The entirety of the GTA was met with the first major snowstorm of the season (and the year, for that matter) upon confronting on Monday. Any residual weekday blues were replaced with anxiety and awe - for either you calmly observed as a work-from-home-er (myself) or were already knee-deep and digging yourself out of the house.

​In the face of a rippling blizzard, there were still some that took to the 401 for work and non-essential travel. It was ill-advised, and many were left stranded on the highway or trapped within snow banks.

​As the once grey skies began to dim, I could withstand a bread craving no more. Digging a path just wide enough for the wheels of my vehicle, I dashed out onto the partially ploughed streets, heart yearning for COBS.

​The dangers had not been cleared away in their entirety, for while major streets had been mostly cleared, lanes were reduced tremendously and plaza parking lots remained inaccessible. Extra caution was exercised to navigate safely within the plaza and back onto arterials.

​A Country Grain Loaf, two Hot Cross Buns, and six-pack of Butter Tarts accompanied me for the ride. Though, the latter will likely never enter the household again: excessively sugary with the unnecessary addition of raisins, we deemed the palm-sized pieces edible, but far from enjoyable.

​Witnessed the next day were glorious blue skies, as if the previous day's mayhem hadn't occurred at all.
​I remained within, observing all from my ever-consistent, second-floor window.

​The sole creation of the week was a second attempt at the Oat Fudge Bar.

And so we have arrived at the week before Christmas.

​Workflows are slowing, accruals are hastily accelerated, and staff are excitedly preparing for their time off. I once again opt out of a holiday vacation, for there is, really, nothing to do and nowhere to go. Dreadfully missed trips to Vancity can yet be executed with good feeling; moreover, I quite enjoy working without pinging disruptions.

Treacherous winds continued long after POLAR, causing incremental damage to our already ailing flag over the course of the week. Its eventual demise was witnessed on Friday morning, just as the gusts dissipated and a snowy premonition was forecast for the upcoming twenty-hour period.

Creations of the week included:

1) Copycat Cranberry Bliss Bars

Earlier in the month came contemplation of my next baking endeavour: Nanaimo Bars or a homemade rendition of Starbucks' Cranberry Bliss Bar. Poll results favoured the latter; eager responses requested relaying of the final formula upon seeing success.

A cursory review of the franchise's famed seasonal treat informed of a blondie base, synthetic orange flavouring, and, as expected, a malleable, oil-based top layer. The list continued into stabilizers, chemical compounds, and commercial preservatives for the obvious intents of prolonged shelf life and store-ability. Given that the creation wasn't new by any means though, the ingredient list had been adapted for the standard consumer by a handful of online sources.

Rather than aimless scans of each, I sought guidance from the almighty SK. "Infinitely adaptable" - her recipe had read; I proceeded to take her words literally and incorporated the flavourings from the very first Google Search result.
Orange extract was apparently non-negotiable, prompting procurement of Watkins Pure Orange Extract. The addition indeed proved vital in both the blondie base and cream cheese frosting: its inclusion was noticeable, leaving a distinct tingle on the tongue following consumption. Several other recipes had noted it as "optional", but I'd disagree with that remark.  The same would apply to orange zest - definitely not optional. Ginger powder, on the hand, was less important and could be substituted with cinnamon for the same subtle spicy warmth if desired.

Treacherous high winds had nixed arrangements from the evening prior, and rightfully so given the corresponding safety hazards for drivers and pedestrians alike. A splendid Sunday surprise welcomed me the next morning, strictly speaking in the sense of shortbread.

Issho Bakery's Holiday Shortbread Box was a cookie lover's dream. Neatly nestled within the white paper box was the most festive assortment one could ask for.

Fruit & Nut Biscotti: Thinner than your typical coffee-dipping biscuit, Issho's version spanned no more than one centimetre in thickness, and proved proportionally brittle. The walnuts were mere slivers, while the apricot and chocolate were packed tightly, offering a subtle crunch with each bite. Admittedly, they were less suitable for dipping into a caffeinated beverage due to its delicate composition. That said, they were nonetheless enjoyed alongside one's cup of morning joe, serving to provide a touch of sustenance with a lingering citrus aftertaste.
The slim appearance further instigated possibility of a mechanical bread or pastry slicer in the production process, for biscotti is sliced and baked twice, making thick cuts more preferable for maintaining intactness. Less rigidity in the loaf would pose difficulty in maintaining narrow, uniform sections.

Brown Butter Shortbread: Absolutely toothsome with a thorough infusion of woody spice, these chunky rounds were enjoyed best by those appreciative of full-bodied, holiday flavours. Specks of brown butter brought about an undeniably nuttiness; herby notes of rosemary followed, while a zesty zing would cling to the tongue after the last bite.

