Mme Cora's letter

When I was a child in Caplan, we’d swim in the Baie des Chaleurs. I was terrified of eels. With my small feet sinking into the red sand, I was scared silly. “Chicken!” my brother would yell. “Run and jump in the water!” Easily said, the waters of Gaspésie are icy even in the middle of July. Sometimes Dad would take us to the pier to fish. Disgusting! The eels in the sea and the hermaphrodite worms wriggling in the tin can at my feet. Yuck! I remember my friend Diane from the time we lived in Quebec city. Every morning, we’d wait for each other to go to school together. Our path took us across a large field. I’ll never forget that dreadful Wednesday when Diane was absent. Her parents were putting her grandmother to rest and I had to walk the long path to school by myself. Halfway back, a snake lay immobile in front of me and my heart suddenly stopped beating. It was my first time seeing one live on land. It was about as long as my 12-inch ruler. I froze. I was certain it was staring at me and that it would, at any moment, lunge in my direction, coil itself around my leg and crawl up to my neck. Instead, the limbless reptile started to undulate and move in small twisting movements. It wiggled its way from the beaten earth path, escaping into the tall grass. Creepy! Later, as a married mother of three children, I was about to vacuum my sons’ bedroom when I opened the closet and discovered a big brown grocery bag that seemed to be moving. I plucked up my courage and hoped to heaven I would find a kitten, wild rabbit, captive mouse or a bird’s nest. I opened the bag and my heart stopped. Four or five, maybe six snakes were twisted together in a type of living, threatening mass. I was 26 and still had an incredible fear of snakes. Some 50 years later, I was with a good friend visiting her daughter who had just bought a new house. It was a very modern one, located in a prosperous suburb. Caroline, a well-regarded psychotherapist, proudly showed me around her home. Wow! The grand living room, a dream kitchen, well-equipped gym, indoor pool and so on. We went upstairs to find a room for her mother, a guest room and a vast master bedroom. — “Wow, Caroline! Everything is just amazing!” — “Go into my bedroom,” she tells me. “You still haven’t seen the best.” She’s right. From where I stand, all I can see is the huge candy pink wool carpet. How comfortable it would feel under my weathered feet I think! Caroline insists on taking me to the huge panoramic window to show me her prized possession. I take my eyes away from the scenic view and lower my eyes to a fairly large glass terrarium in which three large snakes are having fun climbing on top of each other. I almost keel over. — “These are my babies! Royal pythons as soft as lambs! They’re almost 4. Would you like to hold one and stroke it a bit? It’s therapeutic.” My legs weaken, my body sways and I am seconds away from fainting. I picture the snakes crawling on my stomach, circling my neck or sliding down my back. Lying flat out on the candy pink carpet, bits of wool stuffed in my nostrils, I feel like I’m suffocating! My body burns with fear. Perched high on her heels, the psychotherapist attempts to diagnose my distress. I yell out that I am simply terrified of snakes, an uncontrollable fear I’ve had since childhood!   Brace yourselves, dear readers. On October 31, snakes will climb high into trees! Swim in roof gutters, dance on railings and perhaps slither down chimneys? To keep snakes as far away as possible from me, I’ll dress up as an invincible soldier, a malevolent witch with long bony fingers and the beak of a falcon-like bird. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Cora 💀💀💀💀

In the Laurentians where I’ve lived for over 30 years, a sudden cold has reddened the edges of the mountains. Right now we are living in an art gallery as grand as the Louvre in Paris. But I know that at the end of October, massacred pumpkins will agonize in silence in front of almost every house, giant spiders will weave silk ladders to slide down from the gutters and golden snakes will escape from our porches, teeth chattering. The weather will grow even colder, winter will cover the ground with its white blanket and, very shortly, I’ll be thinking of preparing for holiday feasts. I can already picture it: a large white apron worn over my immaculate chef’s white jacket, sleeves rolled up; a net covering my hair; comfortable shoes; baroque music in the background; and a thermos of coffee. I set up at the large kitchen table. The time to bake my spinach puffs is finally here! I place an enormous bowl for mixing the phyllo dough ingredients on the table. I’ve been making this recipe for 50 years and, without measuring a single ingredient, I already know that the kneaded dough will give me 5 large round sheets 15 inches in diameter and 1½ inches high. This is enough for around 20 spinach puffs from each round baking sheet. In the large bowl, I put white flour, Crisco all-vegetable shortening, beaten eggs, a small sprinkle of salt and Seven Up to bind the mixture as