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.

​Although undeniably scrumptious during immediate consumption, I won't deny that Chicken Plus left my stomach feeling quite wonky for the ensuing week. Loss of appetite and irritation of the digestive track were not uncommon.

​Obtained after munching on leftovers for lunch and dinner was excruciating bloating, which was appeased only slightly by mild, "safe" snacks (read: contributing no further greasiness). The Rose Tteokbokki sauce, in particular, was a component to wary of, in spite of its addicting palette.

​Naturally, the squirmy repercussions and overall lethargy founded grounds for thorough contemplation of any potential revisits.

Creations of the week included:

1) Whole Wheat Bread

Despite a flawless turnout last time, odd imprints were derived at opposite ends of the loaf. A member of King Arthur's social media team responded that the phenomenon may have resulted due to excess flour when shaping, leading to the dough's inability to adhere during the second proof and, later, in baking.

​From past experiences, it appears that while whole wheat loaves do not expand in volume to the same degree as white bread, they readily adopt height once exposed to heat. Ultimately, the quantity was unable to fill a square loaf pan and proved quite damp even after 35 minutes at a high temperature.
Removing the lid for even distribution of heat would serve to contribute colour to the surface. Lowering the temperature and covering the top with aluminum foil assisted in removing excess moisture in the bottom third of the loaf.

The floral essence of honey remains to be a stunner in this recipe, along with the barely-there, crispy crust. Breakfast slices were commonly adorned by margarine and/or homemade strawberry jam, though could be incorporated into sandwiches as well, if desired.
I was also fond of the uniform height, achieved by nestling four large sections into a single loaf pan rather than dividing between two shallower ones. Extra heed shall be taken in the next iteration to ensure excess flour is dusted off after shaping.

​2) Mexican Hot Chocolate

​On a particularly chilly, dreary afternoon, I sought out a spicier rendition of our nation's favourite winter beverage. Google results were quick to rectify my perception of Mexican Hot Chocolate being no more than a pinch of cayenne pepper for heat.
Instead of the sweetened drink mixes, the traditional treat relies on unsweetened cocoa power for depth and is then sweetened with sugar and, of course, marshmallows. Vanilla, cinnamon, and chili powder (in my case, gochukaru) were other flavours used for distinction between the typical Timmie's creation. 

3) Oat Fudge Bar - Bettered and Nearly Remastered!

When the same instigator of Cranberry Bliss Bars sent a video for Oat Fudge Bars my way, the next steps became all too clear. Little is required to motivate me in the direction of the kitchen for the next experiment, especially when all of the bar's ingredients were on hand and available.

​Beyond simply remaking the Starbucks bakery item, I was on a mission to redeem it. Flat and mushy it would be no more! The chocolate would be firm, offering a toothsome first bite and luscious centre, while the oats would have height - not the rigid slab I had excitedly ordered in the past and received sheer disappointment from.

​The first week back to reality has confirmed a number of suspicions. Among them is the foreboding feeling of loathing - an indubitable disgust for the corporate position consuming the bulk of my current lifestyle. Yet, I can escape not - not until a new milestone is attained, not until new bargaining attributes are acquired.
​
Though accumulation of sleep has been made easier with the seemingly eternal work-from-home environment, it leaves much to be desired. The exercise of discipline has never proved an issue, but I thrive not in circumstances where exchange of information is limited. I am appalled by my dwindling inventory of stats from the happenings beyond my window, and even more by the every-man-for-himself mindset of those digitally too close for comfort.
Long relationships have never been my forte. I can no longer exert efforts when any further action conclusively leads to futility.

​I was once called out for a world perspective through rose-tinted glasses - a reference to naïveté that remains unshaken even after seven eventful years in the workforce. Artificial personalities deserve wariness; laziness warrants denouncing. At the end of the day, I strongly believe that nothing can undo the power of dedication and hard work. Persuading others to adopt this concept, though, is merely an ideal.

