​With full confidence, I declare that majority of us have become homebodies as a result of this ongoing pandemic. Involuntarily in the case of eager adventurers, the transition from daily downtown discoveries to dormant, deskbound drudgery was far from facile.
​The inevitable "quarantine fifteen" prevails even in the face of countless up-and-coming online workout channels. And while homemade meals tend to prove more flexible and budget-friendly, the act of composition isn't entirely easy, especially when slotted between periods of tremendous anxiety and impromptu teleconferences.
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I'm looking to start the roundup with several of the week's creations, as time in the kitchen has constituted for the vast percentage of my waking hours, whether it be a frantic fury of dinner assemblage or the undertaking of sweet treats for the sake of stress relief.

Creations of the week include:

1) Chocolate Chip Cookies​ - the last of the Epicurious batch, to be precise.
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​Baked in the oven at 350 F for roughly 15 mins, the yield was softer than toaster oven with, oddly, sweeter results. My preference lies with the toaster oven, for it maintains height, limits spread, and leads to an overall crisper cookie. Furthermore, it nixes the need for preheating (and its associated energy wastage).

2) Financiers
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After adhering to a 12-hour chill - as directed by Sunday Baking - the batter was spooned into madeleine and mini muffin molds. Despite a small mishap along the way (ahem misreading the baking temperature), the results remained stellar.

​In an attempt to recreate my fave specimen from Third Wave, I proceeded to coat a handful of the pastries with melted chocolate and chopped, toasted walnuts; it was a regrettable decision that contributed an excess of moisture, dissimilar to the King East coffee shop's heavenly incarnation. That said, the mighty morsels managed to disappear quite rapidly.

3) Penne with Chicken Breast using last week's fresh tomato pasta sauce
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I won't even lie: work happenings resulted in complete obliteration of the starchy pantry staple from the grocery list, prompting me to run back for its sole acquisition. The pasta was enjoyed alongside defrosted kale and a shredded Edam & mozzarella blend.

At 2:57 PM on Monday afternoon, I joined the lineup for Bobooya. Food inventory was low at home, thus making for the perfect excuse for a trip to North York.

​Katsuya's "sister brand" had secured a storefront at the densely-populated intersection of Yonge and Sheppard, south of Han Ba Tang and adjacent to Pujukan. ​With the stretch already saturated with similar pub-like establishments, it was a questionable location in terms of competition. However, given the team's success in launching specialized tonkatsu eateries throughout the GTA, I have high hopes for the new venture, which pays homage to their Korean roots.

The peculiar name was derived from their signature items: bossam ("bo") and budaejjigae ("boo"), however the true stunner was the jokbal. The fare was undoubtedly traditional, though zoning in on the niche market was an unprecedented step in the uptown dining scene.

As part of the restaurant's grand opening promotions, five menu items were granted a 50% off discount. Of these five items, only two were devoid of the "spicy" description. The full menu was more extensive, spanning Red Carbonara Bossam and BBQ Cheese Jobkal, but the cash-only event operated on a limited selection.

​Despite being fourth in line, the ordeal demanded a lengthier slot than allocated. Succeeding a 10-minute wait to reach the front counter was 25-minute wait to receive my order. Thankfully, the nearby side street offered parking, albeit enforced by the metre. For commuters, the Yonge Sheppard centre acts as a source of A/C, retail therapy, and, most importantly, toilet facilities.

My order of a Large Bobooya Bossam and Large Bobooya Jokbal was packaged neatly in partitioned, spillproof packaging - Go Topokki-style (which apparently is no longer a go). ​More often than not, my driving tendencies possess the potential for unforeseen calamities. Secure casing was greatly appreciated in this regard; moreover, the recyclable containers prove more eco-conscious than Styrofoam, though are sadly not resealable.

