Chimicherry or Cherrychanga
Admiral Biscuit
9/13/14
To many a pony, the wasteland around Dodge Junction was something only to be tolerated, so long as it was quickly traversed. Earth ponies especially shuddered in their shoes at a single glimpse of the bare earth, bereft of the bounty a pony's hooves could bring. To the weather pegasi, it was simply the place where those who had failed the most rudimentary cloud-moving tasks were sent.
But to the seasoned eye of a fashionista, it was a marvel of textures, from the hard-packed earth to the illusory softness of the cacti. Far from a featureless landscape, the desert featured its own color palette—mostly earthy tones like burnt sienna, burnt orange, and burnt umber, but there were occasional bright flowers that stood out all the more against the monotone background.
Any other time, Rarity's eyes would be glued to the landscape, only occasionally drawing back to make a quick sketch in her notebook. Why, she could almost imagine riding in the comfort of a rail coach, perhaps sharing a bench with Twilight. The librarian would have her muzzle buried in a book, most likely, but would be able to tell her just exactly what those delicate red flowers were called.
Or did it matter? To give a thing a name, did that change the thing? Sure, there was that famous line in a play which claimed that a rose by any other name tasted just as sweet, but was that true? Could somepony eat a flower and not be influenced by its name? Would anypony eat a flower if it were named thornflower or stinkbloom?
Rarity let out a dramatic sigh.
“Chimicherry or cherrychanga?”
Rarity looked up. “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would taste as sweet.”
“I . . . what?”
“A quote from Romeo and Muliette,” Rarity said. “By the greatest playwright who ever lived? The Bard?” She wiped a hoof across her forehead, even though it was quite unladylike to do something as gauche as sweat, or to admit by one's actions to have sweated. “He's saying that what you call something doesn't change the nature of the thing.”
“Oh.” Pinkie mulled that over. “So, if you called a rose a 'fart-flower,' it would taste just as good?”
Rarity nodded. “Which means, whether it's a chimicherry or a cherrychanga, it would taste the same. And, if you had one, I would gladly eat it, no matter what you called it. I'm starving. I don't suppose there are any decent restaurants out here.”
Pinkie shook her head. “There isn't even a decent bakery in Dodge Junction.”
“What about—“
“Stale flour, and beet sugar. Beet sugar! Not to mention the shortening smelled off.”
“Pinkie?”
“Yes, Rarity?”
“Didn't you and Applejack once bake cupcakes with worms in them?”
“And I ate one,” Pinkie said proudly. “Or maybe more than one. I don't quite remember.”
“Yes, you were quite ill.”
“It's hard to remember things when you're projectile vomiting. And don't get me started on what was coming out the other end.”
“Please don't.” Rarity's face turned slightly green. “I would rather not know.”
“First I got a rumbly feeling in my tummy, and then my hoofsies shook, and then—“
“Pinkie?”
“Yes, Rarity?”
“Have you noticed how vast the surrounding emptiness is? And how—well, I certainly can't see Dodge Junction, since I'm facing the wrong way, but I should imagine that if you can see it at all, it is the tiniest speck on the horizon, is it not?”
Pinkie leaned forward against the handle, and squinted into the desolate distance. A small frown played at the corner of her mouth, interrupted by the very tip of her tongue poking out. After a half-minute of staring, she looked back to Rarity. "I can barely see it."
“So, it would not be hard to imagine how one could be lost out here, perhaps forever, if one were to prove an unbearable burden to her traveling companion.”
Pinkie glared at her. “You're one to talk. You've done nothing but complain.”
“I most certainly have not, darling. I will admit that I did threaten Rainbow Dash in absentia, as I hold her wholly responsible for the predicament we find ourselves in. Otherwise, I remained remarkably silent while you nattered on about chimicherries and cherrychangas. Might I remind you that neither of us even had breakfast before we left?”
“I knowwwwwwwwwwww!” Pinkie wailed. “My tummy is all grumbly and sad.”
Rarity gave her an encouraging smile. “I presume you would instruct me to stop if we were to pass some edible plant, would you not?”
Pinkie nodded. “But I don't know if any of these plants are edible.” She flopped down on the section car. “I'm the worst earth pony ever.”
“Don't be too hard on yourself, dear. You grew up a rock farm; you can hardly be expected to have the same familiarity with domestic crops as Applejack, or feral plants like Zecora does.” She leaned into the walking beam to make up for Pinkie's lack of effort. “Besides, I'm hardly Little Miss Helpful. I can find gems; what good does that do us out here?”