My days of project progress tracking and utility drawing review are mundane, involving matters more trivial than fruitful. I stealthily escape my desk for errands under the sun in the latter half of the week, finding myself not far from my assigned office location. I haven't seen my fellow ahgase in quite a number of weeks, though the LCBO location remains a go-to for hard-to-find European brews.

Kronenbourg Blanc had long been confirmed a worthwhile purchase. Sighting of the Strasbourg brewery's "non-Blanc" edition prompted curiosity, prompting placement of both a Blanc six-pack and two cans of the original for comparison. Qualms were appeased with a 낮술 day: the original was declared a delicious brew combining aspects of a standard lager with the citrusy notes of Blanc. Gooey holiday Rice Krispies served as a sweet 안주.

I was made aware of Starbucks' newest release by orangecane: an intriguing beverage centred about a popular Middle Eastern nut. Obtained at half-sweet, the Pistachio Latte was noticeably less sweet than the likes of Vanilla Lattes or Mochas, but nonetheless contained a perceivable amount of sugar. This reduction in sweetness made the synthetic butter base more obvious; the ingredient granted creaminess, as to replicate the texture of the botanical nut. It was unfortunate that its aromatic properties could not be recreated in a manmade environment. I enjoyed the drink's potency, along with its untainted surface (read: no toppings!).

​They say that time is but an illusion - an identity created for humans to measure their existence in space. It may arguably be so, yet persists as the most reputably quantifiable unit worldwide, on Earth that is.

There is a sense of pride in this declaration, for while I admit pressure in this constant battle of inevitable time flow, the perception also serves to stimulate and motivate. But in a "New Day" sense.
This underlying sarcasm is tied to balking at the talk of New Year's resolutions. Goals are as dynamic as those that create them: sturdy like 35 MPa concrete in their early conception and fickle like kite strings amidst 70 km/h gusts as the days of January drag on. It was always beyond me why such an extravagant portion of the population allowed themselves to be dictated by the calendar, rather than exercise discipline in monitoring progress and accomplishing tasks with the existing circumstances in mind. 

Ultimately, time waits for no one.

​The arrival of January 1st tends to hold less meaning with each passing year. We are older, our society is supposedly more advanced, and the planet continues to rotate. Truthfully though, my present situation differs not from one second, one minute, nor one hour ago.

​I carried on with my regular roster of tasks, extending hope at a last hurrah before resuming the repulsive work ritual.

​Skies were finally clear after over forty-eight hours of dull ashiness. Sunshine and a coat of cerulean awaited us as we pulled into the Celebration Square parking lot.

After roughly twenty minutes of hesitant laps about the rink, I somewhat regained composure on the ice. Whatever muscle memory that remained had been summoned, and in quite the enjoyable atmosphere. Popular pop tunes could be heard from all corners, its origins several standing speakers under which a series of lights could be seen. With the reduction of sunlight in the early evening hours, they would cast coloured beams on the blade-streaked grounds, making for a fun, winter disco.

An itch began to form from the moment I laid eyes on a promotional infographic for the KW region. Over a year had passed since my last visit - far longer than I expected given the relatively similar travel time as North York and Markham.

The post had included few details beyond the promise of an exhilarating weekend with both paid and free events. I took to conducting my own research as the party settled on an appropriate date. Some events had ended, while others appeared too dull to justify the additional mileage. Eventually, I settled on the Wonders of Winter exhibit in Waterloo, tacking on stops before and after as my heart desired.

Our first stop was Waterloo Brewing. Situated conveniently off Conestoga Parkway, it seemed only fitting to pay a visit to the home of the boar given that our proximity. I succeeded in obtaining four cans of the seasonal Festbier (offered only in LCBO locations in Kitchener and Guelph) and restocking some old favourites.

​The Maple Spiced Pecan Old Ale was a fall exclusive, or so I was told, and had indeed made its comeback to the brewery earlier in the year. Its notes were supposedly akin to the Signature Collection, a stout series incorporating more sweetness than preferred.