​At 50% off, the meal was a steal with extremely generous portions, wide array of toppings (ssam sauce and fresh garlic!), and phenomenal kimchi - dare I say, the best I've tasted in my lifetime. The quantity of romaine lettuce included was insufficient for wrapping. That said, the leaves were fresh, slightly damp, and free from visible curling or blackened edges.
Leftovers carried us through the week: While the bossam was great on the date of purchase, it grew tougher with each passing day. On the contrary, the jokbal grew tastier, attaining new depths of delectability. Reheating the slices rendered them positively tender, prompting instant dissolution.

​With all that said, undertaking a visit at full price would constitute a topic of discussion. Bobooya's asking price is mind-bogglingly steep, with two large orders totalling over eighty dollars.

In keeping with the positive vibes acquired from Canada Day's Scenic Caves nature pursuit in Collingwood, I had proposed a subsequent hike with a fellow July baby (yes, another one). It was, coincidentally, another semi-annual meetup.

​My original destination of Kortright - a name made familiar with while researching Maple Syrup Fest - was closed due to the pandemic, thus shifting the focus to other TRCA lands. Between the Nashville Conservation Reserve and Albion Hills Conservation Park, I settled on the latter out of consideration for its seemingly larger area of exploration.

​High levels of humidity had been predicted for the day, though thunderstorms were, thankfully, at bay.
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Setting out from opposite ends of the GTA, we converged at a nearby McDonald's for a late lunch (which was really intended to be "just lunch", but delayed due to tardiness to which I own complete responsibility). A McChicken and Spicy Habanero Chicken (not mine, clearly) later, we began the twenty-minute-ish drive north.

Admission fees were but a small chunk of Scenic Caves' at $6.50 per adult. That said, signage was extremely minimal - near nonexistent, really - and so were members of park staff. I pulled into the first parking lot to appear, with my partner-in-crime following suit. The supposed "Trail Access" vanished with the departures from our respective vehicles. Hopping back into the driver's seat(s), we proceeded to travel upon other barely labelled routes, eventually reaching staff-only areas and a dead end. It wasn't until we accidentally pulled onto the campground area that directions were obtained from two friendly cyclists.

​The dusty gravel lot housed only a handful of vehicles. Surrounding the area were several picnic tables, all sufficiently distanced. For the vast majority of our trek, not a single human was witnessed. Accompanying us on the journey instead was the force of Mother Nature: agonizing dry heat, obsolete tree cover, unkempt paths laden with weeds, and as many flying/skittering/crawly creatures as fathomable.
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Even at the early point of entry, our fate had been foretold.

​The burdensome weight on my back had been in vain, for views were dismal and insects were rampant. Maneuvering at arguably peaceful speeds rendered us targets for blood-sucking, and halting for swift snapshots was far worse. Commencing at marker no. 45, we plodded along the narrow grooves, constantly searching for indication that we had not strayed from the proper path. Much like the start of our journey, signage was extremely minimal; black and yellow arrows affixed to stout wooden poles served to guide us, though there was more than one occasion where a fork in the road coexisted with only one sign.

​We headed in the direction of a river, which ultimately reared itself as an incredibly still strip of murkiness - an opaque beige of filth and other organic compounds. Stumbling upon a shaded strip of shrubbery, we somehow managed to catch a glimpse of a blueish reflective surface - water. Beyond the a barbed wire fence was a wider section of the river, and beyond that a single accomodation and connecting grade-separated roadway.

​Much as The Tablo Podcast says, maturity is often depicted with a sense of minimalism, eradicating elements extraneous to one's overall functionality. The coming of age and its associated responsibilities as a contributing member of society nixes the need for abundant acquaintances and a house full of knickknacks.

​With each passing day, I strive to reduce the count of material goods embedded in my immediate surroundings, shifting preference of nominal presents from barely familiar faces to financial stability and adequate food supply. This is not to say that the fewer the friends, the better. Rather, it is a nod to new experiences free from unnecessary frills.

The occasional dine-out pays homage to this quarantine-founded concept. Drearily has the past week passed me, with work tasks consuming the bulk of my waking hours (and even some of my subconscious ones in the form of apprehensive dreams). Well overdue was a weekday lunch, and with a crippling craving for ramen, I suggested a visit to Kinton.

