Mme Cora's letter

Do you recall? Last October 8, I told you the story about the handsome Irishman who always ate big breakfast wieners. And how I had to create a special plate for him, EGGS MAURICE? To thank me, his nice wife brought me a lovely plate of delicious date squares. I promised you the recipe, and here it is. Date squares are just the thing when you want to enjoy a comforting treat that is both crispy and moist, nourishing and delicious. Read on for Mme Germaine’s recipe, to which I’ve added my own touch based on some 30 years of experience as a self-taught restaurant cook. To make 9 big squares, you will need an 8-inch square ovenproof baking pan. -Personally, 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 am in heaven. Even more so, since it turns out dates are rich in antioxidants and have anti-aging benefits.  ~ Set the oven to 350°F. To make 9 squares, place 2-1/2 cups of chopped pitted dates in a pot with 1 cup of water, 1 cup of brown sugar and 1 tsp. of vanilla. - I use orange juice instead of water and replace the brown sugar with a small can (390 ml) of crushed pineapple with its juice. Dates contain iron, potassium and magnesium – all essential nutrients that my slowly aging body needs. ~ Gently cook the dates, stirring until you obtain a purée. Allow to completely cool.   - In the summer, I place the pot in a large bowl full of ice cubes or in a snowbank if it’s winter. The snowbank is ideal for cooling fudge and caramel while you whisk or even a big pot of soup when you need to quickly serve small portions to hungry kids. ~ For the crumble, combine 1-3/4 cups of quick cooking oats, 1 cup of regular white flour, 3/4 cup of white sugar, a pinch of baking powder and 3/4 cup of softened butter in a bowl. - I skip the white sugar and use a little packet of stevia or monk fruit sweetener. Especially these days, with Madame Pandemic ensuring we are amply padded around the waist! I have no desire to change my rocking chair. I like dates and I eat them because they are full of vitamins, minerals and other things that are good for me. But above all, I eat them because they are delicious! ~ Spread half the crumble over the bottom of a well-buttered baking pan. Press down firmly with 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.  - For a few years now, 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. Don’t add so much on the bottom that you don’t have enough for the top. Date squares are a bit like life really! Everything is a question of balance. Knowing how to love is just as important as knowing how to work. Oh, how those words grate on my ears: I am no master when it comes to balance! We can always improve, however; 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 have completely cooled, using my egg spatula to carefully remove each piece. I then wrap them up and slip them into the freezer. ~ Back then, I thanked Mme Germaine several times for introducing me to date squares. I had never made them before, probably because my mom had never made any. Plus, dates were probably hard to come by in the Gaspésie in 1950. As soon as Mme Germaine shared her recipe with me, I began making them, following her handwritten instructions to a T. And the customers loved them for a lunchtime dessert. The taxi drivers were the first to ask for a few to take on the road. This meant I had to double the recipe to have enough for everyone. Each time I served date squares as the dessert of the day, I had to wrap up 8 to 10 big pieces to satisfy the demand. ~ Seeing all the happiness in such a small diner, an attentive angel quickly decided that we needed more of them in the world. And as I turned my attention to creating a second paradise, then another and another, Mme Germaine’s date square recipe faded from my mind. Hundreds of cooks that came after me took over dessert duty with great verve.  ~ But it came back to me, along with the story of her husband, the attractive Irishman who required big breakfast wieners with his eggs. And since then, I’ve tweaked the recipe a bit to suit my tastes. The pandemic lockdown has given me a lot of time to practice becoming the world’s best grandma. And I adore it! The freezer is full of servings of various soups, shepherd’s pie, beef with vegetables and individual chicken pot pies. It’s all ready and on hand to take out and heat up for my flock of famished teens. And I almost always have some tasty date squares lovingly wrapped up for my beautiful Pénélope.         ❤️       Cora

This morning, dear reader, I feel like remembering the good ol’ days. A time when we would organize a lunch at the sugar shack for our family of coworkers at the head office. I still remember the 30 checkered shirts, snow boots and heads capped with red tuques laughing and singing like kids on a school trip. The two-and-half-hour activity felt like a day of great celebration. We sang songs at the top of our voices in the yellow bus, laughter ringing from the windows framing the big kids inside, as clever, tall Paul, the master of ceremonies, beat out the rhythm with his walking cane. How good it was to forget the weight of our responsibilities for just a few hours, so wonderful to imagine the feast that awaited us on the sugar shack’s tables, made even more lavish with slices of maple pie and small crêpes. If you’ve ever gone to a sugar shack, you may have noticed that the thickly sliced ham always tastes better. You help yourself to two or three servings of baked beans, slather homemade cretons on pieces of bread with lots of mustard. You devour the pea soup and are quick to ask for another 3-inch-high omelette with another side of pork rinds cooked crisp and curly in hot oil. The pickles pass muster, but I prefer onions marinated in vinegar. I even tried to make some at home with an old recipe from Quebec’s south shore region. The result paled in comparison. At the sugar shack, the maple syrup is plentiful, the coffee is good and the maple taffy on snow at the end is the final treat that puts us into a silent state of contentedness. I truly love everything on the sugar shack table. Even if we need to travel deep into the woods and sit down with people we’ve never seen before. Even if the lively rigadoon music leaves us dizzy, and even if we have to wait our turn to be served by the owners and their family members