Sometimes, fillies awaken with a sense of great portent for the day. Their eyes flick open with a blink and a wink, and they trundle to the washroom with less of the mundane on their minds and more of the endless possibilities that an absence of expectations might provide. What a delightful irony, if one could appreciate such, that the most promise came from a day with no plan.
On such a limitless morning, Dinky sat up in bed and felt right down to the little scuff on the front left corner of the front left hoof on the front left leg in the front left fold of her blanket that today held just that much in store. Hearth’s Warming Eve, and she would certainly divine the best present idea for the best mother ever. For fillies never doubt such things and strain the little cogwheels in the thought-mechanisms always running in their minds. No, providence had a way of giving them just what they needed, just when they needed it, or so her experience had gone each of the last four Hearth’s Warming Eves. And since she could only remember four Hearth’s Warming Eves, a perfect track record bespoke no possibility of error.
Thus she held her head high on her way down the hall. With a splish-splash of her washcloth, a swish-swash of her toothbrush, and the swoosh of a comb, Dinky emerged ready to conquer her one charge: find a present suitable for her mother. “Today, I will do it,” she said, snapping a terse nod at whatever Fates might be observing. “Today, I will get my mommy the perfect gift.”
Last year, the perfect gift had been a hoofmade picture frame, but now it sat all flopsy-lopsided on the bookshelf, she noted as she arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Oh, how foolish to have thought that such a thing epitomized the pinnacle of craftsponyship, but she wouldn’t have known better at the time. What a silly filly to assume that so young, she could have captured the exemplar of Hearth’s Warming gifts for years to come. A popsicle-stick frame, indeed!
But this year, this year, she finally had it.
“Have a great day at school!” Derpy called over her shoulder as she hustled out the door to begin her mail route. What a silly mommy! They didn’t have school on Hearth’s Warming Eve! But no matter. Better to have her mommy occupied so that Dinky could scheme in private.
So with a skip-trot and a twirl for good measure, she arrived at the kitchen table. And like every Hearth’s Warming Eve before (all four she could remember, anyway), the Fates once again smiled down upon her. There, not inches from her nose lay a steaming cup and a donut, barely two bites clipped from the cakey, crumbly ring.
Of course her mommy loved muffins, but even a favorite meal needs a garnish here and there. And so the little accent that each morning needed was a donut, only one, with a fresh mug of coffee for dunking. There came the rub: her four years of wisdom had culminated in the realization that perfection demanded a price. Donuts and coffee offered little where portability was concerned. They took both hooves to wield, and the coffee tended to slosh about in flight. Thus, Derpy had to leave both behind when she’d pushed her schedule to the limits of its tensile strength. There they sat on the table, growing colder and more stale by the minute.
No longer. Already, her brain chugged and churned to solve this particular problem, no doubt one plaguing most of Equestria. Afterward, she could move on to lesser matters, like advising the princesses on international intrigue, but for now, they’d have to forgo her keen intellect. Hearth’s Warming demanded it.
The order of the day: one-hoofed portable coffee and donuts.
Almost instantly, an idea clinked and clanked around in her head, confounded only by the fact that she wasn’t allowed to use the oven unsupervised. Any expert in her field (the properly humble ones, at least) knew when to enlist a colleague’s aid. To Pinkie Pie’s, then!
She hummed a tune, tra-la-la, down the road, a skip, a stop, a hop-frog trot, down, down the road. No weepy eyes, no cloudy skies, a nip of cold, a filly bold, down the road, tra-la.
At the end of her journey lay Sugarcube Corner, where lived the first pony who came to mind when matters of confection arose. Dinky stepped through the door with a ting-jingle of its small bell, but likely nopony but she herself heard it; the showroom absolutely teemed with ponies bustling and jostling and hustling to get to the counter for their Hearth’s Warming treats.