Of course, the go-to option has never veered from Kenzo - er, now Kamen. It is with remarkable regret that the re-branded restaurant offers no patio for in-store dining. Thus, the less preferable alternative was sought out.

​Tables were relatively empty at the late lunchhour of 2 PM. The franchise's storefront faced Confederation Parkway, where patrons were successfully shaded from the blaze of the sun though subject to the comparatively less desirable state of wind and rampant dust particles from traversing construction trucks. Despite landing ourselves at a loathsome location of a patio, we proceeded with the meal with consideration to stomach emptiness, glancing back to our vehicle every so often in fear of parking enforcement crews. (What a travesty metred parking spots are.)

​Upon entry, one member of each party was required to input information on a Health Declaration Form. The list requested details including guest name, phone number, entry time, and a signature; a pen - wrapped in neither plastic nor visibly sanitized resided adjacent. In spite of the declarative application, no temperatures were taken. Servers wore masks, though guests were not required to do the same, even when accessing washroom facilities. For the most part, we complied with the masking, even in the absence of others in our 2-metre radius, for the gusts of granular material were as unpleasant as could be.
We enlisted a member of the waitstaff for a wipedown of our sand-speckled table, who took to a damp cloth that brushed ours before immediately navigating to a different one. The utilization of a single cleansing cloth was common practice amongst waitstaff prior to COVID-19, however the scene induced a questionable eyebrow raise in today's times.

Guests were provided the options of individually packaged disposable utensils and plastic cups or the franchise's array of standard eating equipment, inclusive of a funky smelling ladle and Stainless steel water cups.

We took to orders of Takoyaki, Pork Original ramen with thin noodles, and seasonal Chilled Tsukemen, discarding mindfulness of their atrocious prices and overly rich broth in the moment.
Four teensy pieces of very, very average Takoyaki set us back a whopping $5.50. Surrendering bonito flakes to the wind, the morsels were left with tonkatsu sauce and mayo as toppings. For the record, this was an instance where fat (deep frying) did not equate to flavour.

​Those under the impression that Chilled Tsukemen would be on the same page as refreshing Korean naengmyeon couldn't be further from the truth. Thick starchy noodles coated in an obscene amount of oil was delivered to the table, sans dipping sauce. I appreciated the generous portion of sesame seeds, as well as the grated daikon. For a Japanese establishment though, I expected wasabi that was less powdery and scallions more finely chopped. The dish was far too slick for a summer afternoon - or any meal at any time of day, really - leading me to halt consumption within a few mouthfuls, despite being famished. The soy broth, once it eventually arrived, was also heavier than expected. Surprisingly, the two thin slices of pork shoulder were the least greasy of the entire composition.

​Much like sushi, carbohydrates is a food group I could never possibly surrender. Complex or refined, they deserve distinct placement in my diet and serve as valuable sources of energy.

Day-to-day activities rarely deviate from the standard cycle of work, errand-running, chore-doing, and cooking, so when the opportunity to make a departure from routine arises, I'll gladly oblige.

I had bookmarked Tatsu's Bread for several seasons, though had constantly put off the drive as neither its coordinates nor operating hours were in agreement with my schedule. As the loaf on our countertop began to wither away to nothingness, I took it as a sign to venture along Lakeshore and snap up the last of the day's assortment.

​To the left were pastries: individual cake slices and pudding cups; to the right were the various varieties of bread. Situated in the centre were cookies, croissants, muffins, and the like. A chalkboard menu hung high on the wall, just behind the cashier.

We took to a range of items before retreating back into the car, requesting disposable forks for consumption as the dining floor remained closed. With the exception of the Egg Bread and Cheese Stick, the remainder of our purchases were subject to HST - quite regrettable as these two happened to be the highlights of the visit.

​Devoured in the car were a Chocolate Roll Cake, Lemon Roll Cake, and small Chocolate Croissant. Despite the croissant being less flaky than desired, the roll cakes were an interesting afternoon snack. Exceptionally moist with a layer of jam sandwiched between the sponge and whipping cream, neither piece proved particularly satiating. Lemon was the airier specimen of the two, unsurprisingly, while Chocolate featured a rather tart profile (with questionable bits of crackle reminiscent of crushed eggshells). 

