A matchmaker named Natasha – Chapter 7 (conclusion)

Dear readers, I’m improving my writing skills as you continue to read my letters. The whiteness of the blank page is like a sky filled with miracles for me. When I was young, all I wanted was to darken pages with my ink and, today, my golden years afford me the time I need. A smile, a quick peck on the cheek, a sympathetic eye; these days, I write to discover what true love is. Do I have enough time to find a soulmate? How many men and women experience great love? Maybe once, twice or even three times in their lifetime if they’re very, very lucky? Though the first two candidates missed the mark, Natasha, the expert matchmaker I tasked with the mission of finding me the right man, informs me she’s still looking. Does she know how fast time flies? My last few good years are slipping and crumbling away. HELP! WILL I REMAIN AN OLD SPINSTER UNTIL I’M 100? – “Claudia, my dear, she tells me, don’t forget to use your alias!” A third candidate is eager to meet me. After a 30-minute introductory call, I imagine myself on cloud 9. I don’t suffer from any pain, but my date manages an orthopedic company on Montreal’s South Shore that sells all sorts of products to drugstores across Canada – compression socks, lumbar belts, bandages, ankle braces, removable insoles, elastic bandages and corsets of all kinds. Should I break a leg to meet him faster? – “Dear Natasha, when can I meet him?” – “Patience! Your suitor is on a business trip to Chicago right now.” I understand. This man probably leads the same busy lifestyle I used to when I was opening restaurants across Canada. Even if I’d met my handsome Omar Sharif in person, I would’ve been too busy for even a hello! Impatient and a bit annoyed, I feel like I only get to write the beginnings of stories before they disappear in my head as instantly as a bursting soap bubble. It’s noon, I crack three small eggs into a hot frying pan. I sit to eat in front of my iPad, with a piece of bread, a cheese wedge and two slices of ham. Am I really hungry? I think about the businessman again. Will he like my homemade jams, my coloured outfits, my passion for words? A few days later, Natasha tells me that the travelling suitor is back in Montreal and he’d like to have breakfast with me this Saturday. He’d book a table at Leméac, a chic and popular French bistro. – “What do you say, Claudia?” she asks me. – “It’s perfect! I know the place and I’ll be there at 10.” Very early that Saturday morning, I try on so many outfits that it makes my head spin. I try on a red dress that’s perhaps a tad too bold, a pink one that may be too light for autumn and a blue one that’s simply too short. Finally, I opt for light grey pants and a matching sweater. He arrives smartly dressed and as serious as a Pope. He’s booked a table for four right in the middle of the restaurant. – “Nice to meet you, dear Sir. Are you waiting for someone else?” – “I like being comfortable in these busy and over-crowded restaurants. I prefer a large table with plenty of space.” – “Would you have preferred going to the Ritz?” – “It’s all the same. Too ordinary and expensive! At least here, the excellent smoked salmon brings in the guests.” – “I agree! It’s also my favourite dish.” We should get along just fine! But disenchantment quickly sets in when he nearly berates a waiter in training for suggesting red wine instead of white to accompany the fish. He eats his fill in no time and doesn't bother to treat me to dessert. Neither one of us has even finished our glass of wine. Once again, I conclude, I’ve wasted my time. As we exit the restaurant, he invites me to take a short stroll to help digest the meal. Surprised by his suggestion, I nevertheless agree. Fifteen minutes are enough to soothe the curmudgeon’s mood. He throws a few compliments my way and invites me over to his place, a big house on the waterfront, near Montreal. For heaven’s sake, how disappointing! – “The staff have the weekend off, and you can even stay the night if you like,” he dares say. – “No, no! No, thank you!” I’m stunned. A few more steps and he stops. A driver with a white cap opens the back door of a luxury car that I don’t recognize. – “Darling, let’s go for a ride in my brand-new Bentley!” he says to lure me into the backseat of his big, fancy car. I flatly refuse. “No, no!” I remain on the sidewalk for a moment, looking for my Mini. I see it, one block away from the large Bentley. I’m off, almost at a run. I unlock the Mini, open the door, dive in and quickly lock the doors. TO BE CONCLUDED. Cora ❤️

