Chapters CHIFFON SWIRL
“Well?” Pear Butter leans against my bedroom door, a big smile reaching across her face. “What are you making?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet.” Until Pear Butter came in, I’d been staring at the letter sitting on my bed.
I should open it.
I have to open it.
But first, I think I’ll throw up.
“What?!” Pear Butter bounces on the tips of her hooves. “Why not?” She looks how I should be feeling right now. Excited. This is exciting. So very exciting. So exciting that I really just want to run to the bathroom so my insides can come out.
I push the letter away from me. “This was a mistake. I can’t…do this. I never should’ve signed up.”
“Chiffon…”
“I can’t. I just started at Sweet P’s. I know almost nothing. I’m going to look like an idiot.”
“Now, that ain’t true.” Pear Butter nudges herself next to me, forcing me to make room on the bed. “Peppermint Patty and Pretty Praline hired you because you’re good. Really good. Praline still raves about those cupcakes and may I remind you: you gave them that custard frosting recipe.”
“Yeah, after they showed me everything I did wrong.”
“Only because custard is hard. Once they showed you how to do it, you’ve been making it every day. I’m pretty sure Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl is their most popular cake now—and that was all you.”
It was definitely not all me. The recipe was good when I showed them, but they helped me make it great. “That’s the only thing I’m good at. What if I get donuts or fruit tarts or peanut butter mousse or homemade bread? I’ve never done any of those things. I’m going to look like a fool!”
Pear Butter flops against me. “No, you’re not. You got a month. You can figure out bread in a month.”
She’s right. I kinda hate it when she’s right. Still, the feeling that my lunch won’t stay down won’t go away. “I could send it back. It’ll be like this never happened. I’ll just try again next year when I know more…stuff.”
“And let everyone know you chickened out? Come on, you don’t even know what your makin’ yet.”
Again, she’s right. I’m already a contestant and if I don’t show up, everyone will wonder why. This is the hardest part, right? The not knowing. I just need to open the letter. It’ll be like taking off a band-aid. I squeeze my eyes shut. “You open it for me.”
Pear Butter doesn’t even fight me. She just grabs it up and tears into it. Except, she won’t read it. Instead, she passes me the small stack of papers she pulled from the envelope.
PONYVILLE BAKING CONTEST
Calling Ponyville’s Finest Bakers!
Do you love to bake? Does the perfect cupcake make you melt like ice cream? Do you make pies in your spare time or whip up batches of cookies like no other? Test your skills against Ponyville’s finest bakers in three rounds of baking mastery.
ROUND ONE: RECIPE EXCHANGE CHALLENGE
ROUND TWO: MYSTERY BOX CHALLENGE
ROUND THREE: SIGNATURE DISH MASTERY AND FINALE
Sign up at City Hall
Please bring recipe for RECIPE EXCHANGE CHALLENGE with you.
Additional contest rules to follow.
I swallow and flipped to the next page.
PONYVILLE BAKING CONTEST
ROUND ONE: RECIPE EXCHANGE
Hello Ponyville Baker,
(1) The dessert/pastry/etc you submitted
(2) YOUR COMPETING dessert/pastry/etc.
“That’s not so bad,” Pear Butter read over my shoulder. “You submitted the Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl Cake, right? You make that one all the time.”
“Well, that’s not what I’m worried about.” I was still looking at the contest rules as if I hadn’t memorized them by now. “I know I can make my own cake, but what if I can’t make theirs. Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl is one of the first cakes I made. I can do it in my sleep. But…what if I get eclairs? Or something with a complicated design? Peppermint Patty just started me on piping. I can barely do rosettes!”
“Then you’ll learn. You got a month, remember? That’s plenty of time. Now come on. I can’t wait to see what you’re gonna make.”
It’s time. Pear Butter tapping her hooves together to contain her excitement. At least someone in this room has faith in me. I pushed my breath out and flipped the page.
“Oh! Ummm…”
“Well? What is it?”
“It’s…not what I expected.” I’m actually a bit relieved…sort of. Mostly, I’m disappointed.
“Can I see?”
“Sure.” I hold the paper out.
“Wow.” Pear Butter’s eyes get really round, then she just smiles at me. “You’re gonna win this thing for sure!”
“I’m not too sure about that.”
“Now come on, Chiffon. You have more self confidence that that!”
“Well…it just…it’s carrot cake.”
“And what’s wrong with carrot cake?”