​The Taproom was shuttered in response to the new provincial guidelines. "We don't make enough." admitted the member of staff. In-store shopping was still permitted, though restricted to a maximum capacity of three patrons.

Our brief stay was welcomed with samples of a Gingerbread Warmer, a small batch creation concocted in-house for enjoyment on tap. The plastic cup contained no more than three tablespoons, yet introduced a slow, steady embers to form from within, radiating to the edges of the ribcage. Bonus cans of Waterloo IPA and Dark were gifted due to dented can conditions (and failure to pass QC for retail).

Smile Tiger was up next.
A placeholder for a local coffee shop had been inserted into the itinerary for a mid-afternoon refuel, and in review of its lasting impression from last time and a Buy 2 Get 1 Free Boxing Dale offer, the stop was too difficult to resist.

We took to a small Drip Coffee, Peppermint White Mocha, Pretzel, and Pecan Tart, along with 12 oz. bags of Sunday Sun, Heaven Hammer, and the coveted Thunder Peel. Muffins would have been my first choice, though the abundance of fruit flies entrapped within the display case were definite grounds for swerving. The Pretzel was on the thinner side, with a crunchy, slightly glazed exterior and overall savoury profile that paired well with the subtle sweetness of the mocha.

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.

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.

For the past two weeks, I've been more occupied by life than work. Or maybe it's the overflow of one into another and vice versa, for the frequency of meetings have increased and so have the urgent pre-vacation requests.

​From a handful of mid-day sanity breaks arose later log-offs. Solace was found in the first batch of my Black Friday acquisitions.

​While having opted for the more budget-friendly variation of the ring, its efficacy is not to be undermined. I've only barely begun my journey through the various ring-based stability exercises on the Internet; next up for experimentation shall be the Stability Ball.

​I had filed for a day off in the earlier half of the week, utilizing it for appointments in the east end of the GTA. With traffic volumes back to pre-pandemic levels and local congestion unwavering, there was time to accompany little else besides the roundtrip and a few detours along the way.

​The Thai ahgase had relayed remarks of positivity towards the limited edition Justin Bieber Timbits capsule collection, prompting my own venture to the Canadian coffee shop. Having heard news of the star's collaboration quickly selling out downtown, I was quick to verify availability through the Tim Hortons app. On the mobile platform, I learned of the product's steeper price point versus regular Timbits, as well as the inability to mix flavours in carrier packs. With each priced at ninety-eight cents per piece, it seemed only reasonable to select the 10-pack box for $3.19.
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​"10 Assorted Timbiebs" the item read, yet my arrival would reveal a box containing only two of the three flavours. I pushed open the doors once more and, at confirming availability of the spread, requested a more balanced assortment. The asking didn't entail any fond gazes, nor any substitutions with the product in hand. The box was retrieved from my hands and promptly tossed into the trash without a millisecond's hesitation. My new box was then handed to me, handle slightly wet.

Each of the three flavours sported the franchise's signature glaze followed by crunchy bits reminiscent of space matter. They were sweet, obnoxiously so, and likely not worth procuring more than once.

• Chocolate White Fudge was my least favourite of the trio, tasting intensely of Hershey's chocolate syrup and sugar.
• Sour Cream Chocolate Chip was quite balanced with mini chocolate chips adorning its surface.
• Birthday Cake Waffle was the unlikely but undeniable winner, with unexpected depth, great texture, and colourful visuals.

Branded merchandise was also available at my store of choice. The toque, waistbag, and tote were priced at $29.99 each, which is not bad at all in comparison to concert goods or tickets.

​We stopped next at Taste Casserole Rice for supper takeout, then Aromaz. The bakery had seemingly just undergone sanitization, as the inside reeked of disinfectant. Unpleasant was this odour, especially when patrons had waltzed in expecting the cozy fragrance of freshly-baked bread.

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.

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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.

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