Dinky hung her head, but the Fates remained faithful. While Mr. and Mrs. Cake raced to and fro to fill all the orders, Pinkie strode through the crowd, all the customers making way for her. She crouched down with a big silly grin—she must have known somehow!—and spoke softly, though the mountain-brook spill of laughter underneath it easily carried over all the murmurs.
“You look like a filly who needs help with something,” Pinkie said.
“I want to get my super mommy a super Hearth’s Warming gift!” Dinky replied, and Pinkie waited for the rest, because a filly with that particular twist to her nose surely hadn’t finished. “She likes a donut and coffee before she starts her mail route, but so many mornings, she runs out of time and has to leave it behind. I want to make coffee and donuts that she can take with her and eat with one hoof.”
A little sparkle danced across Dinky’s eyes and exited stage left. “I have an idea.”
Such words from industrious fillies never fail to strike fear into grown-up hearts, but luckily, Pinkie Pie didn’t possess one of those. “Step into my office,” Pinkie said, gesturing toward the kitchen door. “Mrs. Cake!” she shrieked above the din. “Can I have a break to try something out?”
“I don’t think it’s the best—”
“Thanks!” Pinkie shouted, waving madly and shoving Dinky in amongst the counters and ovens and mixing bowls dripping with seventeen and a half shades of batter. Once again, she bent down to filly level. “What’s your idea?”
“Well,” Dinky began. Her eyes widened at the prospect of sharing her wisdom with somepony who could appreciate it properly. “I thought we could inject the coffee into the donut—” she poked one hoof into the other “—so you can eat it all at once.”
Pinke hemmed and hawed and held a hoof to her chin. “Yes, yes. I think it could work. But we don’t make donuts here. Let’s try it with a cupcake! If that turns out well, we can go from there.”
Pinkie plucked a perfect purple one from a muffin pan on the counter, then slid it down the maple surface until it came to rest just in front of a steaming coffee pot. A quick pirouette and a flick of the hoof had a full mug next to the cupcake. So Pinkie took a bread knife, poked the tip oh-so-carefully into the top and worked her way around its circumference. She pulled the cone-shaped cap off, and as Dinky watched (good thing she’d come to the right place for baking know-how!), Pinkie poured a tiny puddle in the cavity, then one drip, two drips, three last drips for luck. The brown liquid disappeared almost instantly into the golden cake.
“Let’s give ’er a sample!” Pinkie Pie said. She lifted the cupcake high above her head, so that it could shine its glory upon them.
It collapsed into a pile of mush, slid off her hoof, and landed on the tile floor with a great big splat.
“Hm. I didn’t expect that,” Pinkie said, her mouth contorting into a second-degree frown. Her ears even drooped into a dour drear, but she soon hopped in the air. “Ooh! I bet we could ask Pony Joe! He knows donuts like nopony else!”
Dinky followed Pinkie’s perky pronking out to the sales room again. “Back later, Mrs. Cake! Gotta go on a road trip to Canterlot!”
“But Pinkie, it’s one of the busiest days of the year!”
Pinkie somehow stopped in midair and peered down with the most intense stare Dinky had ever seen. “Little filly. Baking emergency.”
Mrs. Cake forced a grin. “Oh… okay? Does her mother mind?”
Of course not, and she wouldn’t be home for hours anyway, but Pinkie didn’t wait to give an answer. To Canterlot, then!
They hummed a tune, tra-la-la, down the road, a skip, a stop, a hop-frog trot, down, down the road. No weepy eyes, no cloudy skies, a nip of cold, a filly bold, pink happy face, down the road, tra-la.
“All aboard for Canterlot!” Pinkie shouted once they’d reached the station. The uniformed pony next to her had just cupped his hooves to his mouth to yell something, but now the crestfallen conductor flattened his ears. Then Pinkie tugged her onto the train car.