Pinkie looked up, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I would . . . kill for a pineapple upside-down cake right now.”
That's oddly specific, Rarity thought. “It could be worse. At least we found this thing on a spur track. Imagine if we'd had to hoof it all the way back to Dodge Junction.” She sighed. “I would be happy with a simple ewer of water. When we get back to Dodge Junction, I am going to check us into the finest hotel, and have them draw up a cool bath for two. While we wait for it to fill, we'll drink tall glasses of mineral water, or perhaps even lemonade.”
“What if we don't make it back?”
“We'll make it back.” Rarity stopped pumping and let the section car coast on its own momentum. “We're not that far out of town . . . well, okay, maybe fifteen more miles or so, but we can do that in a couple of hours. It won't be comfortable, but it's doable.”
Pinkie stood back up and rested her forehooves on the walking beam, letting it push her upwards before she gave a strong downstroke. The section car lurched forward as Pinkie got back into her rhythm. “But . . . I really have to pee. I wasn't thinking about it until you mentioned a cool bath and a tall glass of mineral water or lemonade.”
Rarity chuckled mirthlessly. “The plants would welcome the water, I'm sure.”
“I guess.” Pinkie looked dejectedly at the desert and fell silent.
The two kept up their pace for an interminable length of time. The sun reached her zenith and began to creep along her course towards the western horizon. Aside from a steady squeak-squeak as the walking beam moved, and the soft sounds of their breathing, it was silent.
Finally, Rarity spoke. “Curse it, now I have to pee, too.” She looked over her shoulder hopefully, but Dodge Junction was still too far away to be more than a hazy dream on the horizon.
The two mares let the section car drift to a stop before they tumbled off the side and onto the desert floor. Rarity double-checked that the brakes were set: she had no desire for the vehicle to roll away while it was unattended.
In no time at all, they'd found a nice cluster of scrub brush that offered Rarity the privacy she felt she needed, even if they were in the middle of nowhere. One never knew when a stallion might just wander by, and a lady would never be caught in such a compromising position.
Pinkie, naturally, felt no such restraint; she was staring over her shoulder as she attempted to write her name in the hardpack. At least, that's what Rarity assumed she was trying, by the way in which she swiveled and twisted her hindquarters. A minute later, the pink pony came bounding over, her voice bursting with enthusiasm. “Rarity, Rarity, guess what I did? I wrote both our names on the desert floor!”
“That's quite the talent,” Rarity mumbled.
“Ever since I was a little filly Pinkie Pie, I always was good at writing things with my mouth or my hooves or—“
“Your urine. Honestly, why am I not surprised? I'm sure your parents were proud.”
“Well . . . only once I learned to go in the outhouse, which took a long time, 'cause I thought there was a monster in there. But after I got my cutie mark I realized that monsters get lonely, too, and maybe if I went in there and sang to him he'd be happier and not try to scare little fillies who have to pee in the middle of the night.” She began happily bounding back towards the section car, while Rarity turned her head and studied the disturbed desert floor.
Their names would be gone quickly—probably already were. Rarity didn't feel a need to look. They would evaporate in the heat, or be absorbed by the parched earth.
The hoofprints might remain longer, even long enough to be seen by ponies passing by on a train; they'd be there until the next rain or dust storm, then they too would fade as if they never were and never had been.
How soon would it be? How soon would the evidence of their journey vanish? Did it matter? She'd remember, and one day she might tell her parents, or Sweetie, or her own foals. In the telling, would they feel the heat of the sun? The magnificent vastness of the desert? Could simple words convey the feeling of completeness she felt looking at it as a metaphor for a pony's life?
"Rarity?"
The fashionista shook her head. "I'm coming, darling." She trotted to the tracks and gracefully jumped aboard. “Oh, I wish I knew a come-to-life spell,” she muttered as she released the brakes.
“I still just want a pineapple upside-down cake.” Pinkie shoved the walking beam down. “Or a chimicherry." squeak "Or a cherrychanga.” squeak "Or a kumquat."
True to her word, upon their arrival in Dodge Junction, Rarity had headed for the finest hotel in the town, while Pinkie looked for food. As there was but one hotel in town—where she had been staying with the rest of the girls—finding the finest hotel had taken little time. Persuading the clerk of her bona fides, though, had been a different matter. She hadn't been carrying any bits, and he was unsympathetic. She reluctantly reminded him that she had stayed with her friends in this very establishment the night before, and they had been model guests.