“Only everything! Nopony likes carrot cake.”
“That ain’t true.”
“When was the last time you ordered carrot cake at Sweet P’s?”
She stares at me, her mouth a bit slack jawed. “Well…my family’s a bunch of pear farmers, so…”
“So, you’re telling me you secretly love carrot cake?”
“It’s not my favorite, bu—”
I let out a groan. This was bad. So very bad.
“Dr. Tenderheart!” Pear Butter taps my leg. “He’s orders a whole sheet of carrot cake every week!”
“Yeah, for his rabbits.”
“Rabbits?”
“Yeah. Rabbits love carrot cake on account of the, you know, carrots .” I sit up. “And it’s not just the cake. Take a look at the design.”
“Well…it’s pretty simple. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Simple?! It’s not just simple. It’s completely plain! There’s nothing there! It’s just a sheet cake with powdered sugar on top. Not even cream cheese frosting! I mean, I could understand if it was a tiered wedding cake or something, but it’s just a rectangle with nothing else! It’s the most boring cake I’ve ever seen.”
“Which means you’ll win. All you have to do is follow the recipe. Easy-peasy.”
“Not much of a win. Anypony can make a sheet of cake.” I don’t know what’s worse: looking like a complete fool in front of everyone, or winning over something anypony with half a brain could do. “Nopony will take me seriously as a baker.”
“They will if you make it the best darn carrot cake ever. Besides, you don’t have to out-bake everypony just yet. All you gotta do is make a better carrot cake than…whoever it is who makes this. You’ll have two other rounds to outshine everypony else.”
Cinnamon sticks, Pear Butter is right. Again. I almost hate that.
I take another look at the recipe. It’s so incredibly easy. I could improve upon it, add walnuts or something. “Fine. What do you say about carrot cake for dinner, then?”
“I say, fantastic! Did you know I secretly love carrot cake?”
CARROT CAKE
This was a mistake. A really big one.
I’ve got bags of carrots to deliver and all I can think about is this stupid, massive mistake. I knew it was a bad idea the moment I opened the letter. I didn’t think this through. I didn’t think I’d actually be competing against her. I mean, what were the chances of that? I only entered because, well…I got this stupid notion that she might notice me if I entered.
Not just notice , but notice-notice me. The same way I notice-notice her. I don’t see how anypony couldn’t notice her. I mean, her coat is literally bright blue and her hair looks like strawberry and bubblegum sorbets swirled together. She’s also as sweet as maple-pecan glazed cinnamon buns fresh out of the oven. You could pick her out anywhere in a crowd.
I’m one hundred percent certain she doesn’t notice-notice me.
This is huge mistake. I wasn’t thinking. Actually, I was thinking too much. I was thinking that since she started working at Sweet P’s, she probably smells like vanilla birthday cake. Everything in Sweet P’s smells like vanilla birthday cake. I was dropping off the order of carrots when I overheard her talking about it. Her friend was practically begging her to enter the contest before she finally agreed.
I left after that and straight away went to city hall to sign up. My idiotic plan was to win the contest. Not so hard, right? I know how to bake…mostly.
The important thing is, she would be there and maybe, just maybe, she’d notice me. We’d start talking, because, you know, she would have to congratulate me when I won. Or, if she won (which at this point she one hundred percent will) I would congratulate her. We would start talking about desserts and then I could ask if she’d like to get milkshakes sometime—you know, to continue our very in-depth discussion about desserts. Maybe later I could ask her out to dinner or a picnic or a play or just sitting on the bench in the park.
It’s a perfect plan except for one thing: I only know how to bake carrot cake.
It’s not that hard to imagine. My pa is a carrot farmer, as was his dad before him, and his dad before that. We’ve always been carrot farmers so we eat A LOT of carrots. Carrots aren’t like apples. They’re not as versatile. Who ever heard of a carrot pie or carrot cider?
My ma makes the best carrot cake in all of Ponyville and I’ve been helping her since I was a little foal. I actually enjoyed cooking with Ma more than helping Pa out on the farm. Ma didn’t seem to mind the extra help either, considering I’m the tallest out of my brothers and can easily reach the top shelf so she doesn’t have to bring out the step stool.
Pa doesn’t mind either, considering it gets dinner on the table faster.
Carrot cake is the only dessert I know. I figured whatever recipe I got, I’d just practice it all month and do my best. How hard could it be?
