Out & About #763 | Week #87 Quarantine Update Feat. Lemon Meringue Brownie

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.

​A handful of Scrooges are bound to appear each year, complaining about the general public's forgetfulness towards Remembrance Day as holiday decorations are hoisted both in- and outside of residences. But there is no rule that feelings of gratitude cannot co-exist with merry cheer, that poppies can be worn at the same time as Santa hats.

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.

​Truthfully, the path was more suited for recreational walking than cycling, for dog-walkers and the elderly were not uncommon sightings. Its width - or really, lack thereof - and sharp variations in elevation made it tricky to maneuver, especially with the added friction of moisture-clogged forest floor. I paused for a moment at the last overpass, calmly observing the fallen maple leaves drifting downstream. They were a faded crimson, yet beautiful all the same.​

The next morning, I awoke to the chime of my appointment-only alarm, complete with AI-enabled time announcements with every passing un-snoozed moment. Grudgingly, the covers were peeled away and I assembled an outfit for the northbound drive.

Shortlived was this exercise, for extenuating circumstances had drastically trimmed my duties as a citizen in a democratic society. The check-in and security screening procedures had proceeded for roughly fifteen minutes, including a thorough review of all bags and apparel. Yet, within thirty minutes of being seated, the potential panel members were dismissed.

Returning home, the remainder of my morning was re-purposed for baking endeavours. Within a matter of three hours, the mission was undertaken and the kitchen reinstated to a clean, usable state.

​Beyond the first box of my Pillsbury Christmas cookies was another batch of Blue Sky Bran Muffins.

​Having been crafted countless times before, the sole divergence was a seriously severed quantity of wheat bran. My container held a meager 22 g, yet the recipe had called for 90 g. The result was a distinctly fluffier composition with faint undertones of baking soda.

Combining a penchant for lemon meringue and aversion to tart-baking, I arrived at the Lemon Meringue Brownie.

Inspired by Sunday Baking's Lemon Meringue Financier and guided by her Mochi Brownie recipe, I set out to construct the three-layer specimen without qualms of any nature.

I opted to swap the cocoa powder and cornstarch pairing for a mix of pure and black cocoa instead. Later, I began to question why the surface cracks were not appearing as before. It occurred to me in that moment that she had noted the synthetic  stabilizer as a critical element for the coveted crevices.
My swirled lemon curd had also submerged into the batter, forming grim-looking craters rather than the vivid yellow swirls I had envisioned.

For once, the meringue topping had not failed me - or I had not failed it. Extreme care was deployed as to ensure a sugar syrup of sufficient temperature was streamed into the egg whites during beating. In a state that could be classified as pre-crystallization, Italian meringue made use of the chemical process to offer stability in otherwise shapeless meringue. I had executed the steps with uncertainty, fearing the moisture seepage that would take place with my failure.
A small amount of the sugar syrup hardened at the bottom of the bowl before it could be beaten within, but the overall result was satisfactory.

The brownie base was fudgy, serving as the ideal foundation to softer components such as lemon curd and barely-firm meringue. Its rigidity also contrasted with the texture of the dessert's upper layers; tanginess was obtained from the lemon curd sandwiched in the middle, and amplified with an additional spoonful on the side.
Future renditions of the creation shall be undertaken with caution, for the dehydrating properties of black cocoa - in conjunction with rich chocolateyness harness the potential for breakouts.

Other meals of the week comprised of Pineapple Lap Cheong Egg Fried Rice and Pork and Fuzzy Squash Soup. They were decidedly delicious traditional dishes originating not from my handiwork. Special honours crowned the fried rice, for it was as scrumptious as any storebought edition tried in my lifetime, and in fact, maybe even more so. Coating each granule was a golden sheen of egg, flavours highlighted by the sweet, invigorating attributes of pineapple, subtly savoury essence of lap cheong, and toothsomeness of fresh scallion rings.

The forecast had promised precipitation, yet bore no sight of droplets. Burnhamthorpe Trail was revisited on foot, enabling us to stop and stare at the shrubbery lining the route.

The surrounding environment could be gazed upon in a leisurely manner without fear of falling off the bike, allowing a greater depth of observation.

​Admittedly, the trek totalled far lengthier of a period than I was initially convinced. Having only traversed on wheels in the past, my brain had automatically calculated travel time in terms of cycling (or incredibly swift speed walking). Fortunately, we managed the return by dusk with time to spare.

​Battling the descent of the burning ball of gases, I hopped onto my bike and sped to CoCo. Having plodded along for over one hour, hunger had crept up stealthily. At the peak of rush hour (and lack of parking), driving was unreasonable; with natural brilliance wearing on the horizon, so was walking.
Without a moment's hesitation, I took to the nearest cycle-able route and swooped up a 2 Ladies. Spending under twelve minutes in its entirety, I declared the mission a success - successful enough to park my bike and climb to the second floor just as the sun bid farewell to another day of human interaction.

​Split ends were a gentle reminder for regular maintenance. A haircut was slated to resolve my woes.
Tangled tresses no more, I quickly scanned the inbox before venturing further east to Sherway Gardens, where a tedious errand was to be completed.

​Our stay at Sherway was brief, and needed not exceed the allocated time slot. With the oncoming arrival of rush hour would be congestion, commonly associated with feelings of frustration and reckless driving. What is more are my conclusively unfond memories of the mall - cone-trampling and near-misses, just name a few.

Mid-day cravings crept up on me, prompting me to plug in the next destination accordingly: Tokyo Cheesecake Cafe.

The reinstatement of dine-in capabilities saw a few groups of elders dispersed throughout the space. We hadn't been informed of any vaccination record checks, though the intent had not been to reside within anyways.
I began to browse aimlessly, as I often do, before making my away over to the refrigerated assortment of macarons, cakes, and pastries.
For once, I was served by a younger member of staff, as the owner had taken to a phone call at the time of order placement. Doe-eyed with soft, kind features and seamless brows, there was no judgement sensed from her gaze.

