Mme Cora's letter

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 ❤

It’s misery to think that there’s always something we’re missing; that we’re incomplete, unfinished and in need. I’m pained because I still believe that I have to earn my place in heaven through the sweat of my brow. I was brought up this way, so when something good comes to me easily, it scares me. I have a hard time forgetting the Catholic teachings of my childhood. Believe it or not, I still have a copy of the Catechism manual somewhere in my library in the section on God and the world’s religions. Three tall bookshelves are entirely filled with the great mystery surrounding our salvation. I’m nearing the end of my life, and I still fear the devil, hell and all the sins I have unwittingly committed. I remember the priest who sat in the confessional during my third or fourth grade in elementary school. He’d opened a small window and interrogated me through the lattice. Was I guilty of telling lies, sinning, stealing candy or touching forbidden places, he asked. I remember his relentlessness. He’d insist I confess to some offense. A caress between the legs? A hand on a breast? I answered no each time. I couldn’t think of anything to say. This man, dressed in a black cloak, often left me confused and trembling. Too shy to talk to my mother about it, I grew up carrying the memory of this strange and somber character. It was only in college that I learned that a woman’s erogenous zones attract men of all sorts. And I, all grown up, stayed clear of them because I was still afraid of sinning. What age was I when I finally understood the difference between good and bad? I can’t bear to think about it. My parents never talked about those things. We learned much later in life, after my mom passed, that she had been in love with a Protestant, who the church had forbidden her to marry. She ended up tying the knot with a fellow her father approved of in spite of her feelings. Her daughters bore the consequences of growing up in a loveless home. My mother’s broken heart never healed; she was never able to shower us with affection, to show tenderness to her kids and husband. We were dutifully baptized, and I remember finding a photo album when I was clearing out my mother’s things. Among the few pictures of us children, there I was, all dressed in grey, a black mantilla on my head. The words “Cora’s confirmation” were written on the back of the photograph. I also had nuns for teachers in college. They taught me Latin, Ancient Greek, history, geography and arithmetic, a subject that put my stomach in knots. The only nun I still remember today is Sister Marie Maxime, who patiently explained to me how to count more than once. How did I ever manage to become a businesswoman? My love of the alphabet was only matched by my dislike of numbers. In reality, I owe all my successes to help from divine Providence above. I realized with time that religion is human and fallible like each one of us here below, capable of making mistakes. How many times did I forget the lonely, the afflicted and the downhearted because I ignored the kindness in my heart? And I think myself blessed? I still have to forgive the estranged husband. How can I dissolve my rage, forget him or forgive him? With so many flaws, how can I knock on heaven’s door? I want to better myself, improve my heart, make myself available to those around me, see opportunity in the accidental and learn the lessons that come from observing the world. Jacques-Bénigne BOSSUET, the author of a colossal work on spirituality, encourages us to cultivate “attention, which is what saves us in every moment.” I will purposefully deepen my observations without setting a specific goal for myself. Why not contemplate my surroundings like an alien who has just landed on earth? Avoiding hasty judgments and preconceived ideas, my gaze and my mind will be as fresh and as new as possible so that I sharpen and strengthen my capacity to marvel, to discern truth from falsehood and the extraordinary from the ordinary. Cora ❤

Come what may, the pages of the calendar continue to turn over, and I’m still here. Knock, knock, knock. I’m knocking on the great door and St. Peter isn’t answering. Might I still have a few adventures ahead of me before resting my eyes for good? Who am I, in the end? A scribbler on blank pages? “You’re a fighter, entrepreneur and a go-getter who can’t be stopped,” rambles my best friend. “Everyone envies your ability to believe that anything is possible. You put yourself out there without a safety net. One door closes and you make your way through the keyhole. If you fall, you bounce right back.” A few details seem true. Not one ordeal has depleted my energy so far. It’s certainly the best gift I received from above: good health, unfailing endurance, incredible energy and solid determination. Those around me might think I was born this way, but like everybody else, I’ve had years of tears and misery. I finally pulled myself together and out of there. I discovered invaluable courage and its good companions optimism and perseverance. My qualities as a talented cook helped a great deal. The first years behind the griddle set fire to my creativity, giving birth to an outstanding restaurant concept. To this day, I still love challenges and work well done. Oh yes! Each day is a challenge in itself when I sit to do my morning writing; empty sheets I travel on. The