I am so doomed. I was doomed the moment I opened my contest packet. It wasn’t hard to see who I was competing against.
Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl Cake. I know only one pony who makes that cake and she works at Sweet P’s. As a matter of fact, she makes it for Sweet P’s and it’s the most delicious thing anypony has ever tasted. The cake is so airy, I’m surprised it doesn’t float away like a hot air balloon. The frosting is some sort of custard-buttercream blend to balance out that lighter-than-air cake center. And the pears are just dipped in the sweetest salted caramel then lightly sprinkled with rock sugar.
The instructions for it went on for five or so pages.
I didn’t even know custard was made with eggs until I read it.
My carrot cake doesn’t even have frosting.
I’m going to look like a donkey-sided fool standing next to her. I’m going to lose and she’s going to think I’m an idiot. She’ll probably roll her eyes at me. My one chance to get her to notice-notice me and it’ll be used up by how big of a dork I am. There’s no way I can compete against her cake.
Although, I guess I much rather look the idiot than her. For some reason, which I can’t seem to understand, she’s having trouble with my carrot cake. It’s just a plain, old cake. Yet she keeps ordering shredded carrots and Sweet P’s is starting to smell like boiled carrot stew.
The bell to Sweet P’s rings when I push at the door. I make sure to wipe my hooves on the mat outside and looked at my reflection in the window real fast. I wouldn’t want any stray dirt on me when I’m talking to her. I put the bag of shredded carrots on the counter. “Hey…Chiffon Swirl.”
“Oh, hey Sticks.”
My name isn’t Sticks, but it’s what everypony calls me on account of me being so tall.
She looks tired today. Her hair frizzes out of her pigtails. I swallow because my mouth has gone all cotton-like. She’s still the prettiest pony I’ve ever seen. “H-how’s the baking?”
“It’s…okay. Hey,” her eyes light up a bit, “you think you could do me a favor?”
“Anything.” I mean it, too. My heart is beating so fast it almost hurts.
“Take a bite of this and tell me what you think.”
She pushes a plate in front of me with a small piece of carrot cake. Tasting it doesn’t count as helping, right? I take a quick nip and I know immediately whats wrong with it. I guess my face says so too because her ears droop. “I knew it,” she says. “It’s still not right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. If I put raw shredded carrots into the batter, they don’t cook all the way unless I burn the cake, but if I cook them before I put them in, they turn to mush. I’ve tried everything I can think of. Frying, roasting, boiling…” She shakes her head. “Thanks, Sticks. You still want a slice of the Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl?”
“Yeah. Th-thanks.” She’s already on the other side of the room, slicing a nice big piece.
I know what she’s doing wrong, but I can’t tell her. That would be helping and It’s against the rules…
I watch her put my slice in a box. Her ears are still down and her mouth has puckered like she just finished tasting an unsweetened lemon drop.
Hang the rules. “Have you tried…” I swallow again. No, I shouldn’t tell her.
“Hmm? What was that?”
Darn my knees for shaking. She’s so incredibly pretty. “H-have you tried not using shredded carrots?”
“But…I need shredded carrots for the recipe. Anything bigger will just be chunky.”
“Yeah, well, these carrots here,” I nudge the bag, “are shredded with my dad’s shredding machine. He got it all the way from Canterlot. The machine shredded carrots are great for salads and all that, but my mom likes to hoof-shred her own when she bakes. Machine shredded carrots are still too big for carrot cake.”
She just stares at me. I’m suddenly hot under all the bags I still need to deliver. “Here,” I take a bag of regular carrots off my back and place them next to the bag of shredded ones. The tag says Knickknack and I use my mouth to tear it off real quick and push the bag towards her. “Just trust me on this, okay?”
I’m not sure my knees can take much more of her staring. I grab up the box she made for me and I head outside. I don’t stop trotting until I’m well out of sight of Sweet P’s.
This was such a bad idea. I’m so doomed.
CHIFFON SWIRL
What can I say? It was really good advice.
“Well?” I don’t really want to look, but I can’t seem to move my eyes away. Pear Butter and I are sitting at her family’s kitchen table with my latest experiment. The Pear family was nice enough to let me use their kitchen when my dad banned carrot cake from the house. I guess making it three times a day is a bit much.
Pear Butter just swallowed her bite and now her mouth is hanging open. “Chiffon…”
“It’s okay if you don’t like it. I was just trying out something new.” I reach over to take the plate, but she pulls it back before I can grab it.