who are run off their feet. The raucous laughter from our large tables could be heard throughout the room, but it was impossible to hold back. Everyone was so happy that they stretched out the feast, indulging in yet another coffee and yet another slice of maple pie. And the young President invited them all to dance in the snow afterwards to help digest the lard and syrup. The sugar shack is not your regular restaurant fare. It’s a grand outing, a fun and exotic adventure that is enticing precisely because it is not something you can do every day. You have to go during the season, when the syrup is running and the boiling golden liquid can be poured over natural snow. That’s what makes the visit to the shack so special for our coworkers. As restaurateurs ourselves, we are used to putting several spring specialties on the menu to tempt the taste buds of maple syrup lovers – delicious, generous and satisfying dishes skilfully prepared. We know full well, however, that they can never replace the festive atmosphere of the sugar shack, with maple taffy on the snow and the table of strangers with whom we cheerfully exchange pleasantries.  Our lives have been disrupted right along with our work hours and business hours. But we must adapt and learn to “LOVE WHAT IS.” Sugar shacks will probably be closed this spring and I wonder what maple producers will do with their syrup during this infernal pandemic. Will their golden liquid be used to only make mosquitoes tipsy or put earthworms to sleep? The head office team has grown as we’ve opened more and more restaurants across the country, and we’ve had to diversify our group activities: an employee golf tournament, a bowling competition, a morning rock-climbing session, a treasure hunt in our local town, a yearly Christmas dinner gala and a huge BBQ in the company’s parking lot to welcome summer’s arrival. For the young President, the latter event is an opportunity to delight his coworkers with a selection of choice meats, big scallops and jumbo shrimp, accompanied by grilled vegetable plates, several big bowls of Caesar salad, different kinds of artisanal marinades and mustards, and of course, bottles of red wine and a few whites. Then before dessert is served, the Vice-President takes a moment to recognize employees’ service with gifts based on their number of years with the company, celebrate achievements and highlight company promotions or transfers from other provinces.   The BBQ ends on a joyous note when the ice cream cart arrives. Everyone chooses a flavour, a small bowl and one or several toppings: coconut, salted caramel, milk chocolate or strawberry sauce. I must say, the company’s head office offers a dream work environment for all staff. We are a large “small enterprise” that is committed to preserving the warm family atmosphere that has been at the heart of the Cora experience from the beginning. And I’m just a tiny bit proud that the President’s BBQ has always been held when possible on my birthday (May 27), which happens to also be the anniversary of the first small Cora diner.             Cora

I was sitting down in a vast dessert amusing myself like a child as I let the sand run between my fingers. Yet I was definitely old; the skin on my arms and the back of my hands was cracked like the shell of 100-year-old tortoise. The world around me was calm when a little bird’s cry struck my ear. Was I dreaming? Tossing and turning in my bed, I tried to rouse myself, but my head sank into my pillow under the weight of sleep. Did Morpheus carry me away in his arms or did an imaginary Sahara blow through my consciousness? …….I had been staring at the horizon for a few long minutes when suddenly in the distance I saw a dark spot. Something seemed to be moving. Anxious to see a camel come out of the void, my eyes focused intently on the horizon. Perhaps a herd of 4, 6 or 12 of them, driven by their impatient masters, would approach in my direction. Eyes wide open so I wouldn’t miss a thing, I was certain I caught a colourful turban, like a gleaming fakir headdress, emerging from the sand. The little bird landed on my thigh. With a beat of its wings, it jumped up to my shoulder to whisper in my ear that a fakir had a message for me. ……Was I still dreaming? In front of me, a swarm of birds blotted the sky and bees danced to the strains of music. Further away, the rhythmic grinding of a merry-go-round at a fair attracted a lineup of kids eager to ride the big wheel. Bewildered, I stood in front of a narrow table with a fakir in traditional dress behind it trying to catch my attention. On the table, covered with carpet from a thousand and one nights, three large white envelopes were carefully arranged like birthday cards folded in half. Their bulging insides suggested great stories to be revealed. The fakir’s eyes suddenly locked with mine. - “I’ve been waiting for you, madam. These envelopes are for you. You must open them and read their contents before departing from this world.” - “But what kind of messages are they? What’s inside these envelopes?” - “Don’t be worried about the contents, madam. They are important messages that you need to hear before you die. Think of them as mighty wings that will allow you to leave your loved ones without any regrets.” Then the fakir, with his straight royal bearing, removed a hand from underneath his embroidered coat and handed one of the mysterious envelopes to me. The sunset was creeping into my bedroom, I gently opened my eyes and immediately began to search for the envelopes from the farik among the sheets and on the floor and night table. Was I really awake? What do I need to know before I die? What were these messages that would give me wings to fly away? I usually forget my dreams as soon as my toes touch the floor. But this morning, the dream did not fade. To my surprise it stayed with me until my third coffee, so I decided to arrange it in lines on my computer screen. ………The midday light shrouds my kitchen in mystery. I am engrossed in the dream, typing it carefully on the keyboard. I want to know the contents of the envelopes so badly that I have trouble remembering what the fakir had hinted at.   