All you do is take a cup of flour; add it to the mix.
The book on the kitchen counter showed a cupcake with rainbow-colored frosting upon its open pages. Pinkie Pie looked down upon it with a glazed look in the eye, ready for yet another boring task ahead: baking cupcakes at the behest of Mrs. Cake, owner of Sugarcube Corner.
Pinkie drew her gaze sideways, along the cabinet’s length. In order from left to right, she noted the following: flour, contained within a hefty bag sewn from thin straw; baking soda, held within a cardboard box; baking powder, contained in another cardboard box; cocoa powder, which was inside a ceramic bowl the size of a grapefruit; a full stick of butter; a barrel of sugar; a carton of eggs, half of which contained only air; a bottle of vanilla extract; one large bowl with a mixer; a small bowl of salt; and a carton of milk, whole, not two percent nor skim.
With a sigh, Pinkie looked back to the book, bringing her weary sights down to the text below the image of the cupcake. She read the first step: “Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.”
The baker turned around, then slumped over to the appliance behind her. One gas-powered oven, cold from its lack of use. Pinkie looked at one of the dials: the one to the far-left, which controlled the heat inside the oven. With a sigh and a slight lament over her lack of a unicorn’s horn, Pinkie drew her head toward the dial, then gripped it with her teeth and twisted it clockwise to somewhere roughly around the 350 mark. Teeth did not allow one to be precise.
Once the oven below was lit, Pinkie turned back to her book to heed its second instruction: “Insert three tablespoons of butter and twelve ounces of sugar.”
Pinkie looked to the butter first. She stood on her hind legs, resting her forelegs upon the counter. Then, she laid the edge of her hoof about a quarter way down the stick, then drove it downward. This divided the stick into a smaller piece and a larger piece; the smaller was approximately three tablespoons. Pinkie Pie was experienced enough to know the measurements by sight alone. She scooped the smaller piece of butter up with her hoof, then tossed it into the bowl.
The next ingredient, sugar, was stored in a small barrel on the cabinet. Pinkie took hold of the container with an embrace of both her forelegs, then tipped it downward into the bowl. A clump of white sugar fell into the bowl before Pinkie picked the barrel back up and released her grip on it. Again, Pinkie saw no use for measuring tools, preferring to eyeball it for the sake of convenience.
Once she was satisfied with her application of the first two ingredients, she again drew her gaze to the book for the third step: “Add two eggs and three quarters of one tablespoon of vanilla extract.”
When Pinkie looked back to the ingredients, the eggs awaited her. Six eggs of double-A grade, stacked on the left side of a half-empty egg carton. Pinkie held one egg between two hooves, making sure that her grip was tight enough to retain possession of the egg, but loose enough to refrain from breaking the egg shell. A stable grip was soon achieved; Pinkie hit the egg firmly along the rim of the bowl, then watched as the yolk and membrane within slunk down the bowl to meet the sugar and butter within. She then repeated this same process with another egg. A drop of egg membrane hit the surface of the counter, but Pinkie paid it no mind, as she would clean it up later.
Pinkie’s attention then came to the nearby bottle of vanilla extract. It was made from plastic, and its tip was designed to release extract with a firm squeeze. Perfect for a baker lacking a unicorn’s fine magical touch. After letting out yet another yawn, Pinkie twisted her head sideways, then took the plastic bottle in the grip of her teeth. Once she took firm grasp of it, she lifted it upwards, then pointed its tip down into the bowl before giving it a gentle bite. The contents sloshed into the bowl in a quick stream. Pinkie evaluated the contents of the bowl, setting the bottle back down once she was satisfied.
The baker looked to her book for the nest instruction: “Add twenty ounces of flour, sixteen ounces of milk, one-quarter teaspoon of baking soda, two teaspoons of baking powder, twelve ounces of cocoa powder, and one-eighth teaspoon of salt. Mix to a smooth, consistent blend.”