He mentioned the kumquat incident.
Rarity tried a different tack. She was sure, if he would just sent a telegram to Ponyville, that the bank would be forthcoming with any proof which was required as to her financial situation.
He wordlessly pointed to the clock on the wall.
Steam was practically coming out of Rarity's ears as she played her final trump card—that she was the bearer of the Element of Generosity, a mare who had helped save Equestria from certain doom on countless occasions, and if he was unwilling to send a telegram to Ponyville, perhaps he could instead have one sent to Canterlot, care of Her Royal Highness Princess Celestia.
Unimpressed, he informed her that he was actually the Emperor of Roam.
Rarity was debating the wisdom of reaching over the desk and ramming a hoof down his throat as a form of therapy—and, likely as not, a way to ensure a roof over her head for the night, at the very least—when Pinkie Pie pronked into the hotel lobby.
“Hi, Rarity! Hi, Blaze Star!”
Both Rarity and the receptionist turned to look at her.
“Wait, you know Pinkie Pie?” they both said simultaneously.
“Of course!” Pinkie grinned from ear to ear. “I know everypony. Rarity, I got a cake from the restaurant, 'cause they don't have room service here. Oh, and Cherry Jubilee says 'hi.' Did you get your room?”
“No,” Rarity hissed through clenched teeth, “because somepony had to be difficult.”
“Well, somepony should have said she was friends with Pinkie Pie,” the stallion replied. He reached behind him and grabbed a set of keys off the keyboard. He hoofed it over Rarity's head with a flourish. “Second floor, south end. I'll get a bath started for you ladies. Is there anything else you need?”
“I imagine that Flax and Wheat's Milk and Honey Bath Soak is unavailable in this town?” The puzzled look on the stallion's face was all the answer she needed. “Very well. I suppose I can live without.”
Pinkie Pie was dancing on her hooves. “Hurry, Rarity, the pineapple upside-down cake is getting cold.”
“How did you even. . . .” Rarity shook her head. “No matter. I suppose we shall have no trouble unpacking, as our bags have undoubtedly made it back to Ponyville by now. I do hope one of the girls had the good sense to carry them home with her.” She paused on the landing. “Oh, dear. I haven't got my mane brush or my curry comb . . . I must look simply terrible.”
“Yuppers!” Pinkie bounced to the top of the stairs. “Your coat is matted and covered in dirt, your mane's limp, soaked with sweat, and there's branches and stuff in it, and you're tail's all frizzed. Hey, if it goes all poofy, ponies will think we're sisters! Wouldn't that be fun?”
“It would be something.” Rarity reached with her telekinesis, trying to find the branches in her mane. “Pinkie, since you seem to know everypony in this town—“
“I do!”
“—Would it be too much to ask for you to go to the general store after we've had a nice soak in the tub, and get me a brush and a comb? I'd be forever in your debt.”
“You don't need a brush or comb, silly.” Pinkie unlocked the door to their room. “We're roughing it. Nopony cares what you look like when you're roughing it.” She pushed the door open and hopped into the room. “Why, we could be a couple of trail-weary hardcase trailponies coming into town for the first time in months. We could have a herd of cattle that graze out in the badlands, or maybe we could be prospectors, fresh from discovering a mine chock full of gems.”
“I should have picked some up while we were out there.” Rarity looked down at a hoof. “It would hardly have made my hoof polish look any worse. I could have traded them for food and lodging, and not had to dicker with that rude stallion at the front desk.”
“Or even better, a silver mine!” Pinkie shoved half of the pineapple upside-down cake into her mouth. “Or a gold mine! Or electrum! Or even unobtanium!”
“You made that last one up.” Rarity looked at the freshly-made bed, and for a fleeting instant actually considered just crossing the room and stretching out on the mattress. Her legs were so sore, and it would be pure bliss to take her weight off them. But she couldn't do it; she knew she was filthy, and she'd never relax if she were wallowing in her own filth.
“I saved some for you,” Pinkie said, holding a plate which contained the pitiful remains of a pineapple upside-down cake. “It's still a little warm, so you ought to eat it right now. Before it gets cold. Baked goods aren't good when they're cold. They might as well not be baked then. Of course, that would be silly; an unbaked cake would just be mushy batter.”