first lines are like a plane taking off: It crawls with its belly close to the ground. The ground protests with friction, but the plane tramples it underneath. It gains momentum, and without too much luggage, a story takes off. Rare words, tough verbs, fancy sentences, the placement of commas. All the steps in writing fascinate me. I also have an unnerving ability to inhabit my emotions, to express them without a filter. Heavy with thought yet light as a feather, I easily go from funny to dramatic depending on how I feel. I don’t usually censor my words. I make my friends dizzy with a constant swarm of ideas and desires. I like people who are a bit off the wall – artists, dreamers, tinkers and all those who aren’t afraid to show their true colours. I occasionally revisit my past lives: my childhood in Gaspésie, my parents, my classical studies, the Greek marriage, the Cora restaurant business, and finally, the jewels in the crown: the past three years spent writing on a daily basis. Despite the recent upheavals on our planet, the world never ceases to elicit a sense of wonder within me. My capacity to make room for friends is boundless. My group of friends at the coffee shop bear witness to that. Whether I feel like it or not, I turn off my tablet when they sit at my table. Even if I’m penning a sublime paragraph, I leave my writer’s bubble and engage with those at my table. After all, my friends are still more important than the pages they often inspire, says my friend Flavius (fictitious name), whose girlfriend had left him. My friend cried, he mourned her and now he’s back, dashing and in high spirits at the thought of finding a new face to love. And so this is how our days fly by; sometimes as slowly as a turtle, other times, as quickly as a life-devouring tornado. Writing saved me. I remembered, I talked, I told stories and I lightened my load. All those paragraphs darkened with tumultuous moods, tears and silent regrets. All those hand-picked words, hurtful verbs, shocking adjectives. I swallowed them whole like I was starving to death. And like magic, writing fed me. It reassured my heart, healing most of the remaining wounds left untouched. I feel lighter, giddy and profound at the same time. I tamed writing with a bouquet of flowers in each paragraph. The founder in me, the old warrior, is molting. Her appetites for conquest are now turning into hunts for four-leaf clovers, solid friendships, inspiring readings and cherished pages of writing. Come what may, the Sunday letters continue to turn over, and I’m still here. Cora ❤

This Christmas, I want to express my immeasurable gratitude to all my readers. Did you know that you saved me from the muddy waters of boredom, moroseness and black moths bearing bad omens? I swear! You have kept me sane, and I owe you my new career as a notepad scribbler. The first letter, published on April 1, 2020, was entitled “It’s going to be OK.” A letter promising gentle encouragement or perhaps an April Fools’ prank meant to get a few good laughs? It was neither, of course, and our decision to keep writing to you every Sunday has been gratifying beyond measure. These letters were supposed to be temporary, but your devotion, dear readers, enticed us to keep at it. From one week to the next, a new letter emerges from my imagination and enters your hearts. You are a welcoming vessel, a miracle. All the heart emojis give my words love, and thousands of delicious comments are proof each week, and I rejoice. Since the beginning of the Sunday letters, you have given me a new existence, a passion that’s dear to my heart and a most extraordinary way of extending my life. I owe all these blessings to you, my dear readers. I peruse all your comments, one by one. I can’t reply to everyone, but I always enjoy bumping into you while I’m running my errands at Jean Coutu, Costco, Winners, Walmart or Marshalls. I chat and babble as if I were an affectionate pink-breasted cockatoo with pale grey wings. I’m still single, believe it or not! I haven’t lost anyone, but as the famous poet Alphonse de Lamartine wrote in 1820 in his Méditations poétiques: “I MISS A CERTAIN BEING AND EVERYTHING SEEMS DESERTED.” Will I spend my life waiting for a stranger? I tell myself sometimes that this ghost is my muse, my inspiration, and I spend my days filling up this void in very mischievous ways. MONDAY appears as Aeolus, the Keeper of the Four Winds. He prefers country living to the city and, and like me, enjoys caressing white birches. We are getting to know each other. Together, we summit Everest. MONDAY takes a moment to ruffle a few clouds and lie down on small shrubs. I whisper a few quatrains in his ear and he falls asleep while my fingers caress his silver chest. I hear him dream. He argues with a brunette and compliments a blonde. MONDAY blows my hair a little too forcefully and my body slumps. The morning dew is named TUESDAY. Fresh and loud, the man tells me about his nocturnal escapades. Quickly, before the yellow star rises, TUESDAY fills his heart with water droplets. He grabs my hand, he brags, he exaggerates. He’s already afraid of disappearing. His wrinkled, pale green face stares wearily at the earthworms under the bushes. A stallion’s neigh assaults the bees. The clarity of the day keeps my vehemence at bay. WEDNESDAY is an aging actor who forgets his lines. Handsome like a silver-haired Bradley Cooper, confusion settles in; he starts to lose