I knead the dough by hand. The more my expert hands get busy in the bowl, the more the dough becomes soft and yielding. I divide it in 25 small balls the size of an orange and, with the rolling pin, flatten them out to the size of a 9-inch plate. With a brush, I coat each small sheet of dough with a thick layer of melted butter and roll it back into a ball. I let them rest for a moment while I take out a pot and quickly blanch 25 bags of store-bought spinach. I then drain the water and carefully wring out the moisture from the greens. In a large saucepan, I brown the spinach with a little butter, green onions and a generous amount of dill. When the mixture has cooled, I add in lots of coarsely grated feta. I’m already on my third coffee when it’s time for the most laborious part of the recipe. I have to take the 25 small buttered dough balls and roll each one out again to the size of the large baking sheets. I place a thin round sheet of dough on a greased baking sheet and baste it with butter. Then I layer a second and third buttery sheet of dough. Next, I spread evenly one-fifth of the spinach-feta mixture over top. I then layer two more sheets, buttering in between. The last sheet, however, has to be drenched in butter. Since this is homemade phyllo dough, using lots of real butter is essential. Before I place the baking sheets in the oven, I cut the dough into 2-inch squares. As soon as they come out of the oven, I cut them again to ensure they maintain their shape. I have always used round baking sheets, so some of the pieces end up uneven. I still remember the days when my teenage kids would hang around in the kitchen, enticed by the intoxicating smell of the freshly baked puff pastries. Under the pretext of taking the uneven pieces, they would clear a third of the baking sheet before the puffs even had time to cool down. The spinach pastry puffs can easily be frozen before or after baking once they cool. I have to quickly place them in the freezer if I want to have any left for the holidays! Bless my hard-working hands and spinach puffs because almost everyone loves them! Cora ❤

The other day, I experienced something that was incredible. I wondered if I was in the middle of a candid camera show because I couldn’t believe what was going on. I was seated at the coffee shop where I usually write when a stranger who looked like a movie star joined me at my table. A handsome fellow, salt-and-pepper hair, light-green eyes and a smile that could make my legs go weak. The man looked like Doctor Zhivago, a famous face from my youth. He took a large white envelope out of a cross-body leather bag and placed it in front of me. My heart, my eyes and my mind light up. I hesitated before opening the mysterious package. — “What…what can I do for you, sir?” — “You’re the one, Madame Cora, who’ll do it all.” — “What do you mean?” — “I hear you’re pretty good at talking to women and I need someone like you to gauge their mood.” — “I…I’m not sure I really follow you.” — “I’d like you to query your female readers in your own special way to discover if every woman is a priority for herself. — “Meaning?” — “Ask them, do you make yourself a priority in your life? Are you your number one priority? Do they care for themselves, not with skincare or entertainment, but by questioning their existence, who and what they are, what they expect and want in life? Don’t try to reason. Simply ask them the questions contained in the envelope and note down the responses you get.” — “What? But…?” — “But what? Ask them if “each one is her own priority.” Ask them if they are consciously and truly at the centre of their own life projects each day.” — “Who are you? I think you’ve forgotten to introduce yourself.” — “Don’t worry. You see, I’m writing a romance novel and I need to know more about the future woman of my dreams.” — “Does this woman already exist in the flesh and blood?” Feeling uneasy and uncomfortable, I don’t know what to say. My heart goes boom, and all I want to do is to plunge into the green pools of this stranger’s eyes. My reason spreads its wings, ready to flee and yet, something keeps me here, seated at the table. Is it the heaviness of age, shyness or all the sensible words that I scatter on the page every Sunday that render me immobile? Each time a good-looking man approaches me, my heart flutters and my alphabet soup sticks to the bottom of the saucepan. I’m worried, even terrified that the Adonis will transform into King Kong. — “So, Madame Cora, will you help me?” I want to tell him that I’ll cook him my specialty, spinach puff pastries! To tell him that my fingers want to uncoil his pretty salt-and-pepper curls, and that he looks exactly like Doctor Zhivago, the hero from my teenage years. If only I could magically go back in time and turn into the angelic young girl I once was. A man broke me, and I’m still grumbling about it even today… — “Sir, will you ever tell me your name? How can I really help you? Do you want to create the perfect woman? I’m an insatiable reader and, believe me, I already know that this woman only