“Thank you, Pinkie,” Rarity said absently as she levitated the plate over. “I do wish I had a fork.” She lifted the cake in front of her muzzle and began taking small, ladylike bites. “Oh, this cake is simply divine.”
• • •
After she jerked awake for the second time, Rarity reluctantly got to her hooves and stepped out of the bath. Pinkie had long since vacated the tub; by the time Rarity was satisfied with the rudimentary grooming she'd been able to perform with the brush and comb Pinkie had found, it was nearly midnight, and they would have to get up early to make the train back to Ponyville. Well, she would at least; she'd have to groom herself again in the morning. One never knew if one might meet a famous actor on a train—say, Colt Eastwood—and it simply would not do to be unkempt.
She trudged up the stairs to their hotel room, quietly closing the door behind her. Pinkie was curled up in bed, the covers pulled up to her head. She'd turned the wick on the oil lamp nearly all the way down, kindly leaving Rarity just enough light to navigate by.
After blowing out the lamp, she folded back the covers and slid into bed, moving slowly to prevent disturbing the slumbering pony beside her.
This is bliss, she thought as the weight of her body finally left her sore legs and hooves. Even if the bed is lumpy and the pillows areunder-stuffed. She closed her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths of the clear desert air, expecting to be asleep in seconds. However, she was interrupted by a soft sniffling noise.
“Pinkie? Are you crying?”
A nearly imperceptible nod was the only response she got.
“Why?” Rarity reached out and put a reassuring hoof on Pinkie's withers. “What's got you down?”
“How come they left us?” Rarity felt Pinkie moving under her hoof, curling into a ball. “We all came out here 'cause we missed Applejack, and then the other girls left us behind. Don't they care about us? What if—what if they think Ponyville would be nicer without us? Sometimes, I hear Twilight say that she doesn't understand me, and Rainbow ditched me for Gilda, which I kinda understood at first, but after a while it really started to hurt.
“And sometimes I hear them say mean things about you, too, about how prissy and stuck up you can be.”
“Oh, Pinkie.” Rarity slid close to the sniffling earth pony and wrapped her in a tight embrace, propriety be damned. “It's true that you can be a little too . . . intense for some ponies, especially if they have something else planned. And I am sometimes too prissy and stuck-up for my own good.
“But friends don't have to be together all the time . . . friendship isn't something a pony loses when she's away from her friend for a day or two.
“I think the girls knew that we were smart and resourceful, and we'd get back on our own. And I think they were more concerned with working out why Applejack didn't want to come back to Ponyville. They know we do . . . we will.
“Tomorrow morning, we'll get on the train, and you know what? I bet everypony will be at the depot to meet us.”
“You're right!” Pinkie straightened out and nestled herself against Rarity. “They'll all be super-sorry that they forgot us.”
“Yes, I'm sure they will.” Rarity nuzzled the back of Pinkie's neck, eliciting a contented purr from her friend.
“Ponyville just won't be the same without me,” Pinkie insisted.
Rarity nodded and closed her eye. She was half-asleep when Pinkie spoke again.
“Rarity?”
“Yes, darling?”
“It's okay if you're mad at me for knocking you off the wagon.”
“I'm not mad.”
“You're not?”
“I was mad. But now I'm not.”
“Why not?”
“Do you remember the first time you met me?”
“Yup! I threw a great big party! Ooh, I was barely out of fillyhood. That was a long time ago.”
“You touched me deeply, Pinkie. A mare who would devote that kind of effort to a total stranger, with no expectation of getting anything in return. You're always so cheerful and upbeat, and you work so hard to make everypony happy all the time. Why, you could probably make a grumpy old mule your friend, if you worked at it.
“And there's one other thing—but you can't tell anypony.”
“Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.” Pinkie squirmed under the covers as she performed the requisite motions.
“I had fun today.”
“You did? But you never have fun unless you're neat and tidy and proper and doing something boring.”
“You sound like Sweetie,” Rarity said softly. “I had fun with you today. Perhaps it wasn't my first choice of ways to spend a day, but I did enjoy spending time with you.”
“Aww.” Pinkie leaned back and rubbed her head against Rarity's chin.
“Of course, that won't stop me from exacting my revenge on Rainbow.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, darling. Go to sleep. We have a long train ride ahead of us tomorrow."
Author's Note
Author's Notes: Click HERE
