Mme Cora's letter

Just the other night, I was twenty, a young girl clinging to my side. We were walking at dusk, scattering in the wind our excess of torments. The child and I walked on a path our four green eyes visibly moist. I loved the rain that washed our tears, the misty horizon, its pierced clouds. Prisoner of an unimaginable poem, my poor mind searching for ideas, marvellous escapes, golden islands. A tale of despair almost impossible to share. On my hip, half-asleep, the child nuzzles my neck. Her small arms hanging, her thin legs dangling. My heart, my arms, my legs, my entire body, floating reeds. My follies, my dreams, my desires, the extravagances of yesteryear. Fleeing the vicious man, We hoped to reach the open sea. Descending towards the great ocean, like the ancestor in his barge. On a road aimlessly traced, worry stops me from advancing. Wolfs howl and owls who. The ocean black, its waves raging. Falling leaves, flying feathers, all my beautiful certitudes disappear. All that remains is an untellable tale, an almost inconceivable run-for-your-life! The spiteful man is unforgivably handsome, his evil heart tawdrily dressed. A few lines come to me in fragments. His mother, his sister, a few sisters-in-law. The city lights go dark. The horizon falls into the void before us. The child covered suddenly in frost seeks the door to my belly. Again tonight, reality’s cruelty obstructs our path to the moon, prevents us from catching a star, sliding over the tops of clouds, and jumping into the ocean blue. “I’m on a stroll,” my body tells itself. Up there, on a cloud, the yellow star dazzles me. The light slips between my ten fingers. It streams down the little girl’s neck. And I write! — “Mom!,” she cries out. Cora ❤

I dillydally, I have fun, I ramble on. I often feel like I’m writing as if I were taking my final breaths; as if I want to write everything before departing, dry up my well of nicely written sentences and then escape. The flesh of words has always been my motherland, where reality is born, where, this morning, my worn fingers try to sow torn hopes together; a life story that’s been patched a thousand times. I keep going and plead with Chronos, the god of passing hours. From the depths of time, will this son of Zeus answer me? I bow and beg all the divine beings of the Pantheon. My black inked lines form a long appeal, a prayer for my heart parched for love. Once I wanted to love and had to cross over the wailing wall with its barbed wire. I searched for a bit of affection in my own way. Thank heavens, I was blessed with the drive to push straight ahead in my studies and business. It seems heaven has watched over me so I never feel alone on earth. A few angels unfailingly unfurl a flying carpet, an eagle throws a few feathers my way and I write my truth. I’m glad to leave the kingdom of dreams. I love the rosy face of dawn. In my large kitchen, I count my blessings. I’m amazed. How many days do I have left to hastily paint my last desires? I kneel and pray for the great reaper to forget me, not take me. My heart slides between the lines, my ardour arranges the rhymes. I dillydally, I have fun, I imagine my outrageously withered body swimming in the ocean. Who will take it to the paradisiacal shore of eternity? A whale could snack on my flesh. I tremble and worry that it may also swallow my heart. Please throw me in the earth as pittance, hide my words in the veins of streams! My fingers shiver, but they charge into these blissful mornings of writing. They throw back the hands of time as they see fit. They use the hours like free minutes in a parking meter. In a big bowl, time mixes the chapters of my busy life. When I turn on my tablet, a spray of sparks shoots from a half-complete sentence. It’s a trick I use so I never lose the trail of a story I started the day before. And so this morning, I hurry to describe the last volcanic flows of my heart. A fiery cloud of desire dries up the black ink of my words. I imagine leaving this world without anything holding me back – no regrets, no cadaver and no notepads. I ponder in front of the glowing page. This morning like every morning, my mute fingers fold and unfold dozens of drafts. They strikethrough, erase and then tap and tap away until emptying the dawn of all its waking dreams. Without fail, new sentences hover and fly between the clouds. They touch the peaks of mountains, brush against eagles, knock at the doors of angels and ask the heavens’ blessing. When will I be able to fly away? The globe turns and turns, but life can only ever be lived once. Cora ❤