He had said that these message were gifts – wings that would help me leave this world when the time came. To leave without any regrets. What was I missing? What are my regrets? One thing I know: as I near my end, I wish my loved ones would make a little more fuss over me. I should care less, of course, but strangely the awareness of my mortality stirs my desire to be comforted. I know my children love me. Yet my hope only grows. I hope to receive more tenderness and compliments, at least for what I have accomplished.  Given the person I was, I only deserve crumbs really. I deeply regret not being the best mom to my kids; I wasn’t the most tender nor the most affectionate. I loved them and fed them in my own way, like my sad mother did with her afflicted hands. Both of us lived with a heart that had been starved of love, unable to provide our offspring with the essential. I was consumed by unhappiness at the time, and life had dealt a tough hand: multiple moves, a husband’s fury, his meanness, a car accident, parents passing in a short time of each other, working from morning to night, early adolescence. Today, it pains me to accept that my kids had to witness so much misery. I was so fixated on ensuring our survival at the time. Working, keeping hunger at bay, being honest and studying well. “We’ll be okay later,” I promised them over and over again.  Admittedly, when it came to business, I received more praise and awards than I needed to succeed and grow. The truth is, BUILDING is much easier than LOVING. BUILDING I learned on my own from books. LOVING is seeded and harvested from one generation to the next; a tradition that takes root in our hearts. Life had hardened me and I have remained as hard as the metal used to fashion the victor’s statue. Still in front of my keyboard, I hear the trees lamenting. Their stooped branches weeping at my kitchen windows. Sadness visits me. Three envelopes? My three children. Perhaps I will receive the messages from them before I leave for the unknown? Perhaps it is up to me to be less rational and more loving and more affectionate with my babies, who are now all grown up? Perhaps I should make up for lost time. Praise them more, encourage them more often? Perhaps I should give them what I hope to receive? But how do I remove this cursed armour that has fused with my warrior’s skin after all these long hard years? I have confidence and especially HOPE. A hope as big as the vast sky above. These long months of confinement have given me time to think and tame my poor heart. It is beginning to soften perceptibly. Do you notice it too? Letter after letter, it is speaking more. It often acts like an open window, bringing warmth and beauty to my lines. It inspires my words more and more; it encourages my passion; it is teaching me to be LOVING.      ❤️❤️❤️        Cora              "The way up and the way down is the one and the same.”                   Heraclitis, Greek philosopher (544 BC)

Living on my small plot of countryside, I’m afraid I’ve become a wild weed kept alive by the nourishing, poetic veins of the Earth. Yesterday afternoon, they announced on the radio that a big storm was coming. I was ready, a bag of coarse salt propped up against a shovel at the front entrance. The sun had retired, having slipped behind the mountains a few hours before, and I too had withdrawn, stretched out on the large living room sofa re-reading the wonderful story of the giant Gargantua (Rabelais, 1534). That’s right, the very one for whom the dish on our main menu is named. The house was utterly calm, and the dark world outside equally so. It was so peaceful, you could hear a cricket clear its tiny throat. Morpheus carried me away. ……..Gargantua is the name of a giant who lived during the time of King Charlemagne. The son of a princess named Gargamelle and a rich merchant name Grandgousier, he ate more than all the inhabitants of his town put together. His name stems from events that occurred after his birth. When he left his mother’s womb, the baby cried out: Thirsty! Thirsty! Thirsty! His father approached his cradle and exclaimed HOW BIG YOU ARE (in French, QUE GRAN TU AS). People listening from a distance understood “GA-GAN-TUA,” thinking that it must be the name given to the child, since it was the first words the father spoke upon seeing his son. While I was dreaming, wrapped warmly in Morpheus’ arms, angels in overalls spent the entire night drilling holes into the clouds’ round wintry bellies. And that is when the sky released the gallant storm that gently fell to its knees upon the ground below. I awoke at dawn, my eyes barely open, and rushed to the living room’s large bay window. - “Oh, how splendid nature is this morning!” I declared to the invisible creator. Glorious and soothing underneath its precious cloak of ermine. My nose pressed up against the window, I drank in the landscape. I wanted to be a master painter to capture the two massive pines standing at attention on each side of the main entrance. I would draw the smallest details of their large branches sagging under the weight of heaping snowy meringues. I wanted to be a well-known movie director and tell the untold story of the three young deer who stared back at me in the window, their hooves sheathed in pockets of snow. They were used to the surroundings, and I was used to admiring them.  If I were a poet confronted with such beauty, I would imagine a hare with big ears as white as snow. I would make it dance on my log fence to distract the young family of wild turkeys labouring to move. Their slender feet also held in the deep layer of freshly fallen snow. .......It is said that 13,000 cows were needed to feed little Gargantua and that, at the age of 1½ years, he already had 18 chins, and to soothe him, one simply had to show him two jars of food or clink a knife against a jar. It is also said that the smell of someone approaching with food never failed to put him in a good mood. I had this legendary appetite in mind when I decided to name our big breakfast plate “Gargantuan breakfast.” Picture this incredible dish presented on a large plate: Two eggs cooked how you like them, a tasty breakfast sausage, four slices of crispy bacon, a nice slice of ham, a large portion of Canadian peameal bacon, a blueberry pancake, roasted potatoes, toast, a good selection of jams, accompanied by as much coffee as you can drink. Doesn’t that sound like a breakfast fit for a giant? Or perfect for a meal after a workout with the shovel? ........From the ages of 3 to 5, the young Gargantua was fed by his father’s commanding officer. He spent his time like any other child of the land. Drinking, eating and sleeping; eating, sleeping and drinking; sleeping, drinking and eating. He was always playing in the muck, dirtying his nose, scratching his face, wearing out his shoes, often daydreaming and running freely after the butterflies over which his father reigned. Around the age of 8 or 9, Gargantua already possessed extraordinary strength and energy. This may explain the story that surfaced later suggesting Merlin himself had made Gargamelle and Grandgousier, from whom Gargantua issued, to protect King Arthur from his enemies. The wizard purportedly used whale bones, Sir Lancelot’s blood and fingernail clippings from poor Guinevere to fashion his two creations.    