“Good morning, Rarity.” Cookie offered her eldest daughter a smile as she came down the hall into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Cookie.”
She paused, realizing too late that the spoon full of mashed peas was hovering dangerously within reach of Sweetie, who wasn’t taking kindly to being imprisoned in her feeding chair. The result was a face full of the green gunk. Barely remembering to wipe it away and trying not to be annoyed by Sweetie’s high-pitched giggles, Cookie turned her attention to Rarity. “What did you call me?”
Her teenage face the epitome of disinterest, Rarity settled before her breakfast of oatmeal opposite her father, whose head was currently hidden behind the morning paper. “Cookie. Why?”
Cookie cocked her head at the response. “Why are you calling me Cookie?”
“Because it’s your name,” Rarity replied as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.
“She’s got you there, Sweet Chip.”
Huffing at her husband and daughter both, Cookie turned back to Sweetie Belle, who was making a concentrated effort to escape from the Throne of Torments. Holding her in place with magic – sometimes necessary to prevent the Throne from toppling over – she attempted to guide another spoon of peas into the uncooperating foal’s mouth. “You should call me ‘mother’, Rarity.”
“And why should I do that?” Rarity asked, her tone conversational.
“Because I would prefer it?”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Rarity tittered as she sprinkled some cinnamon into her bowl. “Why wouldn’t I call you by your name, Cookie?”
The way she emphasized the name made Cookie grind her teeth. “It isn’t proper to call your mother by her name.” Rarity was big on ‘proper’, that should do the job. She took some satisfaction in successfully navigating the spoon into Sweetie’s mouth when she wasn’t looking. Now to just get her to swallow.
Rarity took a moment to chew on her first bite of oatmeal, clearly thinking about her response. “I don’t know, Cookie. Why would it be proper to not call somepony by their name? You wouldn’t call me ‘daughter’ every time you needed to get my attention, so why would I call you ‘mother?’”
If there was anything Cookie regretted right about now – aside from the fact that she’d pulled the spoon out too soon and pea smears now decorated Sweetie’s chin – it was that Rarity was good at controlling her facial expressions. She could never be sure when the filly was being honest or intentionally trying to annoy her. But given the number of ‘Cookie’s she’d heard in the last three minutes, she strongly suspected the latter. “It’s just the way things are.”
“The ‘way things are’ is a weak excuse, if you ask me. Why should we conform to such pointless social requirements?”
Cookie might have facehooved were she not concentrating so hard on Mission Feed the Beast Round 3. “Rarity, you’re all about conforming to social requirements. Just yesterday you were lecturing your father on the absolute necessity of trimming his moustache to an exact length.”
“And if he’d listen to me, maybe he wouldn’t embarrass me every time we were seen in public together,” Rarity chided the newspaper that continued to protect Hondo from the ongoing conversation. “But there are some social requirements that are too ridiculous to let stand. Such as me calling you ‘mother’ all the time, Cookie.”
That settled it: she was definitely doing this to annoy her. “That may be the single worst argument I’ve ever heard,” Cookie declared, temporarily abandoning her mission in favor of glaring at Rarity. Her eldest daughter made the frustration all the worse by not even deigning to look back. “You can’t call me ‘Cookie’. It is wrong and I won’t allow it.”
“Wrong? Why is it wrong?” Rarity made a show of leaning back and setting a forelock to her chin in contemplation, eyes set upon the ceiling. “Is it because it defies the norm? Or maybe it is because the loss of the constant reminder of the unjust social hierarchy – that being that mothers are inherently superior to their daughters – grates on your nerves? I’m only setting an example in an attempt to enlighten my fellow fillies. I for one see nothing wrong with that.”
Cookie scowled and pointed at her accusingly with the pea-stained plastic spoon. “This is some kind of twisted revenge for me not letting you get that silk on our last trip to Canterlot, isn’t it?”
Rarity at last looked at her, but only so as to properly portray an exaggerated expression of wide-eyed shock and dismay. “Revenge? Why, Cookie, you offend me! To assume that I would stoop so low as to seek something so petty.” She adjusted her curly purple mane and returned to her half-eaten oatmeal. “I am far above such selfish endeavors. This really does have nothing to do with the silk. I understand it’s well outside our budget.”
The strange thing was that Cookie actually believed that part. That only served to frustrate her more, on account of her having no idea where this had originated. “Well then, what is it?”
With a heavy sigh, Rarity shook her head and focused on her oatmeal, swallowing a quick bite before answering. “Cookie, honestly. I need to be getting to school. You’re going to make me late.”
