many hesitations, fears and perhaps contradictions. It’s as though I’m weeding a new garden every week; a modest harvest for my readers’ hearts. I love creating so much, adding my personal touch and grain of salt, like a brushstroke or springtime breeze. I’ve already told you about Julia Cameron, the well-known creativity coach who suggests we take a blank piece of paper each morning and note down by hand everything that comes to our minds in 20 minutes, without thinking or worrying whether it’s neat. As a result, ruminations, worries, small and big frustrations – everything that stops imagination and creativity from emerging – are ejected. By giving myself completely to this exercise every morning, I quickly realized I was also releasing things that didn’t have an outlet. At the mid or end point, ideas, desires and projects come to light too. Cameron also suggests to re-read our texts no more than once a month so as not to impede the momentum. Creativity experts are unanimous: it’s essential to put our mind to rest regularly, to relieve it from heavy thinking and the usual activities. Isn’t that what I did despite myself during my Alaskan cruise? Every morning, after two or three coffees, I tried to find a topic to write about without any result. Unconsciously, I suppose, I let my thoughts sail on the blue wave. Sometimes I’d desperately search for the heads of surfacing whales, other times I’d be ecstatic over a rose-purple glacier. Unable to translate so much beauty, my white pages remained empty of words. Recently, I wanted to empty my head and finally open my heart. I shared with you this period of my life in Greece, spread over 10 painful letters. Back in those days, I was trying to escape reality. I wanted to embellish it. I wanted to die. But my babies’ tears brought me back to the present moment, and to life. As I write these lines, my Zorba the Greek is 91 and still alive, but he no longer dances. He spent the last 30 years in his native land, in Thessaloniki. Our oldest son recently crossed the ocean to visit him at his bedside in a hospital. He was told that his father had contracted a highly contagious virus. What will become of him? Will I ever manage to forget all the miseries this man caused me? Before death carries him off, may my heart forgive him! Cora ❤️

This morning brings a furious sky like a stormy sea or battlefield, ink blue, black lines, holes in my head and my fingers hard at work, drumming on the keyboard. The days slip between these pages filled with words that make no sense. Through the café’s window, I observe an angel who’s busy cleaning the celestial vault. They colour the vastness of the sky with a single droplet of blue dye. It makes me forget about my dream, my age and the creaking of old bones. Starting out young and green like my favourite tree, I’ve become an ancient aspen that sometimes trembles. In the back of the lot, this majestic tree and I age together. Our spotted coat of bark is becoming more brittle, but our sap gets a bit wiser each day. There are a million words in my knapsack that assemble into half-decent stories with each passing day. My imagination has that power. Every morning, it knits a bit of warmth for me. It remembers old victories, deserved trophies and handsome faces I should have loved. “Writing is only possible by writing,” according to French Canadian author Robert Lalonde. All I wish for is for my mind to turn out nicely written sentences, egregious adverbs and remarkable words that link together to tell a story. I try to soothe my hesitation and fears; I’m afraid of ghosts that might refute me. This morning, the blank page before me is as vast as the Sahara Desert. Back at my kitchen table, I smell the sweat of the wilted September flowers. My old body trembles; I curse the damned ticking of time. Will I soon see the land promised to good women? I try to put my head to sleep, but it stubbornly insists on dreaming with eyes wide open. Could Morpheus leave me behind? After drinking a few cups of coffee to wake up, accompanied by one or two biscotti, I start to write while the clothes go around in the washing machine. Five or six times every day, I look for my magnifying glasses. Maybe they’re under a cushion, on a table buried beneath books, behind a couch or in my Mini. I’m always searching for something. Through the row of windows in my kitchen, I watch as autumn dries to shades of brown; I feel the wind getting colder. The birds have emptied all the feeders. Will they migrate, sleep in the hollow of a tree or in the needles of pine trees? Like I do each year, I’ll throw them a real feast before winter lays its coat on the ground. As a young girl, I remember writing in the basement, near the old washing machine. The grumpy wringer as background music and the bogeyman’s bright yellow eyes watching me through the window. I was 7 or 8 when I wrote my first poems. Dad sharpened the black lead of my pencil with his pocket knife. I wrote on the back of old calendar pages that Mom would save for me. I’d write new words and short sentences, the beginning of stories that I hid in my pillowcase. Seated at the kitchen table made from Formica, we’d cut out our drawings and stick them on the back of pages from the calendar using cooked potato skins. In the winter, we’d skate on the ice-covered stream; my nose ran, my young years floated away. Later, sitting at a park bench in the fall, I’d grab my blue pen and open my notebook. I’d jot down a sentence and then a second, just as wobbly as the first. With loose leaves at my feet and a few ants climbing my leg, waiting for the right word was unbearable, just like it is today. Lost in thought at my big kitchen table, another fragment of the past appears. April 2016, Kyoto. The cherry trees are in bloom, dressed in every shade of pink and white. I visit the geishas’ quarters on foot in Gion. Their faces and necks are entirely white, their lips a deep shade of red. Their makeup is an art form; their outfits as fine as the work of the Old Masters; their smiles indelible memories... I’m ending today’s letter with the extraordinary words of the great writer Nikos Kazantzakis in his last book “Report to Greco.” “My entire soul is a cry, and all my work the commentary on that cry.” I try to console this aging heart, to coax it to freely say YES! Forced to grow up quickly, I often get the impression I’ve toiled too much. I never learned to dance or to love. Sometimes I hear my heartbeat roar like thunder. Maybe it’s a bell that’s ringing or a fire truck siren sounding, or maybe, a handsome lover falling down my chimney? Dear readers, the sky this morning was heavy with debris and I struggled to write. Was it the raging sky? Was it me? Was it my aging heart, still determined to love? Cora ❤️