After my letter appeared recounting my shopping spree at the town’s grocery store (published on February 18), many well-intentioned readers reached out to console me. I always read all your comments, and this time, I almost wept. That night, I was in a bit of a funk. I hadn’t eaten lunch and was starving, but nothing tempted me. The weather was mild, so I thought I might drive to the nearby Asian or Italian restaurant. My Mini Cooper, however, decided otherwise and drove me to a long-time acquaintance, the town’s grocer, for one of our usual chats. I arrived only to discover he had left for the evening. I felt like I had been left high and dry. This morning, I turn to your comments, which I find so delicious, and have decided to share a few with you here! Sylvie Choquette, a regular reader, consoled me by writing in her comment that she also felt morose that night in the aisles of her local grocery store. She realized it was a new moon. This celestial body that, according to her, turns our emotions upside down. “Let’s stay strong,” she urges! Many thanks, dear Sylvie. Nadia Lesage shared this precious advice: “If you want to find hope again and convince yourself that it’s never too late, read my book entitled J’ai attrapé le bonheur au vol (“I caught happiness on the fly”). Dear Nadia, I love everything that flies in the sky: bees, butterflies, birds, planes, and most likely, your book that I’ll read attentively. “Thank you for taking us with you to the grocery store. Many of us are alone, without a companion at the moment. We must keep up hope; our companion will arrive when we’re ready to welcome them. These blues you’re talking about often visit me too.” Dear Lilianne Blondeau, we’re all mature and magnificent women. Let’s stay positive. Michel Tanguay, another one of my Sunday letter regulars, quizzes me in his comment. “Is the word AVAILABLE starting to appear on your forehead?” What a surprising question, dear Michel! As someone who still believes that all men of a loving age choose to skip their turn when they meet me, perhaps I should embroider the magic word on my jacket? Sylvie Chamberland wrote: “Madame Cora, walking by your side in the grocery aisles was delicious and moving at the same time. I felt so much love in your moment of melancholy. I have to admit that I sometimes think of you as my grandmother.” What joy it would be to run our errands together, dear Sylvie! We could even cook together if we were neighbours. Maria Domenica Sabelli is another very loyal reader. For her, reading my letters is “such pleasure! Your descriptions inside the grocery store make my mouth water.” Thank you, Johanne Simard Pomerleau, who suggests I innocently drop a can of soup just like we dropped a handkerchief in the old days to catch someone’s eye. What a good idea, dear Joanne! Perhaps I could try to reach for a box of cereal on the highest shelf and a handsome fellow might appear to assist me? “Madame Cora, don’t despair. Your man is nearby, just keep your eyes open. Perhaps he’s a mechanic or a doctor?” Dear Rachel Lavoie, I would prefer the mechanic who could cook for me and maybe wash my car on occasion. “This morning, your melancholy hit me straight in the heart. Not the bit about not having a man in my life – for me that’s a done deal – rather the fact that I eat alone, that I go grocery shopping for one. It’s the biggest regret of my life as a single person.” Dearest Diane Gagné, I understand you so well. In an ideal world, we’d be the best of friends. We could share recipes and, from time to time, we’d eat together. “Dear Cora, it’s so peaceful to no longer dream about men. We don’t die from it. Quite the opposite! We are reborn to life and to others.” Dear Michèle Paré, perhaps you’re right, but I still have hope! I only knew one man, and he wasn’t a good model. Please, let me hope! Let me dream of a nice white-haired head on my pillow. “You describe the feelings I experience too well. Where’s the man who’s my perfect match? Should we resign ourselves to being married to celibacy until the very end? Let’s not lose hope!” I agree with you, dear Suzanne Duchaîne. We won’t give up. “There’s a lot of emotion in this text and, as usual, I’m very moved by your words. I understand your sadness. There are days when even the sun isn’t able to warm our hearts. But love takes many forms and sometimes it hides in the unexpected. I wish it for you from the bottom of my heart.” Thank you, dear Danielle Locas. “Madame Cora, I have an idea. Maybe you should invent an imaginary boyfriend, your ideal man and, by writing him sweet love letters, he’ll appear. Like a visualization exercise.” I will think about it, dear Lucie Beauregard! I love to write and my heart would be able to describe him. But would I have the pluck to publish his description in a letter? Probably. What do I have to lose anyway? “Happy Sunday, Aunt Cora. You should come visit the ready-to-eat counter at the grocery store where I work. Maybe that’s where your Romeo