Chocolate Shortbread: Seemingly identical to the Brown Butter Shortbread in terms of visuals (thickness, coarse sugar coating, circular form), its profile was anything but similar. The stump-like discs were noticeably less dense, even threatening fragmentation under the pressure of firm digits. For the first time ever, I would taste a mild fluffiness in a shortbread cookie. The texture was foreign, yet not unwelcome. Fine cocoa nibs contributed crunch, while mintiness would befall midway through consumption and persist well after the final crumb was devoured.

Ginger Snap: Since last year's dive into gingerbread cookies, I was eager to not make them again. Our household is accustomed to the molasses-free editions, normally associated with the components of a gingerbread house. The centrepiece of Ginger Snaps was very much to my liking, for gingery, citrusy, and snappy they were. The potent properties may not be to the preference of all, but I rest assured that even the most spice-adverse entity can appreciate the harmonious amalgamation of spice and snap.

Matcha Snowball: Snowballs are a classic Christmas treat, yet one that is rarely executed well. Without insight, they can emerge starchy, bland, and unattractively sweet. My dabbling in Sunday Baking's recipes had enabled acquaintance with a nutty, crunchy specimen for easy eating, but the experience was reinvented entirely with Issho. Beyond the inclusion of almond powder were small bits of white sesame - impressively aromatic and oozing of depth. It was a revolutionary addition that promptly rid my memory of any predecessors without it. I swore to incorporate the ingredient into my next batch going forward.

Around the 4 PM mark, we began the trip downtown. Winter's early sunset painted a lovely blue-lilac gradient about us as we inched along the Gardiner, accompanied by countless other vehicles.

​Parking was a mission in itself, as transit-opposed thrill-seekers shall come to learn. While having conducted extensive research the evenings prior, our first choice was unavailable. A backup plan entailed a loop along the city's many one-way, streetcar-supporting streets and into the underground lot of Radisson Blu.
By the time we emerged above ground, the sun had descended. What remained was a receding lining of tangerine, vibrancy gradually suppressed by a sombre navy. The gusty bursts felt along the waterfront proceeded to question our outfit choices, and why scarves and down coats had been shed. By daytime temperatures I had been misled.

The Harbourfront Centre Rink had been reconfigured from the imperfect rhombus of the Natrel Pond to an odd-shaped, half-hollow/half-filled figure 8 before the Harbourfront Centre Concert Stage. 

Ample space was found along the west side of the concert stage, with a small section to the right separated for skating lessons. An abundance of benches had been arranged along the rink's perimeter for storage and ease of shoe swapping. The primary issue lay with the layout: the loop was compact to start, then converged to a narrow U between the stage and Ann Tindal Park. The lack of width posed a hazard for experienced and new skaters alike, for reduced surface area equated to greater pressure. These deep ridges, in conjunction with slow speeds and the underlying foundation (ie. the ground)'s naturally occurring slope changes, made half of the trail largely unenjoyable. The ice had been formed around trees; despite gymnastic pads wrapped around for safety, the grade difference and non-uniform state of matter offered another obstacle to weave around.

​We resided in this space for approximately one hour, mainly to satisfy my skating itch as my partner for the day had lost familiarity with her hockey skates. As the toes began to cramp, our minds wandered to the topic of food. My historic log of the Waterfront District had not escaped me, and I was quick to point out the Queen's Quay Terminal building to satisfy our needs.

Across from the Goodman Pub and Kitchen - amazingly still standing - was Joe Bird, and behind it Pie Bar.

I struggled to find periods of calmness throughout the week. Despite the lack of virtual meetings, the days were not devoid of tasks demanding my constant attention. Departing my in-home office for longer than my allocated lunch period was unthinkable. Yet, my desires to realize culinary concepts far surpassed the resurfacing need for rest and burnout prevention.

Wanoka's cloud-like creation resounded in my memory: springy, porous sponge and an airy piping of whipped cream. I set out to relive the experience, dabbling into oil-based formulas for the first time since pancakes.

​My preference for butter has been made known on this space; being a mix of fat and solids, it tends to result in denser, more substantial slices. On the contrary, oil is entirely liquid in nature, claiming lighter properties due to difference in density.

I resorted to Sunday's roster of artful bakery formations for a guideline, then began the experiment, substituting ground chestnut for mugwort powder.

Of 146g of finely pulsed chestnut, 10g was incorporated into the batter. The remainder was mixed with icing sugar and milk - alternately added to test consistency - (and lastly rum!) to obtain a pipe-able cream topping.