Rarely before had Dinky seen the countryside pass by from so low. Most times she’d ridden the train, she’d stayed with her mother in the second-level loft used to carry the mail. But aside from the different view, she had not a whit of trepidation, not a bit of consternation, not with her Auntie Pinkie by her side, or so Pinkie kept calling herself. “Auntie Pinkie will keep you safe,” she said, but riding on her back as she bounced up and down the aisles of a moving train car didn’t seem too safe.
“Have you ever traveled to Canterlot?” Pinkie asked.
“Yes,” Dinky replied with a swift nod, “my mommy holds on to me tight when the train rocks. Then we go flying around the streets, and she makes sure I have a good grip on her mane. She says she wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me, and if I’ve been good (which is always), she buys me an oatmeal cookie.”
Pinkie smiled the kind of smile that had warm hugs behind it. “Wow! It sounds like you’ve got a great mom!”
“Mmhmm,” Dinky said. And she did. More ponies should know that.
They disembarked at the Canterlot station, then a clip and a clop over cobblestone tops soon had them poking their noses through the door of Pony Joe’s donut bakery. “Pinkie Pie!” he roared with a flashy grin upon catching sight of her. “Welcome back to my shop! It’s good to see you again. What can I get ya?”
Pinkie ushered Dinky in, who took a deep, delicious breath with sprinkles on it, stood before the counter, and said, “I want to get my super mommy a super Hearth’s Warming gift! She likes a donut and coffee before she starts her mail route, but so many mornings, she runs out of time and has to leave it behind. I want to make coffee and donuts that she can take with her and eat with one hoof.”
“And pouring a little lake in the top didn’t work for cupcakes. It got all mushy,” Pinkie added, squashing her mane down to illustrate. “But that’s cupcakes. I figured you’d know more about donuts.”
“I see,” he answered in his grumbly-growly voice as he wrinkled his forehead. “Donuts can take moisture better, but maybe we’re going about this wrong. Come with me.” Pony Joe made a grand sweep of his hoof and beckoned toward the swinging door to the kitchen, so Pinkie led Dinky into the back.
And Dinky marvelled at all the machines! Every counter, every shelf: a jelly jammer, a crueller crimper, a glazing gun, and a definitely decadent whipped-cream dolloper! This year’s model! Pony Joe followed her gaze to it and draped a foreleg over it. “Yep,” he replied, his eyebrows wiggling and waggling. “My pride and joy. And this baby—” he jabbed an elbow toward it “—is gonna solve all our problems.”
He immediately got to work. With a fluff-puff of flour hovering about his head, he folded in sugar and cream and shortening and some fresh-ground coffee beans. He stirred and stirred, his madcap mixing mayhem threatening to get him airborne, until he unleashed a barrage of light brown liquid straight up into the air. On its trip back down, he walloped it with a baking sheet, smacking it into the dolloper’s bin and slamming the door shut before it could escape. Only a splotch of coffee-brown on his apron commemorated his escapade.
With a final flourish, Pony Joe flicked on the switch and leaned against the counter, his eyes closed and an angelic smile just above his raised chin.
Pinkie clapped. “Ooh, that’s—”
“Shh,” Pony Joe said. “Just let it work its magic.”
Dinky had only seen a professional-grade whipped cream dolloper in a catalog before. She couldn’t help staring, but Pony Joe only nudged his paper hat up and beamed at it as he might a favorite nephew. “Gotta treat it right,” he said, rubbing the back of a hoof over a smudged patch of chrome, “and it’ll treat you right in return. Say, that must be a great mother you have for you to go to all this trouble for her.”
“Yes,” Dinky said, a little spark dancing on the end of her horn. “She tells me every day that I’m her special filly, and I’ll have a hug and kiss waiting for me when I get home from school.”
“Good,” he replied. “Then we’ll make extra sure to fix a wonderful donut for her.”