exists in cheap romance novels. So, I’m sorry, but I will not question my dear readers. I have come to know them through thousands of their comments. They are courageous, thoughtful, caring and generous, and know first-hand of the challenges life throws at us. Do we really have to be a priority to ourselves? Our life projects are often knocked about, thwarted and mishandled, and yet we still move forward against all odds. The lives that we have the privilege of bringing into this world make us courageous, committed mothers capable of cajoling the instability of our own lives.” The man in front of me makes sputtering noises, his fingers tremble and he finally manages a few faint “thank yous” under his breath. And then he storms out! He remembered to stuff the white envelope back into his bag before leaving; taking with him the existential questions I will never read. Comfortably seated, I try to think. A heavy tear falls on a silver strand of hair lying on my table. Cora ❤

7:30 a.m. at the coffee shop Believe it or not, the rain is pouring so hard this morning that I’m afraid to get out of my car. The parking lot at the coffee shop is empty and my eyes scan the horizon for Noah’s ark. I wait a bit while the deluge lessens. I move the car seat as far back as possible and try to open my pretty new red umbrella. It’s so big that I have a hard time getting it out of the car. I quickly grab my tote bag and make a beeline for the door with my head down. 7:58 a.m. I finally sit down at my favourite spot. A curtain of droplets covering the window blocks my view of the outside world. I place my iPad on the table, my notepad, a few pens and a smaller notepad, on which I write words that I need to look up or correct. It’s Sunday, the day when families usually come in for their weekly treat: lemon pie, Paris-Brest, cheesecake, tiramisu, Napoleon cake, torts and delicious tartlets of all sorts. Will they still come here today with this weather? Perhaps I should implore Aeolus, the Greek god of the winds whose wings are always wet? 8:50 a.m. A few brave fathers, carrying their little ones in their arms, enter the coffee shop in a hurry while the remnants of a storm still swirl outside. The kids run towards the counter filled with pastries, water trickling down their wet hair. They laugh, they scream and their tiny dirty fingers smear the pristine glass of the pastry counter. Little by little, the usual Sunday morning rituals, with treats and celebrations, return. The coffee shop is filling up with small mouths laughing at every table. Comfortably seated, mothers sip on their lattes and look like teenage students on a school break. I love my life, being a witness to the glorious banality of everyday life and capturing it in words. I collect all the delicious gestures, the smiles biting into life, the sweet hellos wrapped in ribbons. It delights me to be able to throw them into the wind and share them with my readers. I firmly believe that happiness dries up all the downpours of life. 10:20 a.m. With his inflated chest full of air, the Greek god succeeded in drying the entire parking lot and the coffee shop’s two patios. Time has come for me to leave this place and head out for my Sunday drive. The Mini Cooper heads north towards Sainte-Agathe and we circle the beautiful Lac des Sables. I really love driving around and admiring the landscape. The leaves are turning yellow to contrast with the bright green of the gigantic fir trees. Mother Nature marvels and amazes me with all her beauty. I stop at 7 Principale Street to visit the enchanting “Couleur café signature” coffee shop. I love this store with its welcoming large tables, comfortable chairs, beautiful large lightbulbs, suspended plants, delicious treats and its out-of-this-world coffees. 11:45 a.m. The weather is suddenly so nice that I decide to go even further north and drive towards the charming village of Mont-Tremblant. That is where “Carpe diem,” a precious independent bookstore, is located. It is a little hidden treasure, isolated from the main road, and you have to know where to find it in order to get there. I love the impressive variety of magazines they carry, literary essays, poetry books and serious novels. The voice in my head always tells me that I don’t need a single more book or magazine each time I find myself in such a place. But I never listen! I can’t resist well-written books, so I find myself inquiring about Julia Kerninon’s latest novel and – hurray! – it’s arriving at the end of October. She’s my favourite author, along with Icelandic writer Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir. 1:50 p.m. I hit the road in the opposite direction, with two magazines, a few books and a small craving. I never eat before 1 p.m., but at this hour, my stomach starts to grumble. A tasty spinach quiche awaits at home. Did you know that this old queen of breakfast has never learned to eat a morning meal? I’m telling you! Although I launched a delicious breakfast restaurant concept 36 years ago, I was always in the kitchen, concocting delicious delights for our hungry clientele. It was our unwritten rule. First, we had to feed all our clients, and then the employees, my kids and I, would eat around 1:30 p.m. It became a habit that has stuck for the entire family. I eat after 1 p.m. I nap for a short while and then I read for a few hours to improve my writing. At 6 o’clock sharp, I turn on the talking monster to catch the global news and then I turn it right back off. I write for a few hours and have a dinner consisting of fish or seafood around 8 p.m., or I opt for a light snack such as a smoothie, a plate of fruit, nuts, dates and my precious energy balls. Afterwards, as I lay comfortably in my pajamas on the couch, I fall asleep in Morpheus’ arms, a book resting on my nose. Cora ❤