​Consumed at a later point in time were two Pecan Tarts (not me) and an inexplicably mushy Potato Bagel. ​

Bearing the stereotypical Executive personality, I've always held a firm stance on rules and rewards, that prizes stem from hard work, that gains are proportional to the amount of effort exerted, and that freedom is not a right but a privilege. The pandemic has stripped many of a stable lifestyle, whether that be in the form of an occupation (financial freedom), an unmasked jog around the block (physical freedom), or the mere act of interacting with others within an arm's length (social freedom).

Halton Region had proceeded to Stage 2 as a result of comprehensive compliance, and for the first time since the outbreak, I stepped foot into a restaurant with the intention of residing longer than ten minutes. Moreover, I'd be ingesting sustenance in the presence of another human - one that neither shared the same household nor the same familial circle. Even the sheer contemplation was baffling.

Cove had been selected as the lunch destination of choice for our annual summer get-together. Eateries equipped with patios aren't common sightings in the burbs, though spaces along the waterfront are generally your best bet.

To provide peace of mind, OpenTable had included a new section detailing the safety precautions declared by the restaurant. ​And upon my arrival, it was observed that tables had indeed been arranged to respect physical distancing. Arrows instructing guest flow had also been taped to the floor; there was a distinct one-way path to guide patrons to their table, to bathroom facilities, then out the back door as an egress point. In the washroom, a bottle of disinfectant was spotted near the sinks, though its intended function missing in action. Stalls were compact and offered less than 2 metres of maneuver room; given this, a sign restricting entry numbers would have been deemed fitting. Menus were tackier than preferred, but majority of waitstaff bore face masks.

View the full album HERE !

​I had ascended the stairs to the covered patio first, then immediately seated and provided with warm water (because tap water can be concerning in current circumstances). With the arrival of my long-time dining partner, we quickly relayed items of interest off the menu to our waitress, who, might I add, was exceptional. Friendly, helpful, and attentive in the appropriate capacities, she was an indisputable element in our collective enjoyment of the experience.

​The setting was gorgeous - one could not possibly deny the charm of a waterfront view on a balmy summer afternoon. Further elevating the appeal were the abundance of natural illumination, beachhouse-like wooden furnishings and white walls, and the shrubbery that encased it all (both artificial and genuine).
Monica Bellucci and a refreshing, zesty White Sangria kept us content until the arrival of four warm plates.

 Unpopular opinion:  The economic pillar shall forever supersede the social pillar.

If there's anything I retained from my twice-enrolled, once-failed, and once-grudgingly-re-enrolled second year environmental course, it's the concept of The Three Pillars. Prior to undergoing any work, a project should be evaluated against the economic, social, and environmental pillars as criteria for execution. 
And while each of these elements are pivotal in decision-making, one tends to forget to nothing can operate in the absence of economics. For without capital, there is no funding for implementing environmentally sustainable measures. For without work, one cannot afford to sleep with a roof over his or her head, regardless of whatever respect society shoves.

​I abide by a pragmatic approach to living, because where there is a cause, there is an effect - most evident in the re-emergence of COVID in areas that were once deemed to have entered a "safe(r)" zone. Regardless of the sun's position in the sky, work is work, and work needs to be done. I'm not one to protest sanity breaks, of course, and was more than willing to justify it with a cool cup of CoCo after a tumultuous Monday.

​Being thoroughly drained by an endless assortment of tasks (the "cause") yielded an out-of-character meal of instant noodles (the "effect"). The foray into  fast food was a result of exhaustion and a consequential reluctance to cook. For the wellbeing of my tastebuds, the so-called broth of dehydrated MSG particles was diluted with thrice as much water, then had its nasty, hollow aftertaste nullified with a turmeric cold brew. 

​I suppose anxiety is a common spur of sugar-laden creations, for a dream about emails set me off in pursuit for brown butter cookies. "But not just any brown butter cookies." my subconscious announced, "We're doing matcha."