“Don’t ya dare! This is your best one yet. Didn’t think you could top the last one, but I was so, so wrong. What’d ya do to it?”
“Messed with the topping a bit. I made some buttermilk syrup, but I let it boil an extra five minutes so it’s more like a caramel. Then, I poured it over the cake. Once that was all sticky and cool, I used the powered sugar.”
Pear Butter is already slicing herself another piece. “Can ya do that? I mean, isn’t that against the rules?”
“I don’t think so. I looked at the rules again and tracked down previous years’ winners. We’re allowed to perfect the recipe’s taste and as long as it looks like the original it shouldn’t be a problem. The point is so the judges can’t tell who’s whose.”
“Well, this is the best carrot cake I’ve ever tasted! Pa!” Pear Butter yells over her shoulder at her dad who’s passing in the hall, “you hav’ta try this!”
Grand Pear stuck his head through the kitchen doorway. “What’s that?”
“Only the best carrot cake you’ve ever tasted! Here.” Pear Butter grabs another plate and takes a big piece of cake from the pan. She hands it to her dad who doesn’t waste much time taking a bite.
“Mmmmmm.” He smacks his lips together. “You say this here is carrot cake?”
I can’t stop myself from smiling. “You like it?”
“Never knew carrot cake could taste this good! Is there…walnuts in this?”
“Pecans, actually. And coconut.”
“I like the powdered sugar. Never thought much of cream cheese frosting.”
I sort skipped on my hooves. “Thanks, Mr. Pear.”
Pear Butter took another piece and put it in a small box. “Mind if I save this for later?”
“Take all of it. Dad told me carrots are banned from our house for a year. Mom said if she never looks at another carrot in her entire life, she’ll be perfectly fine.”
Pear Butter laughed. “Well, they’re missing out. Hey, how’d you get over the whole carrot issue? You spent weeks trying to get them just right.”
“Ugh. It was only the simplest solution in all of Equestria. Sticks told me his mom hoof-shreds her carrots for cooking. I guess they cook differently if they’re machine grated.”
“Sticks? Who’s—Oh, you mean Carrot Sticks ?”
“Makes sense, too.” Grand-pear licked the last crumbs from his plate. “Carrot farmers know their way around carrots. Good thinking, Chiffon, on asking him.”
I look down at the table. I didn’t really ask Sticks, he offered it up freely.
“Which one is he, again?” Pear Butter asked. “Never could keep all the brothers straight.”
“The tall one.” I start gathering up all the dirty pots, pans, and plates in order to hide the pink in my cheeks. Sticks is sorta cute and all, but I don’t want anypony to notice me going all ga-ga over a guy. “His coat looks a bit like butter.”
“Oooh. He’s the one that makes the carrot deliveries, right? I thought that was Carrot Top.”
“Yeah, that’s Sticks.” I practically bury my face in the dishes as I dump them in the sink. Every time he delivers to Sweet P’s he orders my Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl Cake. I guess he likes it. A lot. I wonder what else he likes. “You know the Carrot family at all, Mr. Pear?” I pick up a pan and start scrubbing.
“Not well. Their farm’s on the other side of Ponyville. Our only neighbors are the Apples and them lots are all rotten cores, if you ask me.”
I glanced at Pear Butter just in time to see her roll her eyes. “Hey!” She sits up in her chair, “do’ya think Mrs. Carrot’s the one you’re competing against?”
“The thought crossed my mind, but I’m not sure she bakes. I’ve seen a few of her columns in the Ponyville Daily and they’re all about cooking—not baking. I’ve also never seen the Carrots selling cake at the market.”
“Maybe it’s Sticks. What’s his cutie mark look like again?”
I swallow. “I don’t know. It’s always covered with delivery bags. Besides, it can’t be him. He helped me and that’s against the rules.”
Pear Butter shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out in next week. Hey, don’t wash that pan yet, I was gonna lick it clean.”
CARROT CAKE
I awake to the smell of burning eggs.
“Oh no! No no no.” When did I fall asleep? Last thing I remember was sitting down to rest my hooves while the custard finished cooking. It’s so late and the house was so quiet. I don’t even remember closing my eyes.
Black smoke is billowing out of the pan. I use hot pads to yank it off the stove and throw it into the sink. The cold water makes everything hiss like a bag of angry snakes. I really hope it’s not ruined. It’s Ma’s good pan—the one’s she’s had since forever. Maybe if I start scrubbing now she won’t notice by the time she needs it for breakfast.