I was having a hard time falling asleep last night, so I tried to imagine what it’s like to be born. Not a single newborn remembers their birth, where they’re from and how it actually happened. I was born around 3 p.m. on May 27, 1947, according to my mother. Before taking the corridor that led from my haven to the bright light, I was swimming in comforting, warm waters. I was cared for in a cavity, a womb (I learned the word later), a maternal womb. I also learned later that someone had planted a tiny seed, whose shape I knew nothing of, in that young woman’s belly. Time flowed like water from a stream headed to the sea, and the small seed was expanding. Strange protrusions started forming and someone would eventually tell me their names: arms, legs, ears, toes, and a small nose that a small finger learned how to touch. I was a tiny thing who was growing all on its own. A leg and an arm would stretch and touch the inside walls of its refuge. A barrier pushed back. As time passed, the bundle of living flesh grew bigger and bigger. Around mid-month in May of that year, I heard a hoarse voice telling the woman I’d soon call my mother that “the child is doing very well.” Through the protective wall that enveloped me, I felt the warmth of the large cheek of the one who had said the word “child.” Had the small seed become the child? When at last I emerge from my human shelter, two hands coloured in blood plunge me into a basin of clear water. My nose is suctioned, my ears cleaned and my eyes slowly open by themselves. Where am I? I am wrapped in wool and placed on the still body of the woman called mother. My cheek is cradled against her neck as though I am meant to hear her thoughts. Days slipped by until one day I discover a small boy walking in front of me. On all fours, I chase him and grab his toy. He isn’t wearing any clothes; a small appendage hangs between his thighs. I pull on his golden locks until he starts to cry and the man we call daddy scoops me up. Man’s first steps on the moon were certainly less brutal than being born on this earth. We innocently floated in water as small seeds and, tomorrow, the soil will consume our bones. In the meantime, the child grows and learns to live. They interrogate their parents, grandparents, and eventually, teachers who will fill their head with beliefs and doctrines. What have I come here to this earth to do? What happened to all the past actions and previous lives that are supposed to guide my present? Am I really responsible for my actions? Could I simply be the owner of a made-up story? A cake tin without an actual cake? Who are we, you and I, dear readers? Eight billion small intelligent clones, and all different! Life would be so sad if all the flowers were alike, if they all had the same colour and the same smell. I look at myself in the mirror and still think myself unique. A wobbly frame, dusty-rose eyewear and a purple-blue scarf. These small seeds come from far away, from the back of this world, which fools believe they invented themselves. Yet the first breath is endless, the verb brings into being, the hand creates billions of innermost beings giving birth to the entire universe. Writing provides me with a gentle way to stay alive, and I’ll keep on doing just that. I’ll feed myself with kind words, drink comforting sentences and, on windy days, maybe I’ll produce a novel? Cora ❤

Do you remember, dear readers, a lady named Isabel who has interviewed me a few times already? This time, she wants to know more about the writer I am becoming. I accepted, of course, because I believe this young journalist has great ideas. And just maybe this new book of mine that is about to hit bookstores deserves a few praises. Let me go through her list of questions and answer them one by one with you. — “As an author, what is your greatest desire?” — “My greatest desire is to live until I am a hundred. I don’t want to beat any longevity record, but I do want the opportunity to write for as long as I can. The more I write, the more I improve. I’m a bit of a perfectionist and I like to embellish everything I do. Words are my favourite battlefield; the clumsy, the lame and the scatterbrain have no place between my lines. Writing and becoming an entrepreneur both came to me later in life. I opened the very first restaurant of an eventual country-wide chain the