What is not a legend but a delicious truth: our GARGANTUAN BREAKFAST is up to the tall order of satisfying giant appetites.         ❤️      Cora

I would love to have the ability to be omnipresent. A grand word that means “existing or being everywhere, especially at the same time.” The angels have this power and the devils too. It’s a quality that is true of all virtues and evils. But we poor humans have only one head to navigate all the vagaries of life. This morning, I have a very special reason for wanting to be omnipresent, if only for a day. It’s been a tumultuous year. Our restaurants have closed, opened and then closed again, and my impatience is at an end. We have experienced all the necessary restrictions, distancing, fewer visits, hand sanitizing, Plexiglas in the dining room, masks and so on.    I can’t wait to reopen our doors, and when that glorious morning comes, I want to be present at every Cora location across the country. We’ve missed your warm greetings so much this year, that I want to welcome each one of you in person with a big hug, to press my cheek against yours. For every restaurant reopening, I want to take my place at the grill once again like before, wearing my whites, with a tender, generous heart yearning to delight customers. I miss everything. I miss my former work and each one of you, dear readers, who are all part of the large Cora family. I feel like crying each time the date nears only to be postponed by the authorities once again. I am certain that the day will come, and we will finally be reunited in some way or another. So I am imploring the angels for this reunion I long for. I explain to them how my life’s calendar is fading. I am already in the fourth year of my eleventh cellular renewal. That’s right, apparently the body’s cells take seven long years to fully rejuvenate. And during this time the skin cracks, our legs weaken, our minds dim, memory falters, we misplace our keys, forget an appointment and sleep in four-hour stretches. Fortunately, I am okay with not being the person I was. “Age is a state of mind” I tell myself, most of the time at least. I stick bright, heart-shaped Post-Its in strategic places – on the fridge if I need milk, on the front of a cupboard, on the bathroom mirror to remind me to take my vitamins, on the TV for a show I don’t want to miss. I am hobbling my way to my 100th birthday. Can you imagine the size of a cake studded with 100 candles? Time flies, escaping our grasp never to return. Can I hope to explore a new passion? Do I have enough patience for inspiration to find me? Enough strength left in my fingers to put my stories into words? Yet I am still able to make progress while letting things be.   I am often afraid of falling, of slipping on the ice, afraid of a little mouse in my living room, afraid of suddenly getting old. Perhaps I am becoming a lot less brave? Perhaps it’s finally time to silence my inner tormentor? Time to go against the current of my usual routine for success. Do I still need to achieve results to be someone? Submerged in work, keeping up the frenzied pace of the business arena. The equation efficiency = profitability no longer works. - “Thank you very much, Madam C.  Your Wonder Woman costume is at the local second-hand store waiting for its next owner.” I’m waiting for the wisdom of age so vaunted by geriatric experts. I’m really looking forward to it. Apparently this new adventure is all about BEING instead of DOING. Yes, yes, I read it somewhere in one of those books on the golden years. Someone even wrote that self-assessment for seniors is based on self-kindness, self-care and self-compassion.   I may just have to change. I could stop doubting and judging myself, and throw out this need to achieve some result in order to declare my week a success. Us old people are made that way: our heads are programmed to constantly measure our productivity. In the old days, we calculated the number of kids that survived, the size of the garden, how many boys and girls entered the Church, how many loafs of bread kneaded each week, how many cans of vegetables and jams, and meat pies to feed the family. Our generation has relaxed its ways, but the habit is still ingrained in our heads. Understanding what is happening to me helps me evolve. I think a lot, maybe too much, but I know that all you, dear readers, are a source of great support on my journey as a writer. I love sharing my memories, different moods and best recipes with you. The pandemic keeps us locked away, but we can still make the most of it to cast off old beliefs. To live our state of mind, not our calendar age. We can start dreaming by gently stirring a delicious cream of fresh asparagus soup for lunch. Enjoy a few pieces of chocolate while catching the news on TV. We can dare to live better simply by being more generous, more understanding and kinder to ourselves. I find it hard to imagine myself in a 3-piece bathing suit (leggings, skirt and top with extra support) chattering away in a 2-foot-deep pool on the deck of a cruise ship with a bar serving piña coladas to whoever. Yet that is how I’d like to celebrate my 75th year on this earth. And yes, it’s also what the bigwigs say about seniors’ well-being: It takes imagination, courage and a lot of moxie to foil the tricks played on us by old age that relentlessly tightens its grip.                  Cora