For the barest moment, Cookie considered not letting her go to school until they settled this matter, but that wouldn’t be much of a punishment, would it? Telling a teenager they couldn’t go to the one place no teenager wanted to go was a pretty crummy motivator. “Fine, but we’re going to be having words when you get home, young mare.”
Rarity tittered. “Don’t we always, Cookie?”
Grumbling to herself, Cookie went back to feeding Sweetie. Or at least trying to, given the little white menace still had so very little interest in peas. A few minutes later Rarity had finished her breakfast and grabbed her school saddle. “By, Papa!” She gave Hondo a kiss on the cheek before heading out. “By, Cookie!”
“Oh, so it’s ‘Papa’ for you, is it?” Cookie grumbled as the door closed. “Aren’t you special, Mister Hide-Behind-The-Paper.”
Said paper lowered to the table, revealing Hondo’s wry smile. “You know she’s just doing it to annoy you, right?”
“Of course I do!” She scowled at him before turning back to Sweetie, who was once again squirming and flexing in an attempt to escape. The approach of the Dreaded Spoon of Doom was met with frantic hoof-waving that nearly sent the instrument of cruel culinary calamity flying. “And I thought kids were trouble at Sweetie’s age.”
“It’s just a phase, Sweet Chip. Give it a few years and she’ll realize how silly she’s being.” He buried himself in his paper once more.
“I don’t know if she’ll survive a few more years,” Cookie grumbled as she started the traditional stare down with Sweetie. “You’ll be seeing my face in that paper soon enough. ‘Local Mother Murders Daughter. Judge Declares Act Condoned’.”
“If you really think it’s that bad, beat her at her own game.”
Sweetie’s literally infantile glower started to show cracks via fidgeting and little glances at the spoon hovering between them. “And how do you propose I do that?” Cookie asked, anticipating victory against at least one of her daughters.
“Rarity’s image is everything to her, right? I’d go for that.” He chuckled. “Better come up with something soon. I rather like having two daughters. Celestia forbid I have to step between you two to preserve one.”
As Sweetie finally succumbed to hunger and her mother’s glare – she could never be sure which was the final straw in these contests – Cookie gave another unpleasant huff and gently delivered a spoonful of peas to the foal’s mouth. Get even with Rarity, was it? And what exactly could Cookie do that wouldn’t humiliate the both of them? She was never the imaginative sort, sadly. But there had to be something…
Hondo had to leave for work, leaving Cookie tending to Sweetie. The food having at last gone down the throat rather than the chin (and walls), she finally freed the poor thing from the feeding chair and held her to her shoulder. A few seconds of quiet patting at last led to a burp, prompting Cookie to chuckle. “Now, was that so bad, Miss Fussy Pants?” She held the giggling Sweetie at arms length and tittered at the foals squirming. “If you’d just cooperate, we could get… back to… playing…”
Cookie stared at Sweetie.
Sweetie stared back with an articulate "Buh?".
For the first time in a long while, Cookie recalled the pleasure of wicked ideas.
It was late in the afternoon when Cookie saw Rarity approaching the house. She could barely contain her grin upon realizing that she’d brought a friend home today. She couldn’t imagine what her daughter did to convince that Apple filly to come over, but she wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. With one last check to ensure Sweetie was okay with her toys and crib, Cookie made for the kitchen to resume work on supper.
The door opened while she was busy cutting up the vegetables. After some quiet conversation she couldn’t make out, Rarity came trotting in from the living room. “Ah, Cookie, there you are! How was your day?”
Thank goodness her back was to Rarity, or else Cookie might have given herself away with her grin. “Oh, it was just fine. You’re a little late, I note.”
“Yes, well, a mare has things to do, of course.” Rarity chuckled before asking oh-so-sweetly, “Is it okay if a friend stays over for supper?”
Pausing as if to think on the matter, Cookie hummed. “I suppose it won’t be any trouble, sure. And who is this friend?”
“Her name is Applejack, and I would like to make a good impression on her.” At this point Rarity lowered her tone to ‘theater whisper’ levels. “And I would appreciate you making sure that happens. You will behave, won’t you, Cookie?”
Cookie focused on keeping her voice as casual as possible. “Of course I will, Miss Curlymunchins.”
The silence was delectable. Cookie wanted to put it in a box, gift wrap it and put it under a Hearth’s Warming Tree addressed to herself. She’d open it every year, waiting until she knew Rarity was there to witness it. This silence made a whole day of waiting worth it.
But it couldn’t compare to the dark chocolate-like savory sweetness that was Rarity’s horrified tone. “What did you call me?”