day I turned 40, and a worldwide pandemic threw open the doors to writing at 72. — “When and how did writing come to you?” — “In September 1954, when I started first grade, I was immediately astonished by the power of the letters of the alphabet and I quickly learned how to build words and sentences. My parents’ wretched life rubbed off on us kids. I had made a habit of writing on any piece of paper I could find in the house. The extraordinary strength of words has been with me ever since.” — “What do you believe in, Madame Cora?” — “I believe in the creative force of life and in He who first said, “Let there be light.” Even when it’s at rest and covers its eyes with darkness, Light is there. In my opinion, a divine temporal program exists that keeps on going forever.” — “Name a flaw you have that you can easily forgive yourself for.” — “Maybe overeating at times since I have to taste everything we serve and think of serving to our valued customers. Thirty-six years later, I am still adamant about sticking with the Cora concept.” — “What word best describes you?” — “There’s more than one! I am the guardian of colourful words – a relentless scribe, constant and creative enough to entertain a great number of readers every Sunday.” — “Is it easy to write?” — “It’s very easy to write when you believe in the magical powers of words, with their unique way of sowing elaborate sentences between the lines.” — “Where do you find your inspiration?” — “Here, there and everywhere! The glorious banality of everyday life is my first source of inspiration. Writing in a coffee shop offers me a window onto the great show of life. From the strange expression on a new customer’s face to the outline of their precious heart. I observe, I search, I scrutinize and I fantasize until I finally discover what this enigmatic smile is made of. After four days, four weeks, a newcomer often becomes a regular in this place.” — “Do you have a peculiar habit, a certain ritual or perhaps even an obstacle when it comes to your writing?” — “I have always been more patient than patience itself when it comes to writing. When a good idea comes to mind, I store it on my notepad and wait. When the idea unfolds ever so slightly in my mind, I type a few sentences on my iPad to capture the gist of the story. Then, line by line, I move forward. I plead to Lady Inspiration and the Fairy Godmother to bring me elaborate words, and paragraphs tumble down from the heavens into my mind and build the story. I am obsessed with improving, so I read and re-read my copy until my eyes are sore. I want to constantly progress as a writer. Perhaps I should have more confidence in my talent?” — “What state of mind are you in when you write?” — “I’m the happiest of women when I write. Open to inspiration and privileged, I’d say. I’m not a professional writer, so I never expect great reviews. I remain modest and trust in what the future holds.” — “What can you tell us about your new book that’s coming out on September 27?” — “I think it’s a solid start for an old woman who’s trying her hand at writing. I have this burning flame of hope within me. My mind remains like fertile soil, where all I have to do is pull the young shoots out of the void and wait for them to bloom when they’re ready. Writing strengthens my patience, endurance and will. ‘Only good things,’ as Sister Marie-Ange, my third-grade teacher in Gaspésie, would say.” Cora ❤

I have a terrible story on my mind and I would like to get it out before my memory slumbers forever or suddenly fails me. It’s about a person whose name I never knew. A dishevelled man, dressed in rags and foul smelling, begged on the streets of Montreal 9 or 10 months a year. I would see him every day around 5:50 p.m. when I would walk across the park to my apartment. I stared at him, scrutinized him and inhaled his scent of sour milk. I soon learned from my next-door neighbour that the beggar’s name was Arthur, and such was his kindness, he would always share with those poorer than him if he could. According to my neighbour, the first snowstorms sent him on his way each year hitchhiking westward. In Vancouver’s warmer weather, Arthur spent a few months each year collecting used syringes and debris left behind by drug addicts living on notorious Hastings Street. He fed the afflicted, consoled the desperate and encouraged young addicts to get help. Arthur also begged from time to time, gathering quarters to help feed homeless persons in greater need. He lived off soda pop and fried-noodle leftovers from local Asian eateries. I crossed paths with him often in Montreal. Arthur always had a strange way of moving as if he had been stung in the behind. He hobbled, swayed, dragged his leg and yelled at the flies to leave him alone. In my last year of college, my father had rented a room for me downtown so I could avoid the long commute from our house in the suburbs. That’s how I came to cross paths with homeless Arthur each weekday. I had many questions after learning his story from my neighbour. Who was this mysterious man? How long had he been begging