The shiny machine whisked and whirled, hummed and thrummed, Pinkie’s eyes widening the whole time. When at last the buzzer sounded and the mechanism whirred to a stop, Pony Joe scooped up some of the creamy coffee confection, packed it into a piping bag, and squeezed it into an unfilled donut. “Whaddya think?” he said, scooting the powder-coated treat across the counter.
One great big bite, and Dinky licked her lips. Perhaps it was a little bitter, but it tasted of the rich, roasted aroma that always emanated from her mother’s mug. Still, something was off about it.
“Can it be hot, though? Mommy likes the way her coffee warms her up on cold mornings.” Dinky took a second bite. It made a nice taste treat for a filly, but it wouldn’t quite fit the bill for a daily pick-me-up.
(“Can I have a try?” Pinkie peeped from behind her.)
Pony Joe rubbed the whiskers on his chin and clicked his tongue. “Ah. No, I’m afraid a whipped cream filling wouldn’t do too well hot. Sorry, kid. Tell ya what, though. My friend Mulia Mild works with all kind of fillings and toppings and icings. Fudge, fondue, fondant… you name it. She lives just a few streets over. Let’s go ask her if she can come up with something hot.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, already heading out to the dining area. “Watch the shop for me, Blintz,” he called to the young stallion by the cash register. “We got us a Hearth’s Warming pastry pickle.”
“Ooh, pastry pickle! That gives me an idea!” Pinkie chimed in as she rolled her eyes up and committed the recipe to memory. Then, out the door with the whole group, on to Mulia’s home!
They hummed a tune, tra-la-la, down the road, a skip, a stop, a hop-frog trot, down, down the road. No weepy eyes, no cloudy skies, a nip of cold, a filly bold, pink happy face, a donut ace, down the road, tra-la.
Pony Joe ambled up the front walk to Mulia’s door and knocked thrice. “Ms. Mild?” he called when the door didn’t immediately open. A shadow drifted across the pinprick of light visible on the peephole.
“If you want an autograph, you’ll have to come to the book signing next week,” a very prim and proper voice sounded through the door.
“It’s me, Ms. M! Pony Joe. We have a filly with a donut dilemma!”
The deadbolt clicked, and the door immediately swung open. “Come in, come in!” Mulia warbled like an oversized lark. Her long ears swiveled to and fro to navigate through the maze of corridors whilst catching any bit of filly-sized speech.
So Dinky started: “I want to get my super mommy a super Hearth’s Warming gift! She likes a donut and coffee before she starts her mail route, but so many mornings, she runs out of time and has to leave it behind. I want to make coffee and donuts that she can take with her and eat with one hoof.”
“And pouring a little lake in the top didn’t work for cupcakes. It got all mushy,” Pinkie added.
“And whipping up a coffee cream filling got the flavor, but not the warmth,” Pony Joe finished.
Mule hooves went a-clip, a-clop over the floors (just the same as pony hooves, but a little lower-pitched), down all the halls, by all the walls, until they stood in a kitchen, every surface gleaming with polished ceramic and stainless steel. “So,” Mulia said, pulling out a percolator, “I see the problem. I wonder if we shouldn’t approach it from the other side, hm?”
“Like…” Dinky started, but she didn’t get very far. Adults liked to say things that sounded complicated but didn’t actually mean anything, at least in her experience. So she huffed out a sigh and squinted one eye and gave a big, slouchy shrug.
“You’ve been trying to put the coffee in the donut,” Mulia said with a gentle smile, the kind aunts always had when uncles would tease a bit too much. “Why not try putting the donut in the coffee?”
Derpy already did that.
But Mulia must have seen the words all twisted up in Dinky’s throat, because she patted Dinky on the head. “If I turn my back,” she said with a pointed glance at Pony Joe, “would you make up a small bowl of seasoning blend for one of your cinnamon donuts?”
“Um…” Pony Joe scratched at the back of his neck. “I’m not sure where this is goin’.”
Mulia let out a beauty-pageant laugh. “I’m going to spice the coffee to taste like a donut. Then we can pour a cup of it, put a lid on top, add a straw, and voilá!” She slapped her hooves together. “Portable coffee and donuts!”