​An embarrassingly elongated roster of attempts in my back pocket, I opted to modify Tasty's edition, for I had not the patience to caramelize butter and strum my digits along the table edge as it re-solidified. Truthfully, it was my own fault; I oughtn't complain.
​I'm not, really.

​Brown butter is aromatic in ways unique to itself - an acquired redolence, if you will - and, just as many other bakers will heed, is worth every second of added effort. But alas, the luscious caramelized bits were nowhere to be tasted in the final product, overwhelmed by none other that sugar: a sickening sweetness capable of driving some to the point of lunacy. Admittedly, the texture was quite a nice mix of crunchy and chewy, though nonetheless a subpar formulation in my books.
​Woe is me for straying from the great SK!

So while there are those that have been involuntarily bound to their homes without much work, the same simply cannot be stated for the remainder of society. At one end of the gamut are unconstrained souls, leisurely spending their days browsing Netflix while inverted on their sofa, and at the other are front-liners and employees working remotely in essential services.

With that said, being unduly occupied still overrules the inactive lifestyles led by many during this quarantine period. We're growing accustomed to the work-from-home procedures, inclusive of its around-the-clock responsibilities.

Amongst my endless endeavours in the kitchen this week are the following:

1. Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookies (thanks SKU!)
Because cookies and sanity go hand in hand - in my dictionary, anyway.

"We can do Up Up Down Downs aka High-Low Planks."
"Ok."
"How many reps?" I added, "I die at 10."
"Then let's do 20."

Embarking on the second week of quarantine wfh, I was determined to set the tone right. Despite emails flying in and out at all times of the day, I took it upon myself to resume regular routine, just as I would on any other day of the work week.
Lunch would be consumed between the hours of 12 PM and 1 PM, while workouts could take place between 4 PM and 5 PM. Snacking would be permitted between the hours of 2 PM and 3 PM, if utterly necessary.
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And on days where cravings were strong, I'd honour them. Because maintaining sanity is just about as vital as economic stability and physical wellbeing during these dreary, stifling times.

My heart yearned for sushi and CoCo, thus I set out to attain both following a damp day of unexpected March snowfall.

Two doors down from the closest CoCo was Sushi Park, a tiny but mighty family-operated shop that had been operating for years beyond the bubble tea shop's arrival. A quick search revealed that it was maintaining regular business hours; a single phone call later and I was on my way for Bulgogi, Shrimp Tempura, and an assortment of maki rolls.

​Deluxe Sashimi was the priciest item of the order at $16.99, yet, regrettably, also the most disappointing. Fooled we were by the rigid cuts of despair, in all their saturated ploy. Shrimp Tempura was not far behind in terms of ratings; though not tasted, lukewarm responses stemmed from the strangely tawny beige pieces.
The Dragon Roll earned the greatest praise, spanning a profile of sweet and savoury. The Bulgogi set was quite balanced as well, given the inclusion of short-grain Japanese rice and a small side salad. At a mere $5.95, one couldn't go wrong with a set of California Rolls either.

As for the Miso Soup, there was little that could be said beyond "monosodium glutamate". Redeeming aspects were properly pickled pink ginger and smooth squirts of wasabi.

It goes without saying that more baking took place. Uncovered throughout the week were: the best Banana Bread formula on the planet, Thai Milk tea, and failed-croissant-dough-turned-turnovers.

​Of all the stops along the Canada Line corridor, Marine Drive was one at which I had never disembarked since the completion of the SkyTrain. It had mainly served as a transfer point in its first few years of operation, until shops and services began forming what is known today as Marine Gateway

​Development around the station had been observed during previous years, while en route to Downtown. And, with the lunch destination suggestion of a local Vancourite, I was able to peruse the area (with its unopened shops and all their eerieness) at long last.

​There wasn't much to see at the early hour of 10:30 AM. Steve Nash was open, and so was Timmy's. But the Marine Drive bus hub primarily served as a transfer point for those heading east or west from the grade-separated rapid transit system.