​Unlike my really rushed Houjicha Roll Cake base, this time I took heed to stabilize the egg whites properly. Furthermore, the cake was cooled upside down to prevent shrinkage.

With endless wails in opposition of any activity bearing even vaguest association with exercise, I promised a "safe" itinerary for the lover of stars and pigs.
We would engage not in boxing nor hiking, and instead be given a rare opportunity to dress nicely for the occasion.

Extensive amounts of walking would not take place, nor would perspiration-inducing pursuits. The date served not only as a breather for my partner-in-crime, but a chance for me to formulate an ostentatious and utterly impractical ensemble. It would pair alongside my new contact prescription trial and the very last pair of falsies in my possession - box coated with neglect, lash glue firmed beyond salvage.

​The additional effort furthered my lack of punctuality, leading to a departure delayed just under sixty minutes. By the time I had arrived at her humble abode, it was nearing early afternoon. Lunch at Hub would take place around the 2:30 PM mark, in an essentially deserted dining hall.

Having stepped foot into the establishment for the first time in months (no, years!), the revised layout was taken note of immediately. My go-to seating by the window had been expropriated for preparation for takeout orders. The sole member of waitstaff was spotted sitting at one of the large tables preparing wasabi in to-go containers.
We were guided towards a lengthy table at the north end of the restaurant. Laminated menus soon followed; eliminated were the hardcover scrapbook-style booklets.

​Our request for hot water was responded to with lidless paper cups, while utensils adopting unanimously disposable format. I had no issues with this approach, though it would have been appreciated if a separate dish was provided for emptied soy sauce packets. For the duration of our meal, they either remained on the edge of our plastic plates or laid atop our only napkin on the table.

​I was quick to suggest revisiting of my longtime favourites.

First to arrive was the Hub Tower. While the lover of stars and pigs found it typically average, my impressions did not align. The combination of fresh mango, salmon, and tuna was splendid; ripe avocado could also be enjoyed in small quantities, just as I prefer. It was admittedly more watery than previous iterations, yet nonetheless delicious.

View the full album HERE !

WinterFest - never have I uttered an event name with such wariness.
Freezing rain had postponed our planned 2019 visit not once but twice, making its reappearance two years later that much more cherishable.

​Ticketing was a confusing task in itself, where the posing of burning concerns were restricted to website-only Contact Forms and general inquiry line operated by limited staff. Over three weeks of planning and several more days to finalize the pre-visit preparations, the date was confirmed at long last.

Our original date preference had resided with Saturday, though the Bring-a-Friend incentive quickly shifted focus to the day after. Schedules were arranged to maximize the discount. The swap would entail comparatively damper driving conditions, along with a glorious dusting of fluffy snow - an unexpected fringe for festivity.

I proposed a detour for M Cha Bar to take advantage of a BOGO offer. My faith in the Roasted Oolong Milk Tea was reinstated, exposing the inaptitude if the bubble tea shop's Scarborough location.

​Prior to entering the gates, we made the last-minute decision for skate rentals. Tickets were purchased exclusively through the Wonderland website and redeemed in the form of wristbands beyond the security gates. Waivers were also required for each reservation.
We then proceeded through the gates, which comprised of bag inspection, ticket-scanning, and the additional step of vaccination verification.

​Once within, the snowcapped perspective of the park came into view. It was a wholly wonderful sight to behold: The embellished trees, gleeful tunes, colourful decorations, and soft shower of snowflakes all alluded to one thing - the oncoming arrival of the winter holidays. The park embodied the essence of The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

​We roamed the grounds with fervent excitement - me more so than the local, long-time ally. Weaving underneath the Medieval Faire, a mini stage was spotted. "Bah Humbug" the sign read, followed by its hourly performance times.

View the full album HERE !

​​Opting not to stay, our footsteps progressed onto the path towards the Christas Market. Occupying two enclosed establishments were vendors retailing gifts and seasonal food items. Layered fudge blocks, chocolate, and even overpriced seasonal churros were amongst the assortment.

The Toronto Christmas Market, fondly referred to as TCM, was rebranded as the Distillery Winter Village after a year of repose at the midpoint of unvaccinated pandemic.

Ticket prices had been subject to inflation, which was not unanticipated given the urgency to recover profit. Formerly charging no more than five dollars for peak time access during weekends and Friday evenings, the remaining four days of the work week had been liberated from entry fees. The takeover, and abandoning of the old website, saw a surcharge of three dollars, plus associated administrative and processing charges per ticket. Furthermore, the inaugural tree lighting ceremony was added to the roster of admission-requiring days, despite being scheduled on a Thursday.

