A warm fire crackled in the living room hearth. Outside, the winter wind drove snow across the yard, building drifts against fences, berms, and buildings, but inside, the farmhouse seemed to sigh in contentment, bundled up against the cold evening.
Winona was passed out on her back in front of the fire, one foot twitching in the air. Granny Smith had turned in for the night, tucked away upstairs. Apple Bloom was at the Carousel Boutique with the rest of the Crusaders, learning the secrets of creating winter coats from a put-upon Rarity. Big Macintosh was stuck in town, riding out the storm at the inn after a long market day. And since it was the day before Hearth’s Warming Eve and Applejack had the house to herself, she was in the kitchen, collecting ingredients while the oven preheated.
Apples were, as everypony knew, Applejack’s life. She was devoted to them utterly, and they to her in their way, and nopony relished a cold mug of apple cider with an apple tart to match more than she after a long day tending to the apple trees.
But a pony does not live by apples alone, and so it was that while many of Applejack’s favorite foods featured apples, her favorite pie did not. Her friends had no idea, assuming that as with all else in her life she loved apple pie – and of course she would never turn down a slice of apple pie, even one sullied by a scoop of vanilla ice cream as Pinkie Pie always insisted – and she never bothered to correct them, for it never really came up. She only had her favorite pie once a year, when her friends were otherwise occupied with their own lives, their own families, and so no one save the Apples had ever seen her enjoy her favorite pie.
Not a lie or a mistruth, just an accident of fate that Applejack didn’t feel particularly compelled to do anything about.
She remembered the first time she had gamboled into the kitchen as a young filly, rambunctious with the excitement every foal experiences when the unwrapping of Hearth’s Warming gifts is mere days away, and was shushed by her mother who was working at the counter. She had very nearly gone out again, to see about a pony-back ride from Mac, but something had kept her there, and so she stayed and sat quietly in the kitchen with her mother, watching as she prepared and baked a pecan pie.
Applejack had never seen her mother look quite so focused on a task, then or later, and so she too paid close attention as her mother carefully portioned out eggs, butter, sugar, and vanilla into the cane sugar extract she’d painstakingly prepared the day before. After whisking them all together, she added the pecan halves from a bowl to one side, then poured the whole mixture into a waiting pie crust, slid it into the hot oven, and ushered Applejack from the room, shutting the door behind them.
Slowly the house filled with a warm, sweet scent unlike the fruity one young Applejack had already come to associate with her mother’s baking. She watched with interest an hour later when her mother carefully removed the pie from the oven and set it on a rack to cool.
As the day wore on and the pie-smell dispersed, pony-back rides were enjoyed and Applejack forgot about the covered pie sitting unassuming in a corner of the kitchen. At least, until the evening of Hearth’s Warming. As the Apples sat back and pushed licked-clean plates away, bellies full in the delicious way only a holiday feast with family can bring, her mother stood and went into the kitchen for a few minutes. She returned with plates, each bearing a perfect slice of pecan pie.
Applejack leaned in to examine this new dessert, so unlike the others she’d come to know so far. The crust, at least, was familiar, baked to a golden, flaky perfection as with every pastry her mother created. The filling, once the bright yellow of egg yolks and molten butter, had become a deep honey brown, translucent in the candlelight. The pecans had risen to the top and been toasted by the oven’s heat, shining with a patina of sugary coating. She closed her eyes and inhaled, the cooled pie’s subtle scent returning her in a heartbeat to the day it was baked, when that scent had filled the house. She opened her eyes in time to see her mother plop a hefty dollop of fresh-whipped cream on top. She looked around and saw everyone else already taking bites of their own slices of pie, their eyes falling shut in expressions of bliss.
“Go on, Jackie, try it.” Her mother nudged her, smiling slightly.
Applejack looked up at her, then back down at the pie, and took a bite.
Each year after that, she had helped her mother bake the pie. She wasn’t much use the first year or two, but her mother gamely played along, letting her pull out the pie plate, the mixing bowl, the whisk and bring them to the counter. Her mother showed her how to precisely measure out the correct amounts of each ingredient, not a drop more nor a grain less. They would go through the pecan halves her father brought home from the market, taking care to select only the best specimens for inclusion, snacking on the rest as they worked. As soon as the pie was in the oven, no one was allowed in the kitchen; her mother feared even the slightest vibration would foul the pie. Privately, Applejack suspected her fears were founded in old mare's tales, or perhaps misunderstood from horror stories of collapsed cakes and soufflés, but she kept her objections to herself and stood watch at the kitchen door, ready to keep Mac or her father or Granny from ruining their hard work.