We opened our first small Cora restaurant on May 27, 1987, the very day of my 40th birthday. Life up until then had been difficult and much later, I would realize that this birthday would mark a dramatic break, like a door separating two worlds. “A revolving door” I would say to myself later, which in one strong turn swept away a sense of bleak resignation and replaced it with bright hope. On that May 27, 1987, when I opened the small diner with my name on the front, my kids and I were a thousand miles away from knowing it, but we were in fact celebrating the burial of our previous unhappy lives. Year ONE of our reconstruction began when we greeted our first customer. The rest of the story you’ve come to gradually know in these Sunday morning letters. And perhaps some of you who visited us at the time may have noticed to what lengths we went to delight our clientele and how much we truly cherished them. I confess today that I and the kids were the ones starving. In the kitchen or behind the counter, we were the ones who needed love, who were slowly learning to accept tenderness and affection. Working hard, we were so desperate to have normal lives that a small compliment felt as if we were being handed a gold bar. It’s perhaps because of this deep-felt gratitude towards our customers that I can still remember today these large chunks of life floating in my mind like glaciers making their way out to sea. The first time that the kids forced me to take a break from the diner’s kitchen was to take a weeklong all-inclusive to Paris. “A room with a view of the Eiffel Tower and a $300 traveller’s cheque for spending money,” they added with sincerity. I had been working 14 months solid, 7 days a week, with not one day off. I was anxious about leaving my baby, anxious that a customer might swallow a chicken bone, anxious that a violent wind would take out a window. And especially anxious that, if I were not there, it would all go awry and customers wouldn’t be properly served. “Afraid that the world would stop turning,” remarked my daughter. They went ahead regardless and bought the airplane ticket and chose Paris because they had overheard me say to the plumber that it was my dream to visit one day. Just the thought of leaving the following Saturday kept me awake for 4 nights in a row.  - “Trust me, Mom. The tickets are not refundable, you have to go.” I went and slept for 3 days straight in the small room with a view of the Eiffel Tower. The rest of the time, I walked the streets like an unplugged robot. I suppose that Paris is splendid when one’s eyes are able to contemplate its beauty, but mine were directed at the malevolent crows flying over my little diner.   How was I going to convince myself to let go? - “Mom, take a week’s vacation to relax and enjoy life. Don’t worry, we bought the package with money that our older brother gave us. So relax and enjoy yourself. We love you and we’re going to take care of your baby.” How could my poor little chicks understand that it wasn’t the diner that needed me but I who needed it? How to tell them that even in my sleep I flipped eggs on the grill? How to explain to them that I was a part of the diner’s furniture? That what nourished me was to see customers come through the doors. From the window of the jet plane that brought me back I saw the world wrapped in cotton. I couldn’t wait to touch down, to see the kids, to put my apron back on and cook a French-style cream of pumpkin soup. In the baggage hold, my suitcase was packed with new recipe books for extra-thin crêpes extravagantly garnished and folded. I was so excited to tell the kids about the delicious fruit coulis I had tasted, the mocha coffee and the extraordinary flavour of the pure butter used in pastries. At 5:45 p.m. local time in Montreal, the huge metal bird touched the ground and everyone aboard applauded. I was hoping to be greeted by the kids, but it was Guillaume the dishwasher who was waiting at the arrivals gate. His white jacket, splattered with egg yolk and ketchup, stood out clearly from the crowd that was waiting with arms outstretched. - “Let me take your suitcase, Boss. I came straight from the restaurant.” - “Did something happen? Where are the kids?” - “Don’t worry, Boss, I just finished the dishes. Everything is running well.” Our dishwasher confirmed that the world had not stopped while I was away. Business was brisk, and as strong as ever, according to the beautiful Gigi. The next morning, I briefly had the impression of entering a movie that had already started. Everything was humming. Gigi was at the grill, the youngest was transferring the crêpe batter and Marie was heading towards the large round table at the front carrying three large plates of food in her diminutive hands. Yoo-hoo!!! I’m back, I wanted to shout out. But I held it in. I made my way across the busy diner like a tiny mouse on a big cheese platter, trying to make as little noise as possible. I went downstairs and sitting on an upside-down margarine pail, I released the ocean of sadness flooding my heart. - “Everything is running well,” I told myself again. My little chicks no longer needed me to place bits of food in their beaks. They had grown up; they were right. I was no longer as indispensable as I had thought. And suddenly I heard my daughter cry out MOM! - “Mom, the meat guy wants to talk to you about a new cut of ham. Are you interested?” Everything in the kitchen interested me, and especially everything related to our morning specialty. The very next morning, we started to practise all the wonderful ideas that I had brought back from the City of Light, and the world began to spin just like it had before Paris.  The only change was my new habit of leaving the diner earlier just after the lunch service. No one objected. It was only then that I started to realize that our breakfast specialty was quickly eclipsing our small diner, gaining its independence from the hungry cook at the grill. And with that miraculous epiphany, I started to criss-cross the city looking for a new location. I found more than 150 across Canada. So many that I have never thought about returning to Paris. I will one day, I promise, just as soon as this horrible pandemic is dead and buried.       ❤️     Cora