his bearings. The fellow swallows a few chicken strips for breakfast, fills his stomach with oatmeal around noon and scatters the crumbs of a croissant as he falls asleep. He dreams, he tells me, “of one last cruise.” Alaska stirs up my enthusiasm, with its immaculately white glaciers. WEDNESDAY’s heart, nearly impotent. On the pier, my frozen toes stop me from moving forward. THURSDAY brings me flowers made of cookie dough: pink, yellow and blue ones, and a few with patterned petals. He baked them himself, he tells me, with Mozart’s requiem playing in the background. A bite of a pink one tastes like a rose. I sink my teeth into a blue one and I can taste his eyes. THURSDAY has the airs of a church musician I’d like to kneel in front of. I touch these hands that know how to shape dough, feed flowers and that might even soften my heart. I dare to hope that he might also care for my soul! FRIDAY is the fifth passerby of the week. His name in Latin means “day of Venus.” I quickly learn that he believes every woman deserves to be celebrated. Simonetta Vespucci, Mona Lisa, the Venus of Milo with her severed arms and the woman sitting next to me at the coffee shop – he loves them all. I remember a certain night at the theatre. FRIDAY was dressed to the nines and eyeing all the ladies. I was the prettiest one, but his worn eyes couldn’t tell. A handsome SATURDAY places a poem on my writing table and my heart drops to the bottom of the ocean. I swim and swim, and I’m afraid to face this poet with a beautiful face. When he finally draws near me, I realize his eyes are bright blue like shark scales. This man could dip his fountain pen in the emerald of my eyes. I'd bite into every one of his great lines. My heart beats wildly and I get carried away. The blood simmers in my veins and short-circuits my reason. Sitting at my table, the fancily dressed SATURDAY busies himself slowing down the passage of time. He drinks his latte in small sips. He looks at me and I feel his heart writing new words on my cheeks and forehead and hiding a few short sentences in my neck. Although I’m afraid, I stay my ground. I’m no blank page or shiny slate, but my entire being is still hungry for love. My sentences crack, my verbs creak and my long paragraphs struggle to stay erect. Yet deep inside me, my heart is still only 20. When the first snow falls, a splendid man walks by my table and smiles. He’s as beautiful as a church. I call him SUNDAY. Time passes and flies by and, one day, SUNDAY stops at my table. He stares at me. Two piercing black eyes, velvety and brilliant, ignite my gaze. I wait for his trembling lips to pronounce a few words and absorb every detail about him. “I used to build houses for a living. I’m retired, I play golf. I find you very attractive and I’m still…married.” I have a million words I want to tell him, but I swallow them all. The whiteness of winter puts ants to sleep, and my heart as well. I'm wasting away. I implore Chronos, the god of passing time, to send me an eighth day. Cora ❤

“As we get older,” said Victor Hugo, “let’s try to win at what we might call the beauty of kindness.” For older women like myself, these are sweet words to read this morning. I’m powerless in the face of time-sapping age, but I can put purple on my eyelids, pink on my lips, a brooch on my collar and African violets in my heart. Our physical envelope withers, weakens, crumples and shrinks. Often, a glance reveals the same picture: a dark outfit, a slow pace and a cane for a friend. I had 3 at home: one purple cane, one yellow and one brown, which I forgot on the plane during my last trip to Toronto. My memory sometimes deserts me. Aging is turning out to be an adventure like no other, I tell myself. Carpe diem. I welcome everything that happens to me with the intensity of the present moment that had once been taken away from me by the commotion of the world, the whirlwind of projects, the ups and downs of a frenetic life. Thankfully, optimism is my steady companion, and instead of becoming a bitter and teary-eyed old woman, I insist on dressing up in bright-coloured clothes, creating cheer and human warmth that our world so needs wherever I go. Let’s not kid ourselves: The capacity to enjoy old age isn’t determined mainly by the circumstances of our lives but rather our state of mind. With a positive mindset and creative flair, I create a mental construction in my head, a mystic fountain of youth that keeps me going. We, the toughened souls of life, have lived our share of upheavals, and often later in life, reap all the good from our long experience. I love my 76 years and I’m not ashamed to hobble, lose my keys or forget an important detail. I write words on the back and in the palm of my hand. I always jot down everything in a notepad so nothing escapes me. I enjoy being like a delicious candied fruit, a little bite of wisdom. When I was about 50, I read this priceless phrase in a book on Japan: ima kara, which means “From now on” in English. Believe it or not, I went to Japan a few years after reading the book and I saw with my own eyes beautiful elderly people doing gymnastics in the park, socializing, chatting, eating together, playing checkers or strumming the shamisen (a three-stringed instrument with a long neck whose resonance box is traditionally made of sandalwood). The youthfulness of their hearts was plain to see. Engineer, biologist and philosopher Albert Jacquard said at 