“Ça pue! Gâteau! What tarnation iz zis?”
Too late. “Sorry, Ma. I’m cleaning it up now.”
Ma’s accent gets as thick as stiff whipped cream when she’s mad. Usually, it’s funny. She tries to use Pa’s country-isms, which never sound quite right, and most times ponies can’t place where she’s from.
“Iz that ma la poêle ?” She’s mixing languages now. I’m in such deep trouble.
“It’ll come off. I promise.”
She doesn’t answer and I start scrubbing harder. I can hear her clomping to the window with a faint mumble of curses flying under her breath—not that she’d ever tell me the exact translation. It isn’t until the breeze from the window she’s opened hits the back of my neck that I realize how hot it’s gotten. Hopefully the cool breeze will also cool her temper.
She gets quiet, so I glance over my shoulder to see what’s she doing. She’s not looking at me (which is probably good) but her eyes are on the mess I left on the table (which isn’t good). Contest papers, Chiffon Swirl’s recipe, and my notes are scattered along the edge. A piping bag with crusty buttercream is slowly dripping its contents onto a chair and dirty bowls are stacked in a tower of caked-on mess. The piece of Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl cake I got this afternoon is dissected on a plate.
“Is zis why we always short on eggs?”
I look back to the bottom of the pan, which is still as black as licorice.
She tisks at me. “Put it back on ze stove.”
“But—”
“Do it.”
I do what she says. She takes a can of tomato soup from the cupboard, opens it, and pours into the still hot pan. “Zis will help it. Let it boil. Now,” She turns to me. I know I’m a good head taller than her, but right now I feel right small. “Mon cher petit Gâteau , kindly explain yourself.”
Normally, I’d tell her that I haven’t been her “dear little Cake” since I was a foal, but I’m not sure that’s what she wants to hear just now. “Custard,” is all I can manage.
“Pardon? ”
“I’m trying to make custard.”
“And?”
“And it keeps coming out as watered, over cooked eggs.”
“Iz this for the contest?” She nods at the table again.
I nod at her.
At least she doesn’t look as mad. A more country twang is starting to come back into her voice. “I see.” She looks over at the pan. “ You are rushing it. The heat is too high so the eggs cook too much.”
“You know how to do custard?” I’ve never seen her bake much else besides cookies and carrot cake. I had to borrow the mixer from Alfalfa Pete.
“Wait ‘ere.”
She leaves. I start gathering up papers as fast as I can and I put the stack of bowls in the sink. When she comes back, she’s carrying a box on her back.
“I should ‘ave given you zis sooner.” She sets it down on the table I just managed to clear and pulls out a book. “Right after your cute-ceañera, I started translating this. Did I ever tell you ma mémé was a pâtissier? ” Her accent is thick again, but she doesn’t look mad.
“Grandmare can bake?”
“Not your grandmare. My grandmare. In Prance, I called her mémé and in Prance she was a magnificent pastry chef.” She opens the book to the front page and points to a black and white photo of a small family in front of a bakery display. Behind them, I can see all sorts of pastries: eclairs, cakes, napoleons, croissants, and a tall -looking thing that looks like a Christmas tree made of cream puffs with a spiderweb of caramel draped like a beauty queen’s sash.
“Woah.”
“‘Er name was Le Bon Eclair and she was one of the top pâtissiers in all of Prance. Ponies would come from miles to taste her croissants and cakes. Her son, ma père,” she points to the young foal in the picture, “did not like all that baking. ‘E was not interested cream puffs and fillings, so he saved up his bits and opened a restaurant next door.” Ma flipped the page and I saw a wider shot of the street. Ma is in the middle, with her grandparents on one side and her mom and dad on the other.
“I ran between the two shops as a little foal. Mémé would teach pastry in the mornings, and Père taught me cooking at night. When Mémé passed, she left me all ‘er recipes.” She ran a hoof along the pages. “I ‘ave translated them all…for you, ma cher petit Gâteau. ”
I’m not sure what to say. I just stare at the book. “All of them? These are all her recipes?”
“Oui. ” She flips through the pages until she finds the one she wants. She taps it. “La crème anglaise. Come. We start now.”
“But I need to do the one they sent me.” I hold up Chiffon’s recipe.
She waves the page away. “Crème anglaise is custard.” She says ‘custard’ like her mouth just filled with dirt. “Compare the recipes. You won’t zee a lick of difference.”