“Could work,” Pony Joe replied with a slight nod. So he hunched over the counter, pulled a bunch of bottles from the spice rack, and slid over three small bowls while Mulia stood facing out the window.
Dinky had never seen such a flurry of activity before! Three bowls, a good sprinkling of cinnamon in each, then a nugget of nutmeg in one, a clump of cloves in another, a modicum of mint in two, a peppering of paprika in the third…
Pony Joe flashed Dinky a wink as he finished up and promptly washed the contents of two of the bowls down the drain. “Wouldn’t put it past a professional to know the level in every bottle,” he whispered. “Now, nopony can tell which ones I actually used and how much. Except you.”
Quickly, Dinky mimed a zip of the lip, and Pony Joe smiled back at her. “Alright, Miss M,” he said, and Mulia returned to the counter, then poured the spice blend into her percolator, along with a big scoop of coffee grounds, big enough to keep even Derpy awake after one of her movie nights with her friends.
“And now we wait,” Mulia said. That wonderful rich, warm scent filled the air while the percolator bubbled and popped and steamed, tilting this way and that. Dinky clenched her teeth, but Mulia smiled and patted the persnickety pot. “Don’t worry, dear. It’ll behave itself. It’s like a good child, who might make you nervous at times, but you just tell her you love her, and she always does the right thing.”
Mulia cocked her head, and her eyes sparkled like the jars of glitter on Miss Cheerilee’s shelf at school. “For you to come all the way to Canterlot and look for so much help to make your mother’s gift, she must be very special.”
“Oh, yes!” Dinky said. “Every morning, the first thing she does is tell me how much she loves me and that it’s going to be a great day.” She hugged her forelegs across her chest and rocked back and forth, just the way Mommy would do it. She could almost feel her mommy right there with her, alongside the smells of coffee and flour and spices, like in her own home.
Even more wrinkles creased Mulia’s face, each one a treasured memory of another smile this big, or so all Dinky’s great aunts and grandmothers said. Mulia patted Dinky the same way she had her percolator, and as if prompted, the pot gave one last bubble and wheeze.
“Ah!” Mulia reached for a cup and filled it halfway. “There. Now, we’ll handle the lid and straw later. First, we must worry about flavor.” Dinky reached for it with a stutter-stop, but Mulia slid the mug away. “Give it a moment to cool, dear.”
All eyes remained on it, trying to pinpoint that moment when it would reach the temperature needed for safe tasting as the steam clouds thinned out from cumulonimbus to stratus to cirrus (naturally, the daughter of a pegasus had long since learned to differentiate). Then with barely a nod, Mulia pushed the cup back to her.
Dinky sidled up to the counter’s edge and tilted the mug toward herself, letting the savory waves lap against her lips while she breathed in the scintillating, cinnamon-sparked scent. At last, she opened her mouth, and the tiny tide tantalized her tongue. A moment, two moments passed as she waited for the bouquet to blend with the taste and linger on to aftereffects.
She smiled. “It’s good!” Everyone released a held breath, and Pinkie bounced so high, she almost dislodged a few pans from the overhead rack. Grins shone all around, and Mulia poured a cup for each.
So Dinky drained her mug, and with that sweetly bitter smack of spice on her lips, she sank to her haunches with the well-earned slump of a task completed.
And her stomach growled.
The others had passed around cups and congratulations, but one by one, they glanced at her, and as much as Dinky would have liked to maintain her blissful mien, she just couldn’t. And one by one, their own grins faded.
“It tastes great,” she said in response to their raised eyebrows, “but it’s not filling. Mommy needs a good breakfast, and without the actual donut, it’s not a meal.”