for money on the streets? Instead of leaving my small room during the Easter holiday weekend, I decided to stay in town and secretly observe Arthur. I was going to sit in the park with the morning paper and a notebook and pretend to work on a mystery novel. I arrive very early at the deserted park on Good Friday. The wet grass moistens my boots. I wave to a young policeman on a bike. At the back of the park, under a huge oak tree, a few drunks are sleeping off a night of drinking. Cheerfully trampling the slumbering bodies, dozens of squirrels search for acorns for their breakfast. Sitting on the bench shivering, I pretend to write. I have just read about police captain Jacques Cinq-Mars’ latest exploits in the newspaper and I try to imitate his brilliant skills. The famous officer, nicknamed Montreal’s Eliot Ness, suddenly consumes my thoughts. Where has the unkempt, big-hearted drifter gone? My eyes search the horizon. Nothing. Four elderly women are walking towards me. They make a sharp right and head straight for a picnic table where they sit and speak in hushed voices, as if they have something to hide. The early morning is long gone and its dew is evaporating. My mystery novel is going nowhere. I’m guessing Arthur is still asleep since I still haven’t caught sight of him. Is he waiting for the cicadas to wake him from his slumber; for the warm spring wind to brush his cheek; or for the first raspberries of the season to ripen? It’s high noon and my eyes search everywhere. They knit together clouds of worry. Where on earth is Arthur? He is nowhere to be found. One by one, the drunks under the big oak tree wake up crumpled like doormats. Would they have seen Arthur? Did they steal from him, rough him up and then hide him? It’s a different police officer on the bike now. I’m hungry and thirsty, and my legs are numb and hurting. I get up and walk a little. The four elderly women are still whispering. As I move closer to their table, I realize that their tone has changed. The oldest one speaks louder and faster, as if charging towards something terrible, threatening and scary. What a strange sensation! In the distance, a siren cuts the air. The four women jump up from their table and run towards an ambulance. A crowd of onlookers circles the park. I try to question a few of the homeless, but no one answers me. They all know what’s going on, but they keep quiet. Several regulars pack up their few belongings and leave. They must be frequent visitors to the park – neighbours, tired passersby, well-dressed elderly folks, artists waiting for inspiration, people out for a stroll and maybe even those out of work. The next morning, I return to my park bench and start writing in my notebook as planned. I spend a few hours there. Several tears dilute my fear. Arthur had died. I eventually heard that his big heart had stopped beating around 3 p.m. on Good Friday, April 12, 1968. His body, stripped and fatally beaten, was found in an adjacent alley. Later I learn in Journal de Montreal that Captain Jacques Cinq-Mars was handling the investigation. I also find out a few weeks later that Mr. Arthur V. was once a wealthy and well-known man who had suffered terrible hardships. His wife and four children had perished abroad in a fire at one of their vacation homes. Arthur wanted to give all his possessions away, so he spent the rest of his life helping the needy. To this day I regret my furtive surveilling of homeless Arthur. Appearances are often misleading. Cora ❤

Saying YES to life is to agree to what happens, to whatever comes our way. I never rebelled against the various trials of my life. I would take the blows and write in secret. It was my way of resisting the hostility I had to face for many long years. Writing, even when the tears fell onto the ink and turned it into small watercolours, allowed me to mark my passage through time and to leave points of reference like lighthouses along this horrible odyssey. My notepad didn’t register dates, just the facts. The daily calamities, the explosions of sadness, the unfairness of fate, the bitterness stuck to my skin, the threatening despair and the endless resentments I reluctantly harboured. According to author Hélène Dorion in her wonderful book RECOMMENCEMENTS (“New Beginnings”), “our way of loving has its source in childhood, through the satisfaction or not of our basic needs, and through the defining emotional experiences that we have then. Paradise or agony, this is where our wounds are deepened or our first vision of love and connections are built.” I definitely missed the boat when it came to affection, tenderness, learning the way of life and love, this unfathomable treasure that insures the perpetuation of species. Married without a warning, I already bore in my abdomen tiny toes, a visible reproductive organ, an embryo that would soon leave its sanctuary. When the time came, the child refused to face the outside world. He had to be ripped out of my womb with a horrible, tong-shaped metallic instrument. His frail frame was marked permanently on his right forehead as