is hiding.” Thank you, Ann Mary. I will certainly visit you! “I so hope you find a nice man to warm your heart and your bed very soon! In the meantime, cook yourself something nice and enjoy every morsel with a small glass of that spicy rum.” That’s some very sound advice. Thank you, Louise Gagne. “Madame Cora! We love your weekly musings. How I wish I were your neighbour. We could shop and eat together,” declares Jayne Amero Cogswell. We totally would! “A sad read this morning. February blues, perhaps? Chin up, Cora. The sun will come out tomorrow.” Rest assured, dear Gayle Ginger, that the gloom has passed and the sun shines again. “It’s so comforting to read you, even through the maze of your gloomy thoughts,” writes Paulie L’Italien. “Those handsome and mysterious greying gents are just waiting for us around the corner,” assures me Katerine Ka. “Love comes with its suitcase full of tears,” reflects Lorraine Bowles (91). Thank you so much for being by my side so faithfully through this amusing adventure. I dillydally and have fun, interspersed with the occasional moment of doubt. I hope you’ve appreciated these inspiring words as much as I have. Cora ❤

I need you, dear readers! This is the 211th letter that’s being published and I wonder if I’ve told you everything. I can’t make things out clearly in this huge warehouse of my memory. I imagine mice dancing under the bottom shelves while crows scavenge and dig up old things on the top ones. Like the crows in the warehouse, I open my notepad filled with quotes I copied from famous people and fall upon a few lines by Mahatma Gandhi: “As human beings, our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world — this is the myth of the atomic age — as in being able to remake ourselves.” As I reflect upon this sentence, my courage returns. I thought I was depleted, but realize it’s never too late to recreate myself. It’s never too late…to sort through my life, to keep what is precious and get rid of the clutter. It’s never too late…to listen to my heart more often because it knows things my mind doesn’t comprehend. It’s never too late…to want to care for a pet. A cat or a dog would teach me to be more sensitive and affectionate. Everyone says I should get one. It’s never too late…to visit my native Gaspésie more often and contemplate its blue waves. I always feel like going yet I often hesitate to let the road take me there. It’s never too late…to be amazed, to let my eyes take in the world, admire nature and the tall firs surrounding my home. It’s never too late…to say thank you more often and mean it from the bottom of my heart. A sincere thank you requires so little effort. It’s never too late…to create new bonds, open my heart to new friendships and new adventures. It’s never too late…to improve the life of others around me; mine will only be that much better for it. It’s never too late…to spice up my life and stop the daily routine from numbing my mind. Fortunately, writing allows me to go a little wild every now and then. It’s never too late…to learn to let go, to unburden myself of the things weighing on my shoulders and shackling my ankles. It’s never too late…to age gracefully. We’re as old as our thoughts, not whatever age the calendar says we are. Adventurous projects help us stay young apparently. It’s never too late…to cultivate something, to sow a seed, watch the flower bloom and care for it. My kitchen counter is filled with plants and I blow them kisses so they grow faster. It’s never too late…to forgive someone who’s hurt us. Resentment is a heavy burden. Forgiving saves us from fixating on our sorrows, frees the mind and lightens our heart. It’s never too late…to start something. I started all over again at 40; my career as a trailblazing businesswoman is proof. It’s never too late…to say “I love you.” It’s a precious gift. Say it often and with sincerity. I’m dying to be able to say it to my prince charming one day! Where on earth is my soulmate hiding? Cora ❤

I’ve spent the day penning a love poem. I’m hungry, but nothing tempts me. Not even the Asian restaurant I always love to go to when feeling gloomy. I need dishwashing soap, healthy berries, a ripe papaya, a few slices of ham and, I can’t stop dreaming about it, a nice solid rib to hang my heart on. Aging alone is a very effective appetite suppressant. It feels like I have always been alone, but I had my wonderful business as a partner. We learned together, worked together, developed new markets together, and I was ecstatic. Jumping from one ray of sunshine to the next, I was in paradise. I need cream for my coffee. I drink so much of it! Every time I’m bored, I press the button on the Keurig. The hot liquid quickly refuels my mind. There is never any sugar in my coffee, and almost never any man on