Mulia heaved a hearty sigh and nodded like a rocking chair in a spring zephyr. “You’re right, of course.” Her ears tucked and tottered, pricked and pointed, but she didn’t suggest anything else. In the end, she squinted out the window and to the sun, beginning to dip toward the horizon. “I believe we might need to think outside the box on this one.”
“We didn’t bring a box…” Pinkie started, but Mulia shimmy-shook her head.
“Gustave le Grande often works right on the cutting edge of culinary science.” Pinkie reached for the knife block, her mouth all poised and primed to speak again, but Mulia once again forestalled her loquaciousness with a tap to her nose. “I think he may have a few ideas of how to solve our little quandary. And he’s in town to lead a cooking class this week.”
With nary a second wasted on waiting for an answer, the ensemble filed back outside, Mulia leading the way east and the sun at their backs. Off to see Gustave, then!
They hummed a tune, tra-la-la, down the road, a skip, a stop, a hop-frog trot, down, down the road. No weepy eyes, no cloudy skies, a nip of cold, a filly bold, pink happy face, a donut ace, a donkey’s cheer, down the road, tra-la.
Next to the biggest, most lovely lavish hotel Dinky had ever seen stood a conference room, and Mulia made a beeline for it (if said bee were confined to the ground). Inside, tables lay scattered about with stacks of stainless steel stock pots and strainers, but very few ponies. They must have wrapped up for the day, since the few remaining ponies were on their way out the door, and the uniformed staff were carting away the dirty dishes.
Mulia approached a griffon directing traffic, and he jumped. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You… wish to enroll? I am afraid ze class has ended.” His eyes only widened more as he glanced down the line to Pony Joe and Pinkie Pie.
“No, no, we have a frazzled filly here with a Hearth’s Warming emergency,” Mulia said, ushering Dinky to the head of the formation.
“Ah,” Gustave replied. He nodded tersely and took a seat at his demonstration counter. “Please. Tell me what is ze problem.”
So Dinky started: “I want to get my super mommy a super Hearth’s Warming gift! She likes a donut and coffee before she starts her mail route, but so many mornings, she runs out of time and has to leave it behind. I want to make coffee and donuts that she can take with her and eat with one hoof.”
“And pouring a little lake in the top didn’t work for cupcakes. It got all mushy,” Pinkie added.
“And whipping up a coffee cream filling got the flavor, but not the warmth,” Pony Joe continued.
“And flavoring the coffee like a donut lacks the substance to satisfy hunger,” Mulia finished.
“Zat is quite ze comestible conundrum,” Gustave replied with a rub of talon over beak.
Pony Joe pulled his paper hat off and held it to his chest. “Miss M figured you’d have some newfangled way to combine the two.”
“If not, Dinky might burst into tears, and I just can’t stand to see a pony so sad!” Pinkie cried, a telltale trace of tear tracks already forming on her cheeks. She stared, sobbing, into the mirror sheen of a clean mixing bowl, then hid her face. “Make it stop!” she keened.
Gustave squeezed her shoulder gently, like a mustard bottle that might erupt all over a carrot dog if put under too much pressure. “I have it!” he said, his eyes glinting like the cutting edge Mulia had promised he possessed. With a wing-flick and a tongue-click, he waved a claw toward the chalkboard. “Once again, I believe ze current trend holds all ze answers. It is all ze rage right now! Deconstruction!”
Pony Joe scratched his head. Pinkie tilted hers. But Mulia gasped. “Do you mean…?”
If Pony Joe and Pinkie Pie were stumped, a filly had no chance, but Gustave beckoned them in as if sharing a secret. “You see,” he said, “it is like taking somezing apart.” He arranged two half-slices of baguette on opposite ends of a plate, with a dab of citron marmalade, a daub of cream cheese, and a dusting of allspice between them. “You may choose to assemble ze parts yourself and eat what is commonplace. Or you may enjoy zem individually and gain a new appreciation for ze whole.”
“Then we should…” Pinkie said, alternately mashing together and pulling asunder some imaginary treat between her forehooves. Her previous perfectly pleased grin bent into a frown.