I quickly forgot the matchmaker’s good advice. Would I be recognized at every street corner? It had never even crossed my mind. The former philosophy teacher certainly had the means to treat me to brunch at the Ritz, and that’s just dandy. But a woman like me doesn’t go unnoticed; the matchmaker should’ve warned me to be more discreet, at least in the beginning. – “Yes, Natasha. I should’ve avoided the Ritz and the places I used to go to in my days as a businesswoman so I wouldn’t be recognized.” Public personalities often find it harder to meet people who are genuinely interested in them as a person, rather than in their social life or bank account. If the redhead hadn’t recognized me, with my fictitious name, the maître d’ served my real identity to him on a silver platter. Seated in front of me at the table, this first suitor acted as though he had no idea who I was. A regular at the Ritz himself, he asked me a few basic questions such as “have you ever been married?” “Are you widowed or single, and since when?” “Do you still work?” And so forth. He eventually suggested we move to the hotel bar, adjacent to the lobby, for a digestif. And I accepted! – “Limoncelli, amaretto, cognac, port or Mandarine Napoléon liqueur?” – “I’d really like a third latte, please. I don’t like alcohol very much, but I love coffee!” Comfortably seated on the grand hotel’s new blue couch, the redhead man is talking about travel. He shows me his plane ticket, destination Dubai. Although I’ve had three lattes, my mind and heart dry up. – “When are you leaving,” I ask, to make conversation. – “On Thursday, in exactly 5 days!” he replies enthusiastically. – “When do you get back?” – “I have an open ticket. Maybe it will depend on you!” – “What do you mean?” – “Let’s rent a room and have a bit of fun!” YUCK, YUCK and again, YUCK! HELP! Back at home, I kneel and thank the great Manitou and all their angels for saving me from disgrace. A few days later, I tell Natasha about my breakfast at the Ritz and she blames me for not listening to her warning to keep away from spending too much time in his company. I spent nearly five hours with the handsome Casanova! The matchmaker suggests a second candidate. She cautions me that he’s a very nice man but tremendously miserable. The wife he adored passed almost a year ago and his three daughters, all musicians, insist that their father rekindle his joy for living. Since I’m more familiar with the process now, I agree to meet this second shiny knight. Would these daughters have an orchestra conductor for a father? I can’t wait to hear a bit of music! I take Natasha’s advice and we have an initial telephone conversation. Everything seems to be going well! Not a single false note. I’ll try my luck and meet the next promising candidate in person. To my surprise, I learn that he resides just a dozen kilometres away from me. He texts me the address of a restaurant a good distance away, in Laval. Did his daughters pick the place? I arrive first and look for an inconspicuous table to hide at. A waiter with a long black apron appears and offers me something to drink while I wait for my date. I order a large coffee, with two creams. – “Tell me, young man, where is the washroom?” When I return to the table, an elderly bald man is struggling to stand up to shake my hand. Yet he squeezes my hand so firmly that I’m certain he’ll keep it forever! I immediately get the sense that, in his place, a few tears are instead speaking to me. I try to be nice, but the words coming out of my mouth drown in sorrow. He’s forgotten his reading glasses, and so I read him the menu. He suddenly remembers that during his last visit there with his dear deceased wife, they’d both eaten shepherd’s pie. It’ll be shepherd’s pie for Mr. Bernard, and for me, singlehood until I’m a hundred! TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️

The attentive matchmaker insisted that all her candidates were highly desirable. She had found me four men -- a musician, a businessman, a globetrotter and a retired philosophy teacher -- with solid values, compatible ages and were bilingual or even trilingual. – “Wow, Natasha! Do you really think I’ll be up to par?” – “Don’t worry! You’re still attractive. We’ve compiled these four candidates’ answers, and each one could be a suitor for you. Really, you're going to be spoilt for choice.” – “When can I meet them?” People usually purchase insurance in case something bad happens to them. But love, the great, magnificent and forever one, is it truly ever guaranteed? And what about my businesswoman’s small horns I’ve used to doubt, argue, negotiate and monetize? What am I going to do with them? – “Forget your horns and let your heart speak,” replies the matchmaker. “Every woman has the right to find her Prince Charming.” I had found mine at 18. He was so handsome, he’d even appear in my dreams! I could never shake his hand, though, because he was a movie actor on the big screen. When the movie “Doctor Zhivago” came out in 1965, the entire world discovered the beautiful and talented Omar Sharif, the famous actor who played the story’s protagonist. I had watched that love story 20 times over before the horrible ogre butchered my heart. – “Dear Natasha, help me. I have so little experience with