I check. Ma’s right. Chiffon’s and Le Bon Eclair’s recipes match perfectly—except La Bon Eclair used vanilla bean where Chiffon uses cinnamon sticks.
Ma pulls the pot off the stove and is dumping the tomato soup down the sink. From here, I can tell the pan looks all shiny and new again. “So…” she says while she dries it out with a towel, “why did you not say something about ze contest sooner? Do you think I would not notice half the food has gone missing? You boys do not eat nearly that much.”
I’m at the fridge, pulling more out eggs and cream. “I don’t know. Pa’s really busy with he crop this season. Never felt like a good time to say anything.”
“‘E would want to know. ‘E is very proud of you.”
I’m not too sure of that. Pa’s always going on how is whole family came from a long line of carrot farmers and he’s always looking for help with the farm. He’s never really seemed all that interested to me. “Where do we start?”
“Watch closely, Gâteau. I will not have you wasting the eggs. Beat the eggs first, then you must heat the heavy cream. I am thinking you have boiled it and it cooked the eggs before zey are ready…”
It wasn’t long before the smell of burned eggs was replaced with cream and cinnamon. La Bon Eclair’s instructions were very detailed, down to how it should coat the spoon when it’s done. Three batches later, and I think I’ve got it.
For the last batch, Ma sits at the table while I measured and stirred. She picks at the pears and dips them in leftover salted caramel. She keeps holding up the contest papers and Chiffon’s recipe and muttering under her breath.
“Zis recipe,” she says loudly, “it comes from cette petite jument bleu who works at Sweet P’s, non?”
“‘Er cake iz very complicated.”
“I think it tastes good.”
“She has some talent.”
I don’t say anything, but just keep stirring my custard.
“And very short.”
“Ma!”
I glance over and see her staring at me, which makes my face heat up. She can’t possibly know. No one knows.
“She works at Sweet P’s, non ?”
“I guess. I don’t right know.”
“Haut de Carotte said you nearly bowled him over to take over ze deliveries to Sweet P’s.”
“Carrot Top doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Monsieur NickNack complained of a missing order last week. You would not know where it went, would you?”
I didn’t think it was possible for my face to turn orange. I don’t say anything and keep my eyes on the stove. How can she possibly know? It’s not like I keep a diary.
The kitchen gets real silent, all I can hear is Ma lightly tapping the table with her hoof. “Mémé taught many of the finest in Prance. I still exchange letters with some. Perhaps, this summer, you would like to travel? Learn from best, as they say? I could arrange something.”
“What? Really?” Baking lessons. Actual baking lessons. Something more besides plain, old carrot cake. “That would be amazing! Thanks, Ma.”
“It is nothing. I do not know why I had not thought of it before.” Ma gets off the chair and stretches.“I will start writing some letters and let you know. Do not forget to clean up, Gâteau.”
My custard is finally finished, so I pour it in a bowl, wrap it up so no skin forms on the top, and put it in the fridge to cool. Morning light starts seeping into the kitchen window as I dry the last pan. Have I really been up all night?
I grab Le Bon Eclair’s book and head up to my room.
A summer in Prance! How amazing would that be? A whole summer focusing on desserts and pastries. I feel a small twinge when I think what I might be leaving behind. It would only be a few months, though. I’d probably come back more interesting and more noticeable than ever.
I pass my parents’ room and I can hear Ma talking to Pa in quick, hushed tones. Hopefully she’s telling him to let me sleep in this morning.
I should go to sleep now. My eyes feel droopy and they hurt. Instead I sit on my bed and flip through La Bon Eclair’s recipes and pictures. I stop at the one that catches my eye.
Bonbon au Chocolat
I bookmark the page before pulling the covers over my head.
*****
Tempering chocolate is the worst.
Even with La Bon Eclair’s detailed instructions, I’ve managed to mess it up all ten times.
The problem is, I have to be precise. You start off melting the chocolate, then you gotta let it cool until it’s just above solid, then heat it up again—but not too hot! If it warms up too much, then white lines form when you lay it in the molds. La Bon Eclair calls it “la floriason au chocolat. ” Ma’s translation calls it “blooming.”
All I know is it makes the chocolate taste grainy, takes forever to harden, and doesn’t have a nice snap when you bite into it. It’s suppose to get hard after five minutes, anyway. The clock says it’s been ten, so I dump it back into my bowl and try again.
