The Body Knows

A few months ago, a friend recommended a Monday evening Yoga class at the same Coxwell studio where I have been a few times. I never found the time during my winter sublet but I finally booked a spot now that I was closer. It also gave me a chance to walk through a few neighbours East of Coxwell. The houses along Hanson were interesting. The North side looked like organic and part of the neighbourhood. The South side were more cookie-cutter and though I thought they were recent builds, they have been there since at least 2007 (via Google Streetview). The homes on Hillington heading up to Danforth were more modest.

My friend was there and we chatted briefly before and after class. They were doing a driving tour around Iceland next week while their unemployed child will be home pet-sitting the animals. The instructor was older but the attendees were uniformly younger than my previous visits. The two of us probably had at least 30 years on them. And I found out why. Teachers here seem to like doing a lot of lunges and twists. But this one also loved toe raises and generally making her Somatic Flow harder. Back when I practiced vigorous Yoga, I would have found it invigorating. Now that I only do gentle morning self-practice (and only a little bit of running now and then), it was punishing. I sweated buckets, my legs turned to jelly, and over the next two days, my thighs were sore and aching. The only negative was that there was no time for proper alignment.

With my t-shirt soaked through, I abandoned plans to have dinner at Abugida for a quick pizza slice from Pizzaiolo. They didn't have my go-to Bianca so I opted for a Capri. At first, I loved the pesto, feta cheese, and sun-dried tomatoes. Then I discovered the slices toward the centre were spongy and semi-translucent. Fearing uncooked dough, I ditched the remaining slice. I walked gingerly and carefully to Monarch Park, through the pedestrian tunnel, down to Little India and then back home. There were no intestinal rumblings but plenty of propellant. Otherwise, no other consequences occurred through the night.

On Tuesday, aggravated at my lost pizza slice, I went to 241 Pizza near Gerrard Mall. Despite what the other 241 pizza's owner said about corporate requirements, this one still had printed signs. At first, the slices tasted great as I sat and watched passer-by. But then I noticed the same spongy feel if not quite as much as Pizzaiolo's. Maybe all pizzas were like this and I never noticed? But I don't recall this mouth-feel at the good 241 Pizza and Fresca. A quick research at home turned up the phenomenon of pizza gum line. No, I wasn't oblivious before; bad pizza makers created this layer of grey, undercooked dough. I won't be back at either businesses any time soon.