Most of us are currently in the grip of the hardest phase of confinement since it began, unable to replace the toaster that just broke down, to buy a good book, a new pair of socks or even a gift card. At the grocery store, we wait in line, masks on and hands disinfected, to buy some celery, pork chops and yogurt. It’s overwhelming at times, but when I feel down I often reach for my notebook of famous sayings. This morning, when I opened it, I found myself reading these wonderful words by Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948):      “As human beings, our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world…as in being able to remake ourselves.” This phrase echoing in my mind, I feel my courage returning. I understand that I am not in the world’s driver’s seat, but that I can change my situation; I can remake myself, as Gandhi said. Instead of closing myself off in a sad reality that condemns me to an equally pitiful cycle of emotions. I can create new scenarios, imagine new endings. I can act by planning small projects that will keep me busier. I can think of new things to make my life more rewarding. In other words:             IT’S NEVER TOO LATE to change things for the better. That means it’s never too late to say “I LOVE YOU” more often. Instead of moping about, I should show more affection. I should plant “I LOVE YOU’s” all around me. Imagine being the gardener in a flower-strewn paradise. Sharing our feelings is probably the most difficult thing for tough old hearts still beating. Be careful though! (I heed my own words.) Because when words leave our mouths, the intentions they carry begin to materialize; affection becomes a seed and hostility a battle.  It’s never too late to LISTEN to someone. Never too late to remain silent and simply listen to my kids who are wiser and more thoughtful. Never too late to listen to my grandkids who are younger and more resilient. Never too late to reach out to an old friend, a daughter-in-law or a long-time neighbour. Listening attentively to someone is like greeting them with your arms wide open. It is to welcome their words, their experiences and maybe even a better point of view than your own on this or that matter. Listening is a genuine act of caring that should be a part of everyone’s daily practice. Starting with me.   It’s never too late to FORGIVE someone who caused us pain. Resentment is a heavy burden to carry. Forgiveness stops you from futilely reliving the hurt, frees your thoughts and lightens the heart. Let’s keep this in mind as we cross this harsh desert that has provided us with a rare chance for reflection. Forgiving may help us turn the page and welcome our new life with even more joy. Maybe one evening before falling asleep, instead of reading novels or dwelling on past hurts I should write a few words to my ex-husband, who was too good-looking to be tied to just one woman. I should also write to his poor mom, who wanted to marry her Adonis to a princess from a thousand and one nights. Softening my heart would help me appreciate the outstanding culinary talent of my ill-humoured daughters-in-law. Forgiveness would certainly help me dissolve the resentment that still clouds my later years even now. It’s never too late to LET GO. Never too late to rid ourselves of the weight of our hurts. We all age. How will we ever (myself included) manage to ascend to Paradise carrying so much baggage? With so many layers of frustration, so many regrets, so many unfulfilled desires and so many broken dreams? We have little to do these days, so why not make the most of this time and abandon our woes we vainly hold on to? Here’s a strategy that works: Find a comfortable place to sit and make a list of all your hurts. Go outside. That’s right. Go barefoot in the snow if you have to, and burn your list. I’ve done this more than once, often in winter. Extinguished, its dark cinders scar the pristine white snow. Just like our poor hearts. It’s never too late to GROW SOMETHING. Plant a seed, place a leek stalk in a glass of water, an ivy cutting in a cup. Pamper your fine herbs. Trust me, I find there is nothing more therapeutic than taking care of this nascent life growing on my kitchen counter. If you wish, do as I do and plant a tree in your head. A lilac perhaps, because when it’s in season, it envelops you with an exquisite smell. Give it some serious thought. You’ll have a new project to keep you busy and something to talk to during the winter, until the time comes to transplant your young charges outside in the ground. “Where do you prefer to grow, my dear? On the grass in front of the house? Or behind, next to your dusty pink sister?” It’s never too late to WRITE A LOVE LETTER to someone. To your lover, a parent, a partner or a stranger that you’d like to call your sweetheart. I am dying to have a fella I can write tender words to each day. Allowing your heart to speak is as delicious as sleeping on a fur blanket. And we certainly need some warmth these days. We need to practice saying words of love out loud. Even if we are just pretending. The Universe’s wisdom has a very long memory. It’s able to send us as many words of love as we have offered, so maybe I should be more brave of heart and practice more. And what if writing words of love had the power of planting the right seeds to conjure a beloved for real? It’s never too late to BECOME THE PERSON YOU WANT TO BE. It’s never too late to change careers, to make a new start. Life is short, shouldn’t we use the time we have to do what brings us enjoyment? The planet is fighting a difficult enemy, forcing us to slow down. Let’s take advantage of this moment to reflect on the values that are important to us, on the landscapes that comfort us and on big career-changing decisions. It might be highly instructive to revisit our first passions, to reflect on who we could have been and who we dream of becoming.   As for me, I’m certain it’s not too late to write and become a better storyteller. Never too late to welcome all those new ideas knocking at the door. Never too late to publish a new book. It’s never too late to question our past and recognize our true talents. And above all, above everything else, IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO HONOUR OUR DESIRES. And that is the grace that I wish so very, very much for you.        ❤️      Cora  Pssst: “Where the needs of the world and your talents cross, there lies your vocation,” Aristotle, Greek philosopher, disciple of Plato and teacher to Alexander the Great.