love. How can I choose the best man for me?” And then I’m told that I needed to speak to each candidate over the phone first before deciding whether to go any further. – “Don’t forget to use your fictitious name (Claudia) when speaking to each suitor! About 30 or 40 minutes will be enough for introductions.” – “But what do I tell them? That I’m an inexperienced old woman on a quest to find Prince Charming? Tell me, Natasha, are men more decisive, adventurous, capable, enterprising?” How can we know the depths of another’s heart when we have such a hard time opening our own? Ten thousand paths blur the address to true happiness. Will this adventure be worth its weight in gold? What is the matchmaker selling, in fact? Not even the slightest assurance of success! Four telephone conversations with four manly voices; four guaranteed in-person meetings if no one cancels. Each one of them having filled out the same very lengthy questionnaire with over 200 questions. Where do I stand in all this nonsense? Natasha the matchmaker guesses my state of mind and implores me to continue with the program. She can even put me in contact with the first potential Mr. Right this evening. A retired philosophy teacher, the first gentleman caller, describes himself as an avid red-headed sportsman who likes to ski, play golf and tennis, bike and ride horses. Out of breath, my heart falls off the horse just by thinking about it! But I like philosophy. I also like the nice red head I saw in his profile photos. Can this first candidate help me understand Martin Heidegger, the most influential philosopher of the 20th century in my opinion? Natasha suggests I agree to a short meeting in person. Breakfast, a latte at a pastry shop or a walk in the park. “But beware!” she warns me. “It's forbidden to spend an entire day in his company.” Encounters that last too long can lead you to assume too much. The man with the red head suggests we have brunch at the Ritz. I say YES! Why not? I used to go to the Ritz every month for breakfast meetings with other businesswomen. In the long lineup, a very full head of red hair catches my eye. Fear seizes me. I find him too handsome, too young and I’m guessing more intelligent than me. This former philosopher knows by heart all the descendants of the Cro-Magnon man. I become nervous. I’m hungry. I can’t wait to drink my first coffee! And then the maître d’ recognizes me and invites me to sit at one of the best tables reserved for valued guests. Claudio, the hotel’s oldest waiter, greets me with a grin. I hesitate, I glance, I look for the red head. I tell the maître d’ that I’m waiting for someone. The man with the red hair finally joins me at the table. Will he guess who I am? He sits, stares at me and seems to search his memory. – “Dear Cora!” exclaims Claudio. “Don’t you ever age? We haven’t seen you in so long! May I suggest our famous crustless mushroom quiche with leek and goat cheese today. What do you say?” TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️

What are single men and women looking for? A presence, a partner, maybe true love? One who listens, the other who waits; a voice that replies yes or maybe no. I have such a hard time imagining someone being constantly at my side. As to whether this mystery person is an encumbrance or a blessing, both imagination and experience fail me. To tell you the truth, I’ve never dated or even flirted. Well, there was that one time at my high-school graduation dance when a handsome, curly-haired fella held out his hand to me. Feeling quite uncomfortable in my brand-new shoes, I had the temerity to tell him I didn’t know how to dance. Femininity, grace, gentleness, subtlety – they’ve never been my strong suit. Perhaps it’s my fault? I was raised with a strict hand and had to marry the terrible philanderer whose child I carried. When he finally departed for his country, I prayed to Thor, the god of thunder, to take hold of me and shake me until I learned how to manage on my own. I became a successful and pioneering businesswoman, yet never took time for myself. Natasha the matchmaker, a pretty young woman whose passion is to make people happy and matched for life, adores her work of pairing up potential lovers. She reassures me that she’ll coach me through the process and dispel any worries, self-doubts or moments of despair, which won’t last long at all I’m told. One brisk morning in October 2021, determined and optimistic, I gulp down my latte at the coffee shop. Don’t you have to want something very badly to accept to swim across a shark-infested river? You have to at least want it enough to honestly fill out an extremely long questionnaire that will become your “profile.” No poetry, prideful adjectives or flourishes allowed. Do I know myself well enough to complete this perilous task? Whatever may come, I promise not to be too severe with myself and remain hopeful despite the visible scratches of old