my mind. The grocer’s fruit displays make me happy. I used to force myself to eat fruit, but today, I relish it, especially when I make a dinner out of it. I create beautiful colourful plates to which I add a serving of yogurt and keto granola. In the summertime, I often add a few edible flowers. It looks so pretty and it cheers my lonely heart. I leave the pale pineapple pulp in the plastic jars behind me and move my cart towards a large table covered with desserts. My eyes devour the raspberry upside-down cakes, the chocolate ganaches, the pouding chômeur and the big new date cookies by Madame Labriski. Everything looks so delicious! Thanks, but no thanks. I no longer bury my sorrow in such sweets. I stoically embrace my reality as an obsolete old person. I quickly make my way through the tea and coffee aisle. I don’t have a sophisticated palate for liquids. However, a very good friend of mine, an entrepreneur and creator of spice blends, recently gave me a bottle of rum called “L’Assemblée.” It’s a fine elixir flavoured with a blend of spices from my friend Catherine’s line of “LA PINCÉE” spices. I love it! I don’t drink it every night of course, but when my old friend the blues sits down to watch a movie with me, I enjoy a few sips. For a moment, it revives my dormant hopes. In the frozen food section, I sift through old ideas again and again. Where has the best ice cream gone to? And the golden youth that was stolen away from me? All my words snap straight just thinking about it. Will I see the Baie-des-Chaleurs again, with its fire-red cliffs, its old sunken dock surrounded by eels with tiny sharp teeth? I went two years ago and was afraid of going into the freezing water. In front of the frozen pizzas, my toes freeze. I open a large freezer door and then immediately close it. Even with boxes proudly featuring the handsome faces of celebrity Quebec chefs, I’m still tempted to say that all the good pizzerias are dead. I remember a time when I was crazy about pasta and pizza! Where on earth are the frozen green peas? My granddaughter is coming over for dinner tomorrow night and I’m preparing her favourite meal, arakas (a Greek dish made with peas). In a saucepan, sauté small veal cubes with finely minced onions and crushed tomatoes. When the meat is tender, add small green peas, salt, pepper and loads of fresh (if available) dill. Let simmer on low heat until hunger orders the lid to be removed. Do I still have bread at home? Maybe a baguette from Première Moisson? At the fish counter, the grey-haired man smiles at me. I like him so much, but his shiny wedding ring can still be seen under the fish scales. Seems to me like all the good men have already been harpooned. What have I done to deserve this misfortune? Seriously. I suddenly feel like I’m going to bawl: the cod counter is empty! — “I promise you, I will have some tomorrow!” the fishmonger tells me, an apologetic look on his face. I want to be consoled this evening. A few slices of ham in half a baguette could perhaps do the trick? Everything is blurry in my mind; all is empty in my heart. Will I ever stop proclaiming my lack of love? Wise men say that “what you focus on becomes your reality.” If I change my tune, will all the men be at my feet? It might happen! Hanging onto my cart, I move slowly. In the spaghetti, linguine and rigatoni aisle, nothing strikes me as interesting; not even my old heroes, the handsome Stefano and Ricardo. To my right, the white sauces, to my left, the red ones. The sky is all white and hell all red. In the potato chips and soft drink aisle, a paunchy old man pats the big bags of chips. He looks over and smiles, and I respond: — “Yes, yes! The Kettle sea salt potato chips are the best!” — “It’s memory that goes first,” says the elderly man with a gap-toothed smile. “My mind even forgets the name of my wife’s favourite cookies.” I skip the aisle with the pickles, olives and marinated veggies. Maybe I should grab a jar of beets as a side for my famous salmon pies I intend to make soon? The cans of salmon have been waiting for me in the pantry long enough. I realize that I’m definitely not as undaunted in the kitchen as I used to be. Is age throwing me off? Or is laziness flirting with me? My egg sauce is the best in the world. I’m hungry just thinking about it! I stand in front of the BBQ chicken warmer, imagining my last hour: my body seasoned with hot spices, my breast a touch crispy, my thighs well-cooked and trussed together. I’m wrapped in aluminum foil and kept warm. Hungry mouths pass back and forth in front of the hot counter and, just like in my youth, I feel invisible. We all end up at the check-out eventually, and I firmly believe that the bill with all our good deeds will turn out to be the least expensive one. And about my heart’s Romeo, maybe I should widen my hunting ground? I’ll drive out of town and browse the big box stores selling discounted clothing. I dillydally and have fun. These words drunk with sorrow stretch out the hours with daydreams. Who will take care of me on the other side? Sometimes I feel afraid and cry in the aisles. So scared that my fingers can no longer speak to you! Cora ❤