86, “Getting old is continuing to participate with changing means. Yes, I run slower, jump lower, but as long as I can stir up new emotions in my heart, share something with others, enrich others through my contact, then maybe I am not too old.” According to Marie de Hennezel, a writer and well-known specialist on the “adventure of aging,” our acceptance of aging entails a narcissistic revolution that takes us from the body we see in the mirror to the body we are – the lived body, the inhabited body, the body of the here and now. This narcissistic revolution allows us to stop complaining and to start looking at the things that will never wear out or diminish: the heart and the mind. Today’s last morsel of wisdom comes to me from a former army general of the United States, Douglas MacArthur. “Nobody grows old by merely living a number of years. People grow old only by deserting their ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up interest wrinkles the soul. Worry, doubt, self-distrust, fear and despair; these are the long, long years that bow the head and turn the growing spirit back to dust.” As well as, “you are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear; as young as your hope, as old as your despair….When your heart is covered with the snows of pessimism and the ice of cynicism, then, and then only, are you grown old. And then, indeed as the ballad says, you just fade away.” All of you young’uns reading, make sure to sow your youth wisely so you will reap an old age filled with confidence and hope. Many are afraid of physical aging and are worried about losing their good looks. They forget that the beauty of seniors resides in the charming expression on their faces – THE BEAUTY OF KINDNESS – a smile and gaze that never grows old. Cora ❤

This morning another memory tugs at my mind – a wonderful story begging for the spotlight. I opened the first small Cora restaurant the day I turned 40, on May 27, 1987. Proof that it’s never too late to dream big. My three kids and I were working hard to lift ourselves out of poverty. I remember those days, 36 years ago, like it was only yesterday. My teenagers and I shared the same endless creative talent that continued to delight our clientele. One beautiful Saturday morning, Gigi arrived at our second restaurant exactly at the same time as Monsieur Pom, our baker, who was excited to share a new product with us. My darling Gigi, a discerning food lover who’s as curious as an owl, rushed forward and took the surprise from his hands. She tore off the packaging and, for a few long minutes, examined, pressed and sniffed the magnificent cinnamon-raisin brioche that would eventually become the choice of millions of our customers with a sweet ’n salty appetite. Without saying a word, our in-house conjurer of amazing delights, sliced the brioche horizontally in the middle, oblivious to the baffled gaze of the baker. Lost in her thoughts, the young cook surveyed the fruit counter in front of her. The baker, myself and a food-obsessed waitress were all speechless. My daughter’s mind was turning. Then she smiled and called for silence. For a few moments, you could almost hear her neurons crackling, foreshadowing something dazzling to come. Gigi dipped each brioche half into our deliciously spiced French toast batter and gently laid them on the griddle. The bread began to quiver before gradually embracing the warmth and crisping into an unexpected treat. My daughter’s face lit up the moment she slipped a spatula under the two golden pieces to transfer them to a large oblong plate. Knowing her, I realized that a new star had just joined the Pantheon of our breakfast menu. Gigi the magician placed a nice sunny-side-up egg and two slices of bacon on one brioche half and garnished the other with a mountain of beautifully cut fresh fruit. “There you go, Mom,” she said rather pleased with herself. “Bravo, my talented daughter! After all the seeds I have been planting in your head, at last, a wonderful harvest.” We christened the new dish “1990’s HARVEST.” The regulars sitting at the counter were immediately offered a taste, and a few days afterwards, the new dish was the reigning star of the illustrations adorning the walls of the second Cora restaurant. Elated by the success of her recent creation, my daughter insisted that we print up a proper menu. This way customers wouldn’t have to twist their necks to look at the walls to see what was available. A menu that would provide a deliciously detailed description of the 1990’s HARVEST, along with a line crediting its creation to none other than mademoiselle Gigi. Of course, one must strike the iron while it’s hot, so I put a few extra hours in each day to put together our first menu. Entirely hand-drawn by myself in black and white, the menu was printed on a single large sheet and folded in four, a source of frustration for our poor customers for a few years until we could improve our skills and financial means. Three decades later, 1990’s harvest remains one of the most popular breakfasts we’ve invented. Imitated and copied left and right wherever breakfast is served, this outstanding sweet ’n salty dish is a fine example of the effects of the morning gastronomic revolution that started in 1987 with the arrival of Cora restaurants. Any reason is a good reason to treat yourself to a 1990’s harvest. A delicious, comforting dish and a darn good sweet ’n salty breakfast! Cora ❤