“Just like one need not see ze bread and jam and cheese and seasonings as a sandwich,” Gustave continued, “why see coffee and donuts as… coffeeanddonuts?”
“Ah!” everyone chorused, except for Dinky, who tapped her chin. It made sense, but something seemed off. Still, she had expert opinions, so it must be right.
Gustave balled up his talons and reached them over to one corner of the counter. “You keep ze coffee—” he then swung his forelegs to the other end “—and ze donuts separate. Each stays as it was meant to be, undisturbed, and if ze eater wishes, she may dunk ze donut in ze coffee.”
That sounded okay. Yes, Dinky was sure of it. Her smile grew and grew until it had spread across her whole face and her whole head and her whole body, and she vibrated in place. When she could hold it no longer, she flung her hooves around Gustave. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she shouted. “Now I can give my mommy the perfect Hearth’s Warming gift!”
“You are very welcome, child. Zis must be a special mother for you to go to zis much trouble. I expect ze deconstruction, she does not work so well for you two, non? Much better togezer zan apart?” he said, returning the hug.
Dinky nodded so hard that she nearly fell over. “Yes, we do things together all the time—bake muffins, go to the park, or she’ll take me flying.”
With a long, luxuriant sigh, Gustave closed his eyes. “Good. Zat is ze important thing. Not zis, zis… coffee and donuts,” he said, waggling his talons over the table as if sprinkling them with sugar. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to see zis through. You are returning home, non? To give your mother ze present? I would very much like to see zis. If you do not mind.” And Gustave did wait for an answer.
“Of course!” Dinky replied. “Friends are always welcome!” She turned to Mulia and Pony Joe and Pinkie Pie, too. “Will you all come?”
“Sounds splendiferous!” Pinkie chimed.
“Sure. Blintz can close up shop for me,” Pony Joe added.
“I can think of no better way to put a little bow on this day than to see the look on your mother’s face,” Mulia finished. So Dinky led them all out the door. Off to Ponyville and her house!
They hummed a tune, tra-la-la, down the road, a skip, a stop, a hop-frog trot, down, down the road. No weepy eyes, no cloudy skies, a nip of cold, a filly bold, pink happy face, a donut ace, a donkey’s cheer, a chef premier, down the road, tra-la.
And everyone sat in the back, the train’s wheels all a-click, a-clack, while friends shared tales of food and cheer, til Dinky’s town and home drew near.
They stepped onto Ponyville’s train platform, and Dinky herself led the procession as the sun ducked below the horizon for good, taking refuge from the evening chill.
Dinky opened the front door to her house, and the aroma of baking muffins beckoned her in. “Dinky?” a voice called from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Mommy,” Dinky replied as she emerged from the darkened foyer.
“Did you stay out playing with—?” Derpy stared at the four figures filing in after the filly.
Dinky made a grandiose wave toward her. “Everyone, this is my mom, Derpy.” Then she turned to her mother. “You know Pinkie already. These are Pony Joe, Mulia Mild, and Gustave le Grande. They helped me make the perfect Hearth’s Warming present for you!”
Derpy paused from scrubbing out her mixing bowl and shut off the faucet. “Oh?”
“See,” Dinky said, “you like a donut and coffee before you start your mail route, but so many mornings, you run out of time and have to leave it behind. I want to make coffee and donuts that you can take with you and eat with one hoof.”
Her mom wore an immense grin and rested a hoof on her hip. “That seems like an interesting problem to solve. What did you come up with, sweetie?”
“I wanted to combine them, but I didn’t know how,” Dinky answered.
“And pouring a little lake in the top didn’t work for cupcakes. It got all mushy,” Pinkie added.
“And whipping up a coffee cream filling got the flavor, but not the warmth,” Pony Joe continued.
“And flavoring the coffee like a donut lacks the substance to satisfy hunger,” Mulia finished.