Rain or shine, at the coffee shop where I write, handsome men go to and fro in search of a coffee. Hungry, intrigued, clumsy, they smile, glance at the pastries, and place their order. Most often, they take their coffee to go. Silent thoughts flutter with light wing beats and dive deep into the foam of double lattes. In the distance, my heart beats like a spring chick’s, spins and bounces like a weathervane. The wind blows and I imagine all these fine-looking men thrown towards my table, their eyes drowning in mine. All summer and late into fall, a man disguised as a golf player came in around 10 each day. I locked my eyes on him, so gorgeous! His smile spoke words to me. Leaning over my keyboard like a nun in prayer, I’d catch his warm “hellos.” I resuscitated long-silent words only so I could write them to him one day. Time comes and goes, and autumn falls to sleep. Winter’s howling gusts bring cold and snow. The backdrop is set for the great seduction. All the fir trees in my village kneel on a white carpet. They pray for me of course, for my head enveloped in hope, for my heart thirsty for love. I think about what I am writing, I look up and see him once more. The man of my dreams enters the coffee shop dressed in a stylish woolen suit. My brain scatters, my heart goes boom, my fingers freeze over the keyboard. He looks and smiles in my direction, I want to stop the hands of time. This man of the same settled age, will he finally talk to me? Filled with squiggles, my pages beg for springtime, with its lush greens, and the joyful song of finches. Always, always, my heart hopes. I dream of giving in to the temptation of stray small white balls landing in my backyard, of large lattes enjoyed under the silver maple. I picture his build, his welcoming chest. His arms so strong and long, his muscular legs the colour of exotic caramel. His eyes are a magnificent mauve blue. His cheeks, candy-apple red. Oh how I’d love to seek my teeth into them! I dream, I fantasize, I imagine his head filled with giant sunflowers. His curly grey-white hair, intertwined with my lacquered strands. “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” I dillydally and have fun. I’m inventing a February 14 for all the lonely beings. CORA ❤❤❤

I’m the type of writer who finishes a letter on Tuesday and wants to start a fresh one the following day. You’ll rarely find me with idle hands. I either have to make an appearance at the office or start some big cleaning project at home. I’m also constantly on the lookout for bits of information that’ll spark a story for your Sunday mornings. Quite often these days, I dillydally and have fun, I write poems that I store in the back of my mind. I force my fingers to dance on the keyboard like I’m worried they’ll get stiff from thinking too much. The white page is an empty house that must be taken possession of. I open the door and everything is white, completely empty. I can barely make the height of the walls, the size of the rooms. I move slowly in a blinding light. A bird flies in through an open window; it’s a blackbird, as black as my ink, with a pretty orange beak. Suddenly the colour starts singing in my head, and my senses awaken. I hear timid chirps, the broken sound of words coming from nowhere. The bird, drunk from the ink, summons the voice inside my head; a surreal imagination defies all reason and the text appears. Taking the shape of a cloud dancing in the sky, a thousand birds flock together and fill my pages with meaning. Writing is the most magical passion. It opens the door to daily miracles. I love poetry, with its short sentences, rhythm and suggestive words. Like a garland or rosary of good intentions, the poem dresses up each precious word. Without knowing if my readers appreciate reading the occasional poem, I throw a few out, here and there. I always, always try to find the right form that best conveys what I want to say. A short story, a highlight, a memory from childhood that surfaces; everything feeds me, everything is grist for the mill. I’m still just a novice who’s learning. I had to take a thousand detours before finally dedicating myself to my passion for words, but it’s never too late, and I insist on pursuing it. I’m a good storyteller of lived experiences. Sometimes I embellish human nature, especially when it comes to my old prince charmings! I want them to be impressive, intelligent and promising, even