Countless attempts to round up interested companions ended in vain: they either wanted nothing to do with crowds or wanted nothing to do with TTC congestion during rush hour. The latter was more understandable than the former, especially with consideration of the desire to travel (and board a plane!). Efforts were combatted with an endless supply of excuses and lukewarm responses, to the extent where it would have simply been easier to politely <s> bluntly decline in the first place. With Tree Lighting night inching closer, and my pitches overturned again and again, I began to give up hope for the market.

Alas, there was but one reliable specimen that came to my rescue. My birthday twin, who is a self-proclaimed "low-maintenance" creature with wholly unrivalled openness to my endless assortment of impromptu proposals and unprecedented randomness, expressed acceptance of the request - wholeheartedly and, most importantly, willingly.
​​Her proximity to my own coordinates ensured a pragmatic approach to logistics planning. Time and cost savings were unrivalled with the elimination of GO train tickets, which, may I note, have notably grown pricier since the transit service's plunge into single digit ridership numbers at the peak of the pandemic. (Can you blame Metrolinx though?)

I left my overworked, underpaid post slightly earlier than normal to ensure a congestion-free course downtown. It worked out well for me, given that the sudden influx of emails had concluded by Wednesday evening for the most part. We found our place to reside inside one of Corktown's handful of carparks. Parking rates varied by district, as made aware by the Green P website. By the George Brown residences and sparkly new YMCA building was our garage of choice, and adjacent to it a lofty outpost of Dark Horse Espresso.

This location was significantly larger than that of the John Street location. It boasted ample illumination from its glass panel encasing, seating along the perimeter of the café, and even a decently-sized marketplace for wine and gifts. Also featured was alcohol for sale, which corresponded to its comparatively tardy closing time of 7pm.

I reviewed the menu options at the cashier, then, at earning a tepid response from the cashier, I took to browsing on Ritual. There was a faint memory of seeing app-only promotions, and I wasn't about to lose out on my rare redemption opportunity in the city.
An Iced Latte was requested via the platform - tip added for dine-in courtesy. Neither proof of vaccination nor IDs were requested for verification, though we did overhear the barista's high level inquiry to patrons that placed orders at the bar. Signs mandating the provincial order were not upheld within the space; there were no posted notifications beyond recommendations for symptom screening. We took to a window seat: I cracked open the weighty monster of a machine, while the birthday bud took to an analog activity - journalling.

​Washrooms were situated towards the back of the café-market hybrid. Signs pointed towards the end of a hallway featuring minimal illumination and a noticeable amount of cardboard boxes within its path. A member of staff with dainty Korean-style tattoos gestured towards the accessible stall, "The bathroom is there." Two sinks were affixed outside the bathroom, with one more inside the stall, promoting handwashing through the act of convenience.

​My Latte had been brought to the mobile order pick-area within steps of the entrance. A red heart accompanied my name on the cup's lid; ample ice and a milkiness were found in its contents.
Work continued into the early evening hours. Dark Horse had imposed a one-hour limit for dine-in customers, which we had stretched by 150% (yet did not get booted).

Our trek to the market then commenced. Opting to enter from Trinity Street, we were guided by four members of uniform-donning staff. One conducted visual checks for vaccination records and IDs, while the three others scanned ticket QR codes. Unaware of the precise start time for the Tree Lighting Ceremony, we ensured an arrival of roughly 5 PM. Passerbys would then notify us - indirectly, of course - of the slated 6 PM schedule.

The inside of the market was gently glowing. A hushed vesper violet saturated the sky. Familiar strings of bulb lights emanated a warm cast on the visitors beneath.  It was official: the annual event was back.

We found the vendor count fewer than past years, with retail stalls exceeding street food options. Roots made an unexpected appearance at the south limit, and was joined by Sapsucker, an initiative involving sparkling water derived from our nation's very own maple trees, and Kombi, a winter sportsgear boutique boasting a fur-lined snowmobile in front. Removed was the Naughty or Nice display as well as some heated lamps by Pure Spirits Mews. At the intersection of Trinity Street and Gristmill Lane was a stage - complete with red carpet - for performances executed in the name of Salvation Army. The signature jingle could be well overhead the vocals and cheery commentary.

View the full album HERE !

Although it may seem odd to welcome mild mercury levels with our Christmas tree fully intact, I deem November a month of transitions. The now lofty sapling outside my window has seen a head of flourish green, then wispy, weaning fronds of mustard yellow, and finally shriveled coils of plum-puce. The changes seek correspondence with happenings in the workplace, where steady separation from the project from hell shall hopefully level the skill roster and compensate the void of technical aptitudes.