age. “Everybody ages,” is what the sweet and reassuring Natasha tells me. All I truly desire is to meet a good, kind man with a poet’s soul. My lines, his lines – musical notes creating a sweet duet. I know myself so little, like a chain of small volcanoes that erupt, only for despair to come along and extinguish most of them. Like French journalist and author Laure Adler would say, with her heart-shaped sunglasses perched on her nose, “age, that appalling fifth season,” undermines, dislocates and sabotages our peace. What can we hope for when all we can wish for is the end? And yet I wait quietly for a brown, white or black hand to grab onto my arm. Will this endless questionnaire teach me something about myself? Where is that long-awaited being; this soulmate I’ve been waiting for all this time. Will he see a few evergreen branches in my green eyes? Will he like my colourful look and eccentricities? On this October 2021 morning, maybe the man of my dreams is reading his newspaper in an airport somewhere. Or perhaps he’s catching the season’s final few trout at the end of a peer. Dear Natasha promises great candidates; four compatible profiles based on the 200 questions I answered. This man – the man for me, the right one – is probably a character in a novel I have yet to write. TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️

I finally decided to take action in September 2021. I called the dating agency and made an appointment with a woman named Natasha, who’d been warmly recommended by a good friend. I almost cancelled 10 times, but in the end, I bravely stuck to my appointment. Natasha had booked me for two solid hours to complete all the documents and various formalities. That’s how, on Thursday, September 30, dressed up in my nice pink Jackie Kennedy suit, I had my picture taken from my most flattering angles. Was I really so desperate to be in love? I felt so out of place, I just wanted to flee. What would I do with a man? Even a rare bird. Whether a crow or swallow, would he teach me how to sing? I’m looking for a writer who’ll help polish my words, a white-haired explorer or philosophy teacher. I’d just be happy if he were caring, kind and attentive. Natasha the matchmaker was a very kind woman who knew a lot about pairing up people. I didn’t dare ask if she was happily married herself. We hit it off right from the start and talked about anything and everything like two old friends: suitors from long ago, awful Husband and a few brave men I never took the time to love. After escaping my painful marriage, I thought I had put love out of my head for good. Natasha asked me, “so what did you do, Claudia?” Claudia is the fictitious name I was given to remain anonymous. It’s an agency policy for all their clients who desire discretion. I wondered if some men did the same, and she reassured me they do, until a match proves successful. – “I eventually opened a small successful breakfast diner that well, quickly became a large restaurant chain.” – “I know who you are! But let’s keep using your assumed name for the purposes of our common mission. You definitely deserve a few years of happiness with your prince charming!” – “If we can find one!” The sweet matchmaker carefully explained the three simple steps required to meet an honest-to-goodness prince charming. First: Sign up for one of the agency’s packages. Second: Create the profile of the man of my dreams. Third: Consent to meet the candidates selected based on my criteria. Being riper than a strawberry in autumn, my hands, face and arms – every visible part – looks the worse for wear. And yet I love myself. I love colour, and I especially love wearing it. The artist in me delights in choosing my clothes at sunrise each day. – “Pink suits you so well!” Natasha tells me. “Your pictures will catch the eye of top candidates.” – “You’ll post my pictures?” I ask her, a bit surprised. For a brief moment, I try to imagine the face of the man of my dreams. A thick head of hair (white is fine just as long as there is lots of it), blue-green eyes like the sea, generous large hands and a heart of gold that anyone would be lucky to have and to hold. Maybe I’ll see his attractive red-and-black checkered shirt from afar? Will I get so close that I’ll see the dark hairs in his ears? Just like when I was a child and climbed onto my father’s shoulders to tug at his ear hairs. Whether this old man arrives in a king’s robe or shepherd’s shirt, I’ll welcome his angelic face and captivating voice. But he must smile, otherwise I’ll have no way to enter his heart. According to statistics, 60% of women are looking for their one-and-only Mr. Right, and only 40% of men are looking for their true match. And the old maids, dear Natasha, what chance do they have? Stripped of youthful beauty, is hope and desire enough? TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️

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 ❤️