Known to be a seasonal ingredient, the sighting of chestnut within the bakery's offerings had not come across unusual. By the cashier were white paper bags, and before them a label that read "Chestnut Rusk".
The image of dehydrated slices of Uncle Tetsu's Original Cheesecake materialized in my mind, but peeking into the bag told a different tale.

This rendition was intact - a single specimen of uniform hue and smoothness across all of its six sides. It was a cube, we learned as after extracting it from its carrying case, impeccably crunchy, tinged with butter, and dusted with golden sugar granules. The Chestnut Rusk was scrumptious, like a street food edition of French toast, devoid of the saucy sogginess and sticky utensils. Contained within were threads of plushness, and chestnut chunks woven in between to boast a subtle bite. Spectacular was the treat on its own, yet even more gratifying was its consumption paired alongside an Iced Americano. (Because true Canadians fear not the single digits.)

I had requested three Dacquoise to be placed in a box; they were individually packaged and adopted more or less the same shell exteriors. Airier than they were sugary, the neutral palette and tone of the shells complimented the component occupying the middle.
Fillings were smooth, like LUNA, though only mildly sweet with varying degrees of depth across the flavours. Matcha White Chocolate was a subtle take on bittersweet grassiness with the non-intrusive incorporation of white chocolate. Irish Mocha, coated with a copper shards of cocoa-flavoured cereal, was on blander than we would have preferred; neither perceiving presence of chocolate nor coffee, we dismissed it quickly while reaching to sample the other two.
Declared the winner of the trio without hesitation was the Salted Caramel. Depth had been attained via a distinct robustness, while its sophisticated sweetness was heightened with a sprinkle of savouriness.

We proceeded with groceries afterwards, then returned to find a somewhat vacant fridge. Newly acquired Glico Curry beckoned to cooked, and it would so happen that the trip had entailed carrots, potatoes, Spanish onions, and a decent amount of pork.

A bag of Japanese short grain dating back over a decade was tested for edible qualities, but ultimately deemed unsafe due to horrendous wafts of staleness escaping the rice cooker. I substituted udon instead.

With Sunday morning came grey skies and an unmistakable grimness in the air. The roads were quiet, even more so than past weeks. I arrived at Studio Bon in well under thirty minutes despite a classic tardy departure.
The class saw the return of two familiar faces and a former student who had frozen her membership since the onset of COVID-19. A couple occupied the previous semi-private session, yet the married duo from last week was not to be seen; it was somewhat relieving to me, oddly enough, and alleviated congestion for the lavatories.

We reverted to the Bosu ball warm-ups, complete with extension of the body ("flying") and holds at the last rep. Instability, as well as elongation of the fibres in my Amazon grip socks, led to teetering off the ball. Lunges were added on after the marches with the intent of stimulating the quads and thighs. One foot was placed on top of the Bosu ball, while the other positioned within the same plane as the hip, heel raised for ultimate test of control. Navigating to the Reformer, our attention was directed to the stopper and gear bar settings: the stopper ought be in the third position and the gear bar in second, we were told. Adapting the settings for personal use is a distinct benefit of these group classes, for it provides opportunities to familiarize and understand the mechanics of the machines, rather than simply using them in arranged configurations.

The foam roller was obtained, yet laid horizontally instead of vertically. With the upper body glued to the Carriage, ribs tucked, and foam roller inserted beneath the pelvis, we proceeded with the core series. Elevating the lower half of the body while maintaining an imprint challenged the front side of the code, notably isolating the lower ab muscles with tabletop toe dips, lower abs lifts, and half-windmills. We then rolled the foam roller up against the shoulder rest and laid sideways for a quick massage of the upper back. One of the hand straps were pulled over the top knee for clamshells, fire hydrants, and bent knee circles. Five second holds were called out at the end of each set.

On the Short Box, we adopted an elevated elbow plank position - forearms were in contact with the box attachment, while the knees were tucked beneath the body, hip-distance apart. What ensued were two of the most tragic exercises for someone who had neglected posture-improving activities:

1. Bird Dog holds were executed for ten seconds on each side, totalling about three on each side. Critical was resisting rotation of the pelvis ("Don't lean!") while maintaining core engagement, a neutral spine, and (exclusively for me) a lifted gaze. Too often had my head dropped amidst the exercises, resulting in frequent reminders and, in essence, wake-up calls to rectify the repercussions of my daily device-using habits.
2. Upper body rotations were performed to stretch the scapula. With one elbow on the box and the other besides one's ear, the torso was twisted such that the transverse abdominals were tensed and neck remained long.

The final exercises targeted the lower body. We stood atop the Reformer with one foot on the platform extender and the other on the Carriage, arms raised to form a star pose. Shoulders were to be depressed and chin lifted (mainly me). Shifting the Carriage front and back effectively isolated the inner thighs, while squats in first position would continue to engage the entirety of the legs and backside. I was reminded to keep feet angled at no more than 45 degrees and keep the chest and chin lifted.
We concluded the class with not a rolldown but slow hip flexor stretches. Rotation of the pelvis was to be countered, and the stretch ideally done without moving the leg on the Carriage, but rather bending and extending the standing leg.

Adopting group classes in substitution of private training had shed insight on the steps for future development: form checks were more regular this time around, though improvement was not guaranteed without ongoing dedication and self-discipline.
My weakness and neglect of pilates practice was not to be overlooked, and I left in low spirits, feeling even more defeated than the Sunday past. I began to grasp the reality of not only slow progression, but a steady regression in skill level. Re-incorporating my once-frequented routines would become a priority for the upcoming week. I would see to it.