(written on Christmas morning) Is Christmas morning ever tough! I’m feeling sad and lonely as I sit in my large kitchen that is as quiet as a monastery of cloistered nuns. I should instead be happy that my plans went off without a hitch. Happy to have cooked all my children’s favourite holiday dishes; happy to have packaged them up so attractively. They were delighted with my efforts and the great-grandsons even offered to come and pick up the precious packages themselves. Everything was just perfect, as they say. I didn’t have to deal with somber rains, missing an exit on the highway or slipping on an icy entranceway. They all ate well, they announced on Zoom. This morning should be perfect too. The kitchen is spic and span. There’s a pot of freshly made coffee, and my trusty computer sits ready to record the day’s words. ................................... I humbly admit my heart is dragging its feet this morning. My eyes are tearing. As if some devil in my head is having fun making me believe that things are not as rosy as depicted in the brief letters that I love sharing with you. This morning, a blank page confronting me, I hesitate. Who am I really, other than an old lady full of sadness too heavy to toss out the window? Yet I have always been strong and brave; able to ignore pain, hurt and difficulties. That’s how we build a future, I’ve told myself each time I’ve had to steel myself. I would cry for a brief moment and then would push on despite the hardship.   This morning, I am beaten, like a deflated meringue. I want to howl like a Madeleine. To cry out loud that I’ve had enough of being locked up comfortably in my warm home. A prisoner of everything I like most: books, couches, drawings, DVDs, a collection of mismatched plates, bowls and cups neatly arranged in my dream kitchen. And even the huge table covered with all my writing material, with two large fragrant fir branches in a tall vase at its centre. Even this table fails to bring me the same joy as before.  What’s happening to me? Is that vital mixture of hope starting to stick to the bottom of the pot? Everything is perfect. It’s just that I long for the past. I am aching to spread my wings, to take a plane, to visit restaurants, our franchisees, our happy customers and our employees spread across this vast country. I want to have dinner with my grandkids and talk with them for hours. I want to browse bookstores, wander the city, enjoy a coffee with friends, discover a new pizza place, pick up a new pair of round glasses and attend a new play in front of actors on a stage.    I can’t wait to give my head the GO to start dreaming again. I can’t wait to tour my native Gaspé for the umpteenth time. And I especially can’t wait to fill my kitchen with real people, to have the kids visit with their families, their friends and all the usual visitors to the house. I can somehow hear the snow compressing beneath the cars as they climb the road to the house. Nini and Penelope are opening the door, calling out my name from the living room. It must be hope’s restorative power reviving me. Instead of howling I should be saying THANK YOU. - THANK YOU to this confinement for sheltering me from the worst! - THANK YOU again for helping me to mourn my departure from the office and settle into my new role as Founder and mother of the company’s president. - THANK YOU to this forced solitude that, whether I like it or not, has softened my armour, opened my heart and heightened my emotions. I no longer carry a shield. For the better! - THANK YOU to this confinement that has taught me to listen more to my body, my heart and my restless mind. I am learning to respond to the discomfort that comes with fatigue. I am learning to relax, to take care of myself and to be more attentive to little cuts and bruises. Now and then I have a little fit, but I have ample time to calm my mind through meditation, reading inspiring texts or listening to wonderful music.    - THANK YOU to all the quiet time that confinement has provided, free of work, business trips, overconsumption, unnecessary outings, vain distractions and mindless chatter. I’m less affected by the world’s dizzying noise and thus able to discern the good from the not-so-good.  - THANK YOU to this confinement for making me appreciate even more the food I eat every day. Since it’s my profession, I’ve had lots of time to think about my daily diet and about the best ways to nourish myself. I’ve also really enjoyed rereading my many cookbooks and trying new recipes that still make my mouth water. And just imagine, I haven’t put on a single pound since last March.   - THANK YOU to this brutal pandemic for providing us with the tough lesson that uncertainty is an essential part of life. That we must learn to live with the unexpected and the unknown. - THANK YOU to this confinement which made these letters possible. Wishing to stay connected to our customers, we thought about writing a weekly letter so that our hearts could stay in touch, so we could share recipes with you and tell you stories about the early days and our journey since. And who better than the founder herself to put it all into words. - AND FINALLY A HUGE THANK YOU to you, dear readers, who have accompanied me throughout these writings. Your precious comments have warmed my heart and inspired me to continue. I try to bring my memories to life on the page. They have emerged from the past, one by one, thanks to you. These hours spent reminiscing are a wonderful elixir. Each letter gives me the sense that I have returned to being the person I was at the start: available and happy to delight my customers.       ❤️     Cora

I woke up this morning with the distinct impression that I was holding a huge bouquet of tales to tell in my arms. Like a gift from a good angel who noticed me brooding yesterday afternoon over the dreadful prospect that the well of my memory had completely run dry. Yet new memories danced on my kitchen table this morning. They giggled and teased each other over who would be the first to be written about. And then out of nowhere, a magnificent white duck swooped in and landed on the page, bearing a wonderful story that illustrates the saying “what you give, you get back a hundredfold.” In the early days at our first small diner, I formed a bond with several customers. They would come for breakfast in the morning and return for late afternoon tea, a slice of cake and some small talk just before I ended my shift at 4 p.m. They needed to confide in someone, and I needed to feel connected to the real world, to have friends and allies, as well as attentive ears to listen to my next recipe for tenacity. Nico was part of this group. She was well-educated and curious, always with some wild adventure to tell. “Pages from life” she called them. Like the one about her ex who, upon returning from an African safari, kicked her out of their comfortable home to make room for a young entomologist who was cataloguing insect pests in South Africa. From a well-off family, Nico had used up her inheritance trying to regain her beloved home. She lost everything – the mansion, her status, rich friends and her own kids, who, in her words, preferred their father’s wealth to their mother’s heartache. Fortunately, with her cultivated background, she found work as a librarian. She had been working 8 years as one when I met her. I remember her sad story well because a few days after the birth of my first grandson, Nico brought me a magnificent white porcelain duck that had served as a cookie jar in