Gustave ran a talon along his moustache. “So I thought zat putting zem togezer was not ze solution. Why not separate ze two and deconstruct zem? Zen you can enjoy each for its own unique properties.”
“Yeah!” Dinky chirped. “Now, instead of having a cup of coffee in one hoof and a donut in the other to dunk, you can have them separate, so you have the donut in one hoof and dunk it into the… coffee in… the other.”
Her face fell. Pinkie Pie paled, Pony Joe picked at a pastern, Mulia mumbled an “oh my!” and Gustave grimaced.
Dinky squeezed her eyes shut, but no matter how tight she got them, the tears found their way out. “I’m sorry,” she said. But she soon felt a wing around her and a hoof running down her mane.
“Don’t be. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble. It means a lot to me that you thought I deserved it.”
“Oh, yes!” Pinkie barked. “She does! On the way here, she told us stories about the things you do together, and while we cooked, she said how special you make her feel.” Her pink ears pricked, and she bounced around the room. “Dinky told me you keep her safe on trips to Canterlot, and you buy her a cookie!”
“She told me you make sure she knows she’s special, and you welcome her home from school with a hug and kiss every day,” Pony Joe said, sliding his hat off.
“She told me that you awaken her each morning by saying you love her and that it will be a great day,” Mulia contributed with a swish of her tail.
“She told me zat you always make ze time for her, to go flying, play in ze park, or—” Gustave nudged an elbow toward the hot oven “—bake ze muffins.”
Pinkie’s penultimate prance and last leap landed her right in front of Derpy. “We all thought you must be such an amazing mother that we all had to come and meet you and be your friend! Of course, I already know you, but I didn’t know that about you. ’Cause if I didn’t know you, I would still have to throw you a ‘getting to know you because I don’t already know you and still have to throw you a getting to know you party’ party.”
Tucked under Derpy’s wing, Dinky felt a shake, then two shakes. She looked up, and Mommy was crying! “I’m sorry!” Dinky said again. “I wish it would have worked!”
Derpy tousled Dinky’s mane. “No, dear. It doesn’t matter. You just gave me the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”
“Y-you’re not mad?”
“No!” Derpy crouched down and wiped both their cheeks dry. “You’ve made me feel like the most special pony around, that your new friends would want to meet me just because of what I do for you, which I’d want to do anyway, since it’s right.”
Dinky hugged her mommy back and scrunched her nose up. “Can our friends stay for dinner?”
“Certainly!” Derpy answered. “I have muffins baking, and I was about to start on a carrot soup.”
“I can handle the soup, if you don’t mind,” Mulia said.
“And I shall make a salad,” Gustave tossed in.
Pony Joe put his hat back on and said, “I’ll mix up a spiced cider punch.”
And Pinkie rattled around in the cookware cabinet for a baking sheet. “I’ll whip up some cookies for dessert. You go relax, and we’ll have you a yummylicious dinner, lickety-split!”
So Dinky tugged on Derpy’s wing—their friends would handle everything—and led her mommy to the couch, where they could rest and slump and slouch. With two quick sighs and crooked eyes and tempting scents to appetize, Derpy hugged her daughter near and wiped away another tear.
“Happy Hearth’s Warming, Mommy!” Dinky said.
“That’s tomorrow, or we would have never pulled them”—she cocked her head toward the kitchen—“away from their own families,” Derpy replied.
“I think they all live alone. Except Pinkie.”
And Derpy grinned even bigger. “Well, good that we could share it with them, then. Happy Hearth’s Warming to you, too.”
Dinky snuggled in as a cheery blaze crackled in the fireplace and the stars twinkle-blinked on in the purple sky. Two unicorns, a pegasus, an earth pony, a donkey, and a griffon all enjoying each other’s company.
They would have no need to worry about windigoes tonight.
Author's Note
This story was a gift in the secret Santa exchange for DarkDarsi.