a result. All these shreds of history drift along in my head; like a wandering mosaic of corrosive details. Every makeshift apartment during my wedded years. The cheaper shabby third floors with their endless and dangerous stairs. The cockroaches who invaded the kitchen at night. The make-do clotheslines strung across the rooms. Not a single painting, plant, chesterfield or rug. Everything was secondhand, old and threadbare. I keep on writing because the words overflow in my mouth. I write, I strike out, I compose. Always, the ink wriggles about. Some paragraphs are only tiny vestibules; killer sentences that will never make it into the house; horrible thoughts that agitate and torment my mind. These places from childhood, these gestures and words will they ever flee my memory? Sitting on the blue couch, my feet barely touching the ground, I may be 4 or 5. I’m sad like slowly falling rain. Dad is listening to Mario Lanza. A few large tears roll off his cheeks and disappear into the abyss. I want to touch them, to take his big fingers in my small hand and cry alongside him. Chop, chop, chop. In the kitchen, Mom’s mincing an onion for the stew she’s making for dinner. She’s put on her white gloves; they soak up the juice the onion lets out with each slice. Chop, chop, chop. Diced carrots jump into the white tin bowl. My sentences are sprinkled with bits of dreams and reality, immaterial existences often more talkative than young eagles. These days, I am discovering the work of Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer. I bless his incredible writing ability, his clever blend of allegories and faithful descriptions of the natural and cosmic universe. I really like this poet who, in a series of interior experiences, relentlessly explored the great mysteries of life. Inspired by this master, I would love to compose illuminating sentences, snowstorms without cold, love stories without irritations. “LOVE YOUR FATE” is my motto today. Say YES to life and to everything that happens to me. I have divine assurance that an angel is tracing my way forward and, and with infinite patience, he’s polishing my best sentences. Cora ❤

Nature amazes me, with the brightness of the sun, the sweet feeling of a warm breeze, the songs of birds and the aroma of raspberries. My mind drifts back in time and I find myself near the stream on Grandpa Frédéric’s land. I can see his wrinkled fingers teaching me how to put a worm on a hook; the pink flesh of the small trout in the pan; the capelins flopping on the beach by the thousands in the spring; the big cod, caught by the belly and so incredibly delicious. I remember it like it was just yesterday. The fish was boiled with bacon bits, cooked to a crisp in the pan, transformed into fritters with potatoes or salt-dried and eaten with the fingers. We lived off the sea. To this day, four or five of my weekly dinners consist of its delicacies. I used to follow Grandpa in the winter too. I would make my way behind him in the snow, my small boots trying to step into his big footprints. My eyes swept the path ahead and saw the white hare before he did. I laughed and cried in front of the small trapped animal. Grandfather quickly put it in his bag. I knew it was going to end up in late grandmother’s famous recipe. At the table, I told him it was good as a few tears slipped down my cheeks and into the sauce. What a delight it was to finally turn six! I loved school. I was learning how to read and write words, and my heart felt lighter. I composed short poems and I quickly learned to express myself through writing, a habit that persists today. Putting one word after the other, I climbed the ladder of time, always on the lookout for sparks of happiness. One afternoon spent hunting four-leaf clovers, another lavishing my proud lupines with attention. I found myself embellishing my flowerbeds and my heart at the same time. The irresistible scent of ripe fruit swept over me. I picked wild strawberries in the wooded area on my lot. I destemmed them one by one before placing them in my basket like Mom taught me. My native Gaspésie is always in the back of my mind like an old classic movie; a chronological repertoire of the best moments. Everything is there in my memory, moving like the undulations of the river. I remember how brave we were when we used to climb onto the enormous ice blocks floating on the river in Sainte-Flavie. Mother forbade it, of course, and yet my brother still insisted we do it. He wanted to plant his flag, but the hard ice never yielded. Let’s think about it. Let’s look for shortcuts to these micromoments of happiness. Let’s grab the tiny stars fluttering above our heads. Happiness is celestial food that prolongs our life span, I am sure of it. I’m a youthful 20-year-old when I talk to a century-old tree; when I slowly devour a poem, line by line; when an old friend tells me about his most recent flirtation or when my granddaughter invites me to the restaurant for dinner. Let’s learn about life’s magic – all these moments that appear unreal but are just as true as good news