if it means forgiving their dishevelled appearance and audacious remarks that make my words twirl. I’m not a writer who expounds worldly causes. I’m very much a teller of everyday stories who’s able to ennoble the smallest of details, the desolation of a place, a string of words or a broken heart. I have a propensity for elevating the everyday. I observe, I read a lot and take notes. I have dozens of notepads blackened with words I like. The tenacity of bees has always inspired me. Dare I dream that one day my humble words could be as sweet as fine honey? Since the Salon du livre de Montréal (Montreal book fair) and the recent publication of my work, I’m thrilled to find people are now acknowledging me as an author. This makes me wonder if I shouldn’t try my hand at a different form of writing. Perhaps short stories? A brief fictional story that can be read in one sitting and typically ends with a climax, or unexpected twist. Since the narrative is brief, the short story has only a few characters, not much action and a handful of locations. The plot often revolves around one or two main characters. I wonder if a short story could run the same length as a Sunday letter (1,200 words or so). Wow, I’m getting carried away! Writing allows me to grow and experience new possibilities. I don’t think writing is a privilege reserved only for poets, philosophers and other novelists. We can be the best of friends; I simply need to work at it with passion and determination. I’m already looking for my protagonist, a fictitious character that I’ll have to pluck out of the void and invent from start to finish. Will I be able to tell a story which is not entirely true? Can I learn how to flesh out the psychological portrait of the story’s lead? Create an unexpected plot in only 1,200 words? Am I capable of such a feat? I can already imagine a short story where the protagonist’s inner world takes up most of the space; their feelings and emotions serving as a defining element of the plot. I’m already sketching the outline of two old stubborn toads. Sounds terrible! Would the story be too simple? When you’re older, the only thing happening in your life of any importance is your pill regimen. And yet the ending of the story has to be surprising, breathtaking and totally unexpected. What a challenge! I’m starting to get comfortable on the page, but I will have to learn to respect the need for brevity if I want to write a short story. Angels above, please help me shorten my sentences! Cora ❤

I’ve long known that January is the time when we reflect upon the resolutions that will govern our new year. As a teenager, I’d scribble down a dozen self-improvement resolutions in a secret exercise book. Hardships thankfully transformed a young naïve girl into an enterprising and progressive woman, capable of navigating life’s tempests. This year, however, I’m settling down. My double-seven birthday (77) at the end of May means I’ve more than earned it. Dear readers, I’d like to gently suggest on this soft snowy day a few verbs to reflect upon. LOVE To love profoundly gives us strength; to be loved profoundly gives us courage. LIGHTEN Eliminate all the useless things you’ve accumulated over the years that are gathering dust. FACE Face your fears. They chain you down as long as you keep running from them. Don’t underestimate your courage. LEARN Open your mind to new things every day. BLESS Bless your positivity! Be on the lookout for the good things in life. CELEBRATE! Celebrate! Because life is too short not to celebrate it each day. CHOOSE Choose the best for yourself! Re-evaluate your individual goals and then aim higher. DELEGATE It’s one of the most valuable and least-used talents. SAY NO Nothing seems easier than saying no, but for many it’s a nearly impossible feat. BE YOUR OWN MASTER It’s impossible to thrive in the shadow of others. LISTEN TO YOUR INNER VOICE Listen to your body, give it a chance to talk to you. DO YOUR BEST Go all in, body and soul! FINISH Finish what you started. Don’t worry about how much time it will take to cross the finish line. BE REBORN Every day you are reborn. Don’t let yesterday hold you back. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF You only have one life to live! Take great care of it as if it were a gold bar. IGNORE Ignore pessimistic people. Avoid their company and the black cloud that follows them. SHARE Share your experience. You’ll be rewarded for it. QUESTION Ask questions. Maybe start with this one: Why are we here on Earth? SLOW DOWN Take the time to observe and expand your viewpoint. We should contemplate the infinite beauty of the tall fir trees. AWAKEN Awaken the artist sleeping inside each one of us. Express the best of yourself. The act of creating brings us closer to a higher conscience. EXPLORE Explore off the beaten track. There are risks, but there’s also the hope of great reward. SAVOUR Savour the silence and allow your own melodies to be heard. HOLD Hold your tongue. Restraint keeps you from hurting others. ADMIRE Admire the beauty of the world because it’s everywhere – in sincere friendships, in a luminous mind, in a loving heart. Dear readers, I wish that we can all learn something new each day. A lesson from nature, from people who surround us or from something within us. Let’s strengthen our wings, so that, one day, we can fly. Cora ❤