“Oh, what’s the matter, Miss Curlymunchins?” Cookie asked with perfect civility that she hoped Rarity heard as the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. “It’s only the name your father gave you when you were Sweetie’s age, what with how you liked to chew on your curvwy widdle tail.”
“I… that’s…” Rarity stood there sputtering for so long Cookie managed to finish cutting up the vegetables and had started on the pie dough. “Y-you can’t call me that!”
Cookie made a show of sitting back and tapping her chin, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t see why not. It’s a name, given to you by your father. True, it’s a little out-of-date, but—”
“No. No! It’s not acceptable!”
“Oh, don’t fret so much, Miss Curlymunchins,” Cookie responded with a playful giggle. “It’s only a name.”
Rarity scowled at her, eyes narrowed and tail flicking. Cookie pretended to ignore it, but on the inside she was doing the Pony Pokey. Revenge had never tasted so sweet.
“You’re going to keep calling me that as long as I’m referring to you as Cookie, aren’t you?”
“I have no idea why we’d set conditions on these things,” Cookie responded as she sprinkled flour into the dough and grabbed her rolling pin in her magic. “You make me sound so petty, Miss Curlymunchins. Can’t I reminisce about the good old days some, hmm?”
The twitch in Rarity’s eye meant she’d scored a hit. But after a deep breath, Rarity offered the kind of sweet smile that one might use to hide fangs. “You think you’ve got something on me, don’t you? I won’t bend over for something so foalish as that, Cookie.”
Cookie blinked, then grinned right back. “Oh, hey, we’re leaving your friend all alone, aren’t we? How terribly rude.” She turned to call out, “Why don’t you come in here, dearie? No sense standing all alone when there are introductions in order.”
Cookie had not known it possible for Rarity’s face to grow more pale than it came naturally, but here they were. With eyes round as dinner plates, Rarity uttered a quiet “You wouldn’t.”
The grin didn’t falter. Cookie much preferred to let the possibilities linger in the air like a miasma. A lovable, huggable, oh-so joyful miasma! She could practically see the gears churning behind Rarity’s tiny pupils as the orange filly trotted into the kitchen with a bashful look on her face. Quite the skinny thing, wasn’t she?
“Howdy, ma’am.” The young mare pushed her slightly oversized cowboy hat back to show her full, freckled face. “I’m Applejack. Pleasure to meet ya. I hope ya don’t mind me visitin’ and all, but your daughter insisted.”
Ignoring Rarity’s silent pleas over Applejack’s shoulder, complete with forehooves clasped together, Cookie smiled warmly and accepted the proffered hoofshake. “It’s a pleasure, Applejack. My name’s Cookie, and I’m more than happy to have you over. It’s not common for Miss Cur—”
A white hoof was slapped over her mouth. She’d had no idea Rarity could move that fast. The furiously blushing young mare spoke far more loudly than was necessary. “S-so, yes, introductions done? Come Applejack, why don’t we head upstairs and give Mother the kitchen? That pot pie won’t make itself, after all!” She laughed a little too loudly, lips set in a manic grin as her eyes darted from her mother to her new friend. Applejack merely stared at the scene, her expression the definition of perplexed.
Cookie didn’t care. She got her victory, which was really all she needed. Pushing Rarity’s hoof away, she chuckled and nodded at her quick-breathing daughter. “Yes, quite right. You two go on and have fun. But not too much fun, now!” She winked at Applejack.
“Mother!” The fire in her cheeks intensifying, Rarity began herding Applejack out of the room. Or, tried to; Applejack barely budged with the first few pushes. Then she got the message and allowed herself to be navigated away. “We’ll just be in my room.”
“I’m sure you will be.” Cookie turned back to her dough and rolling pin, her pleasant smile gradually morphing to something far more wicked. She may have won the battle, but it was every mother’s imperative duty to remind her children who was in charge. So she waited until she estimated the two fillies would be nearing the hallway on the other side of the living room before calling out, “Don’t forget to do your homework, Miss Curlymunchins!”
Rarity’s distressed scream was probably heard clear across Ponyville.
Cookie chuckled. “Set and match.”
Author's Note
This idea came to me as I was reminiscing over some old Zits comics, so it can be argued I stole the concept. I was originally going to have this one star filly Twilight, but then realized Rarity's... ahem mannerisms made her a more suitable victim. Especially if I set it when she was in her 'terrible teens'. My second idea was to add this to the 'Generosity' series as a joke entry, but the method took too long to develop the subject, so I abandoned that one too. In the end, the direct approach felt the most appropriate.