After her dalliance with high society, after she was welcomed back and her three-apple mark had appeared on her flank, she had confessed to her mother that one of the reasons she had returned was being unable to bear missing their piemaking together come Hearth's Warming, and her mother had smiled and hugged her tight.
That year on her birthday, she woke up to that sweet scent in the air, confusing her half-asleep mind for a moment for it was out of season yet welcome all the same, and ran downstairs to find a neatly-wrapped pecan pie with a card on top. Inside the birthday card, in her mother's careful mouthwriting, was a copy of the recipe for the pie they baked together every year.
She had tried to share the birthday pie with her family, offering them all their own slice, just like every other pecan pie she’d had, but each of them had smiled and told her this pie was for her. She savored each bite, and the pie lasted her a week. It was soggy and stale at the end of the week, but still delicious.
They only had one more Hearth's Warming together after that, and in her grief Applejack could scarcely register the passing of time before it was Hearth's Warming again. This time for family now seemed only to serve as a reminder that their family was sundered, that there were empty seats at their table, around their hearth.
A few days before Hearth's Warming, Applejack realized with a fresh surge of pain that there would be no pecan pie that year. A moment later she realized there was no reason that had to be true. She had the recipe; she had the know-how. In the wake of her parents' passing, she had shouldered many burdens, big and small, to keep her family together. This would just be one more.
She finished her chores early, leaving Mac to his own with their collie puppy Winona leaping at his heels. Granny had tottered into town for some last-minute shopping with young Apple Bloom tagging along, so she had the farmhouse to herself. She crept into the kitchen and looked around.
Everything looked the same as it always had. The oven creaked as it preheated with its usual tempo. She found the pie plate, the mixing bowl, the whisk in their usual places. She carefully selected the best pecan halves from the small supply in the pantry; she peered into the glass measuring cup as she poured sugar.
The house was silent, still.
When she slid the pie into the oven, she went and sat at the door to the kitchen, staring sightlessly into the living room until the timer dinged almost an hour later.
When she slid the pie out of the oven and onto the cooling rack, it looked just like last year’s pie, the last one she’d baked with her mother. She stared down at the golden pecans, the pie’s soft, sweet scent filling her mind, and she cried.
The pie sat, covered, in the corner of the kitchen counter, and went unremarked for the two days ‘til Hearth’s Warming. If anypony had noticed a sweet smell in the air of the farmhouse that first afternoon, nopony had mentioned it.
After the Apples pushed licked-clean plates away at the Hearth’s Warming table, Applejack looked around at what remained of her family and decided it was time. She slowly got up and went into the kitchen, carefully cut and plated a piece for each pony, topped with a generous dollop of the fresh-whipped cream she’d had chilling since before dinner.
Balancing them all was a minor challenge, but it was worth it to see the looks on her family’s faces when they opened their eyes from their post-feast bliss. Granny smiled sadly up at her and kissed her cheek; Big Mac nodded across the table at her. They each took a bite and pronounced it perfect.
Apple Bloom looked down at hers. She’d been too young to have any last year.
“Go on, Apple Bloom, try it.” Applejack nudged her little sister and smiled.
Apple Bloom looked up at her, then back down at the pie, and took a bite.
This year’s pie was now safely in the oven, and with no one around to disturb it, Applejack didn’t need to stand guard at the kitchen door. She moved out into the living room and curled up on the couch, watching the fire crackle in the hearth. Winona was still snoozing in front of the fire.
Maybe next year she’d be a little more relaxed about making the pie alone; maybe next year Apple Bloom would bound into the kitchen and watch her big sister make her favorite pie. Or maybe not; maybe, Applejack thought, she’d keep this to herself for a little longer, for one more year.
As the sweet scent of pie gradually flooded her home, Applejack thought of that first pie and her mother, and of every Hearth’s Warming since, spent with the family she loved more than life itself, and smiled.
Author's Note
Thank you for reading. For a little backstory, click here.