As the days grow colder and daylight shorter, any illumination ought be well received. They guide our gaze, and consequently our hearts and spirit.

When my phone began to buzz with FACE blaring over the sound of our aimless kitchen banter, I knew it was now or never.
Bike repairs were complete, weather was splendid, and workload levels were in - dare I say (while holding my breath) - low.
​There seemed no better opportunity to take advantage of the scraps of seasonal temperatures.

​I've come to learn that the city has no shortage of bike-friendly routes in the Erindale area. Yet, rather than taking on a new path prior to winter closures, I decided to revisit an old path - the first that I had ever travelled on two wheels, and the one I had resisted departure from for at least two summers.

​The woodchips and treacherous upward slope that I had feared remained. Though, to combat settlement and endlessly damp climate, boardwalks had been reinforced with additional half-planks. Now sunken beneath sodden soils were the woodchips, barely visible without former familiarization of the trail.

Some good news rolled my way come the latter part of the week: I was informed that graduation from the project wrecking all havoc and hell was within reach. At last I'd be liberated from the ceaseless crises over resource constraints, which are often play out more comical than one would expect of full-grown adults.

​I was done with being interrogated about my time charges,
Done with being interrupted amidst morning caffeination,
And, most importantly, done with leaders of a team acting out against the crux of teamwork.

We spent the days following our Scarborough trip indulging in the various items acquired during the trip. Components of the course dinners would appease our appetites for days onward, while the buns and bakery items from Aromaz would serve as breakfast. The Ginger Milk Egg Tart was a rare item to chance across, and proved scrumptious: flakey and silky with faint yet discernible notes of ginger.

​On a rather tranquil Friday afternoon, I began to construct a layered cake, adopting the techniques used in Cookie Tree's tiered masterpieces. It was the start of a Lime Mousse Cake with Yuzu Jelly.

​In my mind, I had recalled a decent quantity of cream cheese leftover from constructing the Japanese Cheesecake prototype. I wasn't wrong, though it wasn't quite adequate in filling my 7.75 in cake pan in its entirety. To its rescue came the spunky Key Lime Popsicles. Much like how the Mint Chocolate Ice Cream had been repurposed into a pound cake topping, the too-rich popsicles were emptied out from their molds and summoned for use within the mousse layer. Having preserved the lime zest in their freshest state, its sweet-tangy essence could be salvaged for enjoyment months later.

Capacity for creative contemplation has found me once again. A transitional period for workplace duties (and surge in proposal preparation activities at an upper management level) have bequeathed a sense of tranquility in my workspace. The emails have been less frequent, and consequently so have levels of stress and work-related anxiety.
But this enjoyment may be short-lived, for all that I am aware. Looming on the horizon is an interrogation requested by none but inevitable in the face of poor project management skills.

I've never been one to balk at an opportunity for exploration - sometimes to the detriment of my physical capabilities - and readily seized the opening for kitchen endeavour. A conceptual "chocolate cake" floated in my mind, shapeless and tasteless. The original debate lay between a rice flour-based formula and standard sponge, yet the reminder of sour cream in our refrigerator register derailed all thoughts of either.

Instead was the adaptation of Sunday Baking's Cherry Chocolate Pound Cake, where Amarena cherries were omitted and pink frosting was swapped for a mint chocolate edition. The Mint Chocolate Pound Cake was the best of both worlds, for it allowed for previously constructed, too-rich mint chocolate (ice) cream to be repurposed as a cake topper and eliminated contact with nuts, making gifting possible to a sensitive-stomached ahgase.

The cake was quite dense, particularly at its edges, where staleness was more prominent than crunchiness. Adding a loose layer of mint chocolate cream compensated its lacking moisture content while furthering the chocolatey decadence with bite-sized pieces of Surfin.

​Five attempts at Dalgona later, I attained success. Failed efforts can be concluded to derive from incorrect choice of leavening agent (use baking soda, not baking powder!) and inadequate temperature (170 degrees Celsius, not Fahrenheit).

​Concluding the last run of cycling season was a 16.7 km ride in the Churchill Meadows area. I had set out about thirty minutes before sundown and detoured a few times through residential areas before finally arriving at my planned destination.

​The journey to Osprey Marsh had seemed relatively straightforward on the map, with MUPs entirely linear. However, I quickly learned that the Cycling layer on Google Maps is not always reliable. An arterial with no shoulder and only one lane per direction was far from my idea of a "bike-friendly street". Opting for sidewalks and paved paths subject to settlement and invasion by organic matter, I eventually arrived at the park at dusk. There was just enough time to catch a glimpse of fall foliage in the lake's reflection before hurriedly making the trip back.