Just as she did with the barrel of sugar, so she did with the bag of flour. The bag, unlike the barrel, had a sort of give to it that made it difficult to handle in the forelegs. Yet, the experienced baker had only to support its bottom with her hooves to give it stability as she poured the flour down from it. When the right amount of flour fell into the bowl, Pinkie set the bag down and turned her sights to the milk carton.
This container lacked a cap, which Pinkie had removed a short while ago in preparation for this activity. Thus, Pinkie simply gripped the plastic handle in her teeth, feeling the liquid’s chill running through them as she poured it into the bowl. When she was finished, she set the carton back down. She did the same with the bowl of cocoa, which lacked a handle but was nevertheless simple to grip in the mouth due to its extruding rim.
To the right of the plastic container she had just handled were the two cardboard boxes: the baking soda and the baking powder. She gripped the latter in her teeth first, then poured it in quickly, as she knew it would be more effort to pour two teaspoons than it would to pour one quarter of a tablespoon; she wanted to put her jaw’s muscles to efficient use. Then, she exchanged the first box for the second, tossing a quick clump of powder into the bowl before setting the box back down.
Lastly, she took a pinch of salt between her forehooves, then dumped it into the bowl.
Pinkie blinked, letting moisture return to her parched eyes as she flipped a switch on her mixer, which whirred with the swift revolutions of its rotors. A pair of twin beaters spun and rotated in circular motion as Pinkie pushed them down into the bowl. The machine gradually blended what was once a haphazard mess of thrown-together ingredients into a consistent mixture. Its dull chocolate luster shimmered with the fluorescent lights above the ceiling. And the more it was mixed, the stronger the luster became. After only a short time, the bowl contained a uniform mixture of chocolate cupcake batter. Pinkie flipped the switch on her mixer back to where it was before; the beaters ceased their motion.
With her forelegs, Pinkie lifted the bowl up, then walked it to the oven on her two hind legs. Her focus shifted to the nonstick cupcake pan next to the oven as she dipped the bowl down to fill the molds until each of them was three-quarters filled with chocolate batter. When the bowl was sufficiently empty, Pinkie set it back down on the table, then gripped the pan in her teeth as she swung open the oven door. She slid the pan inside, then closed it shut.
Pinkie turned around to the book to read the next step: “bake for 15 to 17 minutes.”
She looked to the dial to the right of the one she had turned earlier, then took grip of it with her teeth. She turned it slightly past the fifteen mark; again, teeth did not allow for precision.
As she stood in front of the oven, waiting for the timer to run out, thoughts began to run through her mind.
The first thought that came to mind was her health insurance. As well-meaning as Mrs. Cake was, the establishment offered little in the way of healthcare options. By Equestrian standards, the copay on even casual check-ups was rather high. She wondered if the Cakes would mind her considering different positions which offered better insurance. Although she was a healthy and spry young mare now, age would hit her at some point, and she felt that her current plan would be ill-suited to a more sickly Pinkie.
Which led to her second thought. Her pension and retirement. Father always told her to get a job that would allow her to retire comfortably at the age of fifty. But would her job at Sugarcube Corner do that for her? She couldn’t recall ever asking Mrs. Cake about her pension; she had skimmed over that part when looking over her terms of employment. Perhaps now was the time to ask her abo-
Ding! Pinkie jolted in place, then snapped her gaze to the timer. It was back to zero. The cupcakes were ready. With a forehoof, she opened the oven door, then took the pan in a grip between her two forehooves. She wondered why it didn’t hurt. But then, she reminded herself that whether or not hooves were sensitive depended on the writer, and luckily for her, the one for this story considered sensitive hooves to be stupid.
She set the pan down on the cooktop, then closed the oven door shut. She looked down on the pastries, taking time to admire another half hour of hard work. All she had to do now was coat them in frosting and present them to her boss for sale to Sugarcube Corner’s jaded patrons. But that is a story for another day…