A few days after my book signing event at the Salon du livre de Montreal (Montreal book fair), I still couldn’t stop thinking about all the attention I had received from devoted readers who took the time to stop at my table and chat, give their compliments and pick up a personalized autographed copy. For a moment, I believed I was back in one of my first restaurants greeting each guest with a huge smile on my face. I was delighted to meet so many readers of my Sunday letters who wanted to get a copy of my book to read more of my stories. I must admit that these five consecutive days of book signing felt as strenuous as the Sundays long ago when I flipped hundreds of fresh fruit crêpes on the griddle. Today, these same 10 fingers cook up nourishing paragraphs for your delight. At the book fair, I saw Janette Bertrand (Quebec journalist, actor, writer and speaker, a thought-provoking content creator and a fierce advocate for the rights of women, the elderly and marginalized people), who I admire greatly for having reached 98 years in such fine form. I’m convinced she’ll surpass Canada’s longest-living woman, Cecile Edith Klein, who passed in 2022 at the age of 114. It appears that Ms. Klein’s secret to longevity was that she always remained very positive. Duly noted! Let’s avoid gloom and sadness if we want to become centenarians. Rested, with my feet back on the ground after this surge of emotions, I quickly started to think about writing again. But before weaving new tales, I wanted to thank my good friends from the local coffee shop who never ceased to encourage me while I was writing my book. I made friends by sitting at the same table, day after day. Men, women and regular patrons who inspired me with their hellos, a quick chat, a smile; and who would even sometimes tell me a story between two cups of coffee. Many have become my supporters, keen to help without distracting me. To show my gratitude, I invited them to a friendly dinner at my large dining table a few days before Christmas. We defied the unlucky number 13. We were the same number at the table, just like at the Last Supper. My good friend Neil and his wife Adèle, Marie-Pierre the flight attendant, Claude the bush pilot, George the old Sicilian with his wife Carole, Steven the retired policeman, my friend Éric the chef, Denis the 70-year-old teenager, Sylvain who recently lost his wife, my oldest son, his girlfriend and myself. All the wise old people that were my age (and even my son and his partner) really appreciated the invitation. They all brought their big hearts and something in their hands. Sylvain’s fudge, Adèle’s delicious cake, George’s chocolate, the flight attendant’s floating island meringue, the chef’s sugar pie and many bottles of wine. I had already mentioned to the bush pilot, a former electrician-instructor, that one of the bedrooms no longer had heat. He arrived with a new thermostat instead of a bottle of wine and installed it before dinner. Since it was the first time we were all gathered at the same table, I had prepared questions to break the ice at dessert time so we could get to know each other better and deepen our friendship. We giggled like teenagers when hearing the answers and mostly laughed out loud when hearing individual anecdotes. All those years spent as a restaurateur and later on as a businesswoman were devoid of any meaningful friendships. I always, always had to be on the lookout, ready to solve a problem, invent a new menu, inaugurate a new restaurant, conquer a province and surpass my targets, year after year. During those years, I didn’t have time to exist, the courage to approach others or the opportunity to develop friendships. At that time, loving was the furthest thing possible. Nonetheless, I have finally received the immense gift of friendship later in life; the mutual feeling of affection and sympathy that is not based on family ties or sexual attraction. It’s never too late to learn that friendships are a source of happiness, fulfillment and sharing. I realize today that true friends are like angels: We don’t have to see them to feel their presence. They are always there, in our minds. Cora ❤