her luxurious kitchen from her former life. “A precious rare object won through legal bickering,” she explained. The white, long-necked duck, with its beak painted the same yellow as my Sun, was almost as big as the real full-sized version. When I held this rescued bird in my arms, it almost immediately became the genesis for the Cora Foundation. Two days earlier, a new worry had gripped my throat when I witnessed my first grandson being born: We had so little. How were we ever going to give this child an adequate future? Pulling on the duck’s neck to open it, I hit upon the solution. My grandson weighed 6 pounds at birth, so starting that day, I would stash away $6 from my pocket in the hollow of the duck. The pet bird sat on a shelf behind the cash, and at each day’s closing, I proudly put away the same amount. I did this for three years straight until the opening of our second restaurant, when I doubled the daily contribution, to $6 per restaurant. My daughter, who had to keep track of the duck’s growing value, decided that we would simply add up all the amounts in a book. When the third restaurant opened, the amount went up again, to $18 a day. This daily accumulation ended the day we had to scrape together all the loose change at the back of the drawers to pay for a run-down delicatessen and transform it into a breakfast restaurant.      We were short on money, so we needed to borrow our savings in the “ducky bank” to invest in the fourth restaurant of our growing chain, which 10 years later, would have no less than 80 locations. Back then in 1991, we didn’t know what awaited us, but it was clear that our family would now be able to provide comfortably for its youngest members. We stopped putting away $6 a day per restaurant; the money that had been collected would be used to make the first donation to the Cora Foundation when the time was right. Since then, we have had hundreds of opportunities to help children in much greater need than ours in those first early years. For 10 years, with help from our franchisees, we collected all the profits from a big annual charity golf tournament for children that was very popular with our suppliers, coworkers and partners. Yearly benefit dinners, speaking fees and royalties from the books I have written allowed us to provide even more aid. With the restaurant chain growing, thus securing the kids’ future, we made the decision to direct all our donated funds to Breakfast Club of Canada, a large organization dedicated to providing breakfast to children at schools in underprivileged neighbourhoods across Canada. Each day, Breakfast Club of Canada makes it possible to serve some 257,000 nutritious breakfasts in 1,880 Canadian schools. Thousands of kids are given an equal chance to learn and succeed. For several years now, we have also implemented an efficient mechanism for collecting funds for the Club, in close partnership with our franchisees. Customers at our restaurants can help feed kids who sadly begin the school day on an empty stomach. For every order of our delicious sweet ’n salty BREAKFAST FOR THE CLUB, which is easy to spot in the egg section of the menu, 50 cents goes to Breakfast Club of Canada. It’s our way of helping kids in need reach their full potential, one breakfast at a time. We all need each other, which is why it is so important to give and do what we can. Back then, I needed Nico to show me human warmth, and she needed me to help lessen her pain. She gave me an incredible gift, which in turn, inspired me to help as many children as possible.       ❤️    Cora Pssst: Dear reader, I may be somewhat biased, but each time you join us in supporting Breakfast Club of Canada’s cause, you’ll find that giving has never been so deliciously satisfying. The Breakfast for the Club is served on a large plate with two eggs cooked the way you like, four crispy slices of bacon, perfectly roasted potatoes and a thick slice of egg bread dipped in tasty French toast batter, cooked until golden and then drizzled with salted caramel and covered with fresh banana slices. It’s so good, I guarantee you’ll be licking your fingers!

Thirty-three years have passed and yet I still remember as if it were yesterday the excited energy that was 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 to mark the first day of December in 1987. The restaurant had been open a whole five months. As our clientele swelled, so did our audacity it seemed. - “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,” he added, a suggestion which was explained by his great fondness for baked treats. I struck a deal, promising to make him a carrot cake to take home if he helped me install my towering surprises one evening 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 four side windows. Each night during the week before Christmas, I sewed on different coloured felt circles by hand, various ribbon garlands, white cotton wool snowflakes, small blue satin stars, big silver buttons, 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 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, who made sure that each star was securely attached. No one who enjoyed our tree-shaped molasses cookies thought the cook would actually keep her outlandish promise. The exclamations of surprise were profuse. So much so that the four tall trees elicited expressions of amazement each day in different ways all the way until spring. This colourful forest was also a magnificent gift to myself, since it has remained forever planted in my memory. And each time I recall it, I am delighted by the extraordinary creative power of imagination. This year, in 2020, we all need to bring out our imaginary forests from where we stored them. So we can hear the laughter of our loved ones, feel their hugs and savour their holiday treats. Since celebrations must be subdued, let’s each use our imagination to create some magic this season. Despite all the work and holiday frenzy, it has been nearly 50 years that I have been preparing Christmas Eve festivities for my children, their kids, close friends and a few lonely souls. I can easily imagine that this year, instead of setting two 14-seat tables in my large kitchen, I am instead going to spend the entire month of December first playing Ms. Claus, cooking everyone’s favourite holiday dishes, and then Santa, as I deliver the tasty gifts to their doors.  It has all been decided as I write these words. I will make at least a dozen large pork and veal tourtières with finely diced potatoes and seasonal spices. Then a huge meatball stew. Delicious braised pigs’ feet, oven-cooked turkey quarters, mashed potatoes, puréed carrots and parsnips, and a sublime sweet potato gratin that the kids go crazy for. For breakfast the next day, cretons and my delicious baked beans and ham. Each recipient will get a sampling of my homemade jams, and if time allows, a big pot of the world’s best caramel. I will lovingly wrap all this food in red transparent holiday paper, as happy as if everyone had been there with me in the kitchen. Around December 22 or 23, dressed warmly with a Santa tuque on my head and a mask on hand if needed, I will hop in my Mini Cooper, put on some holiday music and deliver my packages.                ❤️             Cora Pssst: It is never too late to adopt new behaviours. Never too late to discover a powerful quality such as resilience. This ability to adapt to new situations and imagine different scenarios, freeing us from the limits of the same story. Crises pass, as we, strong and resilient, remain standing.