that arrives unannounced. I often get the feeling that the older I get and appreciate things, the more easily I marvel at what surrounds me. Every microsensation of happiness thrills me: breathing in the fresh morning air, napping on the couch in the middle of the afternoon, washing my hair with rainwater, soothing an itch with the help of five metal fingers on the end of a stick, drinking my coffee piping hot, succeeding in eating more fruit than bread, taking selfies for my Sunday letters, writing even when I’m asleep. I’m not kidding! It happens that a stroke of genius wakes me in the middle of the night and I grab my notepad. I enjoy being at writing’s service, being its researcher, prospector, storyteller and the one who strings its words together using a keyboard. For the longest time I thought I would TAKE CARE OF MYSELF LATER. But you know what? My LATER arrived A LONG TIME AGO! Come to think of it, deciding to take care of ourselves later is presumptuous. How do we know what will be in our control a day, a week or a year from now? The power we feel is an illusion. On the other hand, our power to live in the present is very real; just like our right to choose happiness. Don’t put off these micromoments of happiness until tomorrow, these sparks of joy that surround us and are within our grasp. Think about it. Life is so short and rarely do we allow ourselves to feel the wonder in front of us. Cora ❤

Dear readers, I am surprised and amazed as I realize this morning that I’m writing my 200th Sunday letter. Time really does fly by. Believe it or not, I wrote the first Sunday letter on April 1, 2020, while most of the planet was in mandatory lockdown. Everything was closed, including our restaurants, and it made us sad not to be able to serve our valued customers. We wanted to keep you in our hearts, so we started serving you encouraging dishes of comforting words and stimulating thoughts. With each letter we gained more followers and readers, and you are now thousands of eyes that are hungry for well-written phrases and passionate stories every Sunday. My soul flutters just thinking about it. Everything my mind composed, all that my fingers have typed and all the love my heart has gathered. I imagine birds, hundreds of birds in a variety of colours, carrying my thanks to all those who’ve allowed me to write. Beginning with those who inspire me, who read me, those who translate my every word, those who correct them and those who send them through the magic tunnels of social media until they appear, safe and sound each Sunday, on our dear readers’ screens. From afar, I see royal eagles like splashes of ink in the sky. It must be them who carry my heaviest thanks, these praises addressed to the ethereal world. Thanks to inspiration, this creative breath, which, like an unstoppable rush of words, gives shape to my thoughts. Thanks to imagination, this divine fountain that never dries up and allows me to envision an entire forest from a small bush of wild weeds. Thanks to my precious writing skills I inherited from my mother. Sadly, I never knew she was passionate about writing until after she had passed. What a magnificent gift from such a quiet mother! Thanks to dauntlessness, this brave warrior who helps me deliver a full page each morning when I sit to write. Thanks to perseverance, who makes my words more original and my sentences more elegant. With their long crooked beaks, the big black crows protect my home, and it is I who thank them. For days on end, I write in the solarium following the rhythm of their coos and caws. I often get the impression that they’re simply after my attention. Very wise fairies also flitter behind the clouds. They’re waiting for my ink to dry, my body to fly away and my soul to split into a thousand starry commas. I live in the most complete state of gratitude; so much so, that sometimes it feels like it’s the words themselves who need me. They attract me like magnets; they lift up my sentences and throw them into the wind. I am thankful for my five senses that constantly work to enrich my well-being. To hear music, taste the first coffee in the morning or the sweetness of a ripe apple, see the sun go down in a purple blaze, feel my grandson in my arms and smell the sensational aroma of roses. What a delight! I thank my children, their children and my two great grandchildren who contribute to my happiness. I thank my unconditional friends, who are true guardian angels that live but a short distance away: Catherine, François, Neil, Éric, Adèle, Carmen, Patricia, Claude, Steven and Marie-Pierre. I thank all the great writers, poets and songwriters. All these fabulous creators amaze me and often teach me some new trick of the trade. Finally, I thank the chatterbox who lives inside my head. She possesses the instinctual reflex of imagination, which can’t be pinned down by reason. And then there’s the Chatty Cathy in my head, who’s always helping me to polish my story. She plants flowers in the margin, finds uncommon words, deletes useless adverbs and completes the story’s ending. Cora ❤