This story dates back to the fall of 1987, a few months after we opened our first restaurant. I had already decided that we would put all our efforts into offering our clientele amazing breakfasts. No one at that time could have guessed that this small business of 29 seats would become the first link in a long chain of restaurants that would stretch across this vast country. To this day, I miss all those brave chaps in their construction boots sitting at the counter enjoying a delicious breakfast and a few cups of coffee, hoping to catch the eye of the boss, who was often too busy flipping their eggs on the grill to notice. A little before noon one Friday in November, a worker from Hydro-Québec brought me his grandmother Pamela’s recipe for Queen Elizabeth cake, written out on a lovely piece of paper for the occasion. Hidden behind a uniform, with JEAN-MARC embroidered on the left side in cobalt blue, the handsome electrician handed me the paper tied with a ribbon. His big steely eyes stared at me as if they were cutting a door straight into my heart. I remember it as if it were only yesterday. These workers were all pleading for a smile, a little attention or some connection. I obliged by offering them a second bowl of soup, garnishing their eggs Benedictine with an extra spoonful of sauce or treating them to a double helping of the day’s dessert. We had been open just a few months and I was still learning the ropes of being a restaurateur. Fortunately, I learned fairly quickly to read people and separate the looks of hunger from the big idle hands and unfulfilled hearts. Now for the recipe! PREHEAT THE OVEN TO 350°F. First, take 1 cup of boiling water and pour it over 1 cup of finely chopped dates in a bowl. Add 1 teaspoon of baking soda, stir and let cool until mixture is warm. It was probably what I found the most difficult when I was starting out – never truly knowing my customers. Never learning their stories or their real names, in many cases. Never hearing out loud what their eyes were dying to say. Never knowing what happened in their lives at night, when they returned home. Or why they visited our restaurant, what they found there and why, suddenly, without warning, they stopped coming. IN A LARGE BOWL, cream ¼ cup of softened butter with 1 cup of white sugar. Whisk in a beaten egg. Add the dates, the water they soaked in and 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract. In our first small restaurant, my kids and I were rebuilding our lives. We felt both sadness and joy. It was therefore easy to empathize with the sadness in others, which we absorbed like sponges. Perhaps this is also the reason why our 29 seats were so popular when we started out. We deeply loved our customers and they loved us. And the feeling was evident. You could sense it as the food arrived at the tables; you could hear it in the conversations of new customers, who would remark the same thing: “This place is different.” IN ANOTHER BOWL, mix 1½ cups of flour with 1 teaspoon of baking powder and ¼ teaspoon of salt. Mix these ingredients into the date mixture until thoroughly combined. Incorporate ½ cup of chopped walnuts. Transfer the batter to a buttered 9-inch square baking dish. Cook for about 40 minutes or until a knife inserted into the centre comes out clean. ICING In a small saucepan, mix together 5 tablespoons of brown sugar, 3 tablespoons of butter, 2 tablespoons of whipping cream, and 1 cup of coconut flakes. Bring to a boil on medium heat and let cook for 3 minutes. While the cake is still hot, spread the icing on it. Place under the broiler for 2–3 minutes, until the top browns a little. A few days after sharing his family recipe, the handsome JEAN-MARC gave his taste buds a shock when he sampled a slice of this delicious Queen Elizabeth cake. He swore that it was even better than his grandmother’s. Regrettably, he never came back to the restaurant after that. We were saddened by his absence. Two years later, accompanying a young cook to the emergency who had taken my place at the stoves, I came across that electrician in the waiting room of Montreal’s Rosemont Hospital. He was crumpled over in grief. While an emergency doctor stitched up the employee’s partially detached finger, he told me about his wife’s cancer and how he had been going through a hellish time for the past two years. He had left his job in order to take care of her. During the years when I was the cook in my first restaurants, the only bond I formed was an immense love for our customers and the restaurateur profession. I was the anonymous person they would confide in, a silent accomplice. I could soothe, if only momentarily, sorrow-filled eyes and the deep pain of a finger suddenly stripped of its wedding ring. I quickly realized that people’s misfortunes become lighter the more they are shared with a caring ear. Cora ❤