That’s okay. It just gives me more time to practice the design.
I had to go around Alfalfa Pete’s for a double boiler because the first time I just used a plain old pan and it got the chocolate too hot. Burnt chocolate smells awful.
Thankfully the box of La Bon Eclair’s things included chocolate molds or I’d really be stuck. I also found a candy-cane striped bowtie and a matching small baker’s hat. There was also an old candy thermometer, but I’m pretty sure it stopped working decades ago.
I should really get a working thermometer. La Bon Eclair put in the temperature the chocolate is supposed to be at. When she puts in times and temperatures, I’ve learned its best not to ignore those. That’s probably why my chocolate is all wrong.
I’d ask Ma for help, except I don’t want to risk having another conversation about Chiffon Swirl. Whenever she sees me practicing for the contest, I hear her mutter ce petit problème bleu. That little blue problem. I think she’s just upset because I keep using up all the eggs, milk, sugar, and now the chocolate. I try to replace it all as fast as I can.
I wonder if Chiffon Swirl has her own thermometer.
Maybe I should ask.
Or maybe I shouldn’t.
I bet Alfalfa Pete has a thermometer.
I’ll go ask Alfalfa Pete.
CHIFFON SWIRL
I’m ready.
I’m so very ready.
Today’s the day. The contest is today! I’m not going to throw up. I’m going to be calm. I’m going to win this thing.
Gosh, my insides just won’t quit.
Everything is ready. I made two extra carrot cakes (just in case) and an extra Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl Cake (just in case). I. Am. Ready.
My best apron is pressed and on. I decided against my usual pigtails and piled my hair up into a swirly bun. Unfortunately, the chef’s hat wouldn’t fit over all my hair, so that’s still in my room. Instead, I rooted through my mother’s jewelry box and found a pair of pink pearl earrings I’m sure she won’t miss (too much).
I look nice.
I look like I might actually win this thing.
No, I won’t throw up.
Deep breath, Chiffon Swirl.
The cakes are all loaded into the cart. All I need to do is wait for Pear Butter. We’re walking together. She’d promised to help me set up.
I’m going to win. I’m going to win. I’m going to win.
I’m going to keep telling myself that until I believe it.
Everyone is going to love my cake.
I’m going to keep telling myself that too.
Actually, no—I’m going to be sick.
No. Not sick. I’m going to win.
Goodness, where is Pear Butter? She should have been here five minutes ago! This cart’s too heavy for me to pull myself. I have to get going soon or I won’t have time to set everything up. Of all days to be late, why did it have to be today? I can’t be late. Not today. If I’m late, I won’t be able to submit my cakes. If I don’t submit my cakes then all my work this last month means nothing. Pear Butter where in Equestria are you?!
“Hey, Chiffon Swirl!”
I twirl around to a very tall pony. “YOU’RE NOT PEAR BUTTER!”
“Uh…nope.”
Cinnamon sticks! I squeeze my eyes shut. “Hi, Bright Mac. Sorry. I’m just a bit nervous. Today’s the contest and I’m waiting for Pear Butter.”
“I know. I…um…ran into Pear Butter just now and she’s…uh…running a bit late.”
“Oh.” I really am going to be sick this time. Or maybe I’m going to cry. I can’t seem to decide just now.
“You okay? You’re looking a bit…um…green.”
“I’ll be fine. How long do you think Pear Butter’ll be?” I’m not even sure I can do this without Pear Butter. She’s been with me this entire time.
Bright Mac steps around me and into the cart’s harness. “Really late, actually. She said you’d need help with the cart, so here I am!”
“You? You’re going to pull the cart for me?”
“Yeup!”
I blink only once before trotting up next to him. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure. Pear Butter also said to tell you that she’ll meet you there and that you’ll be great, that everyone will love your cakes, and that you’re gonna win. She also said that even though you feel sick, you’re not gonna throw up. You’ll be fine.”
Pear Butter knows me a bit too well, apparently. It actually makes me feel better. “Thanks, Bright Mac.”
Moving a bit has really started to help and I suddenly think I know what Pear Butter was thinking. The cart is really heavy with five cakes in it and Bright Mac’s a whole lot stronger than the both of us combined. He’s also from the Apple family and for some reason—nopony really remembers why—Pear Butter’s dad and Bright Mac’s mom don’t like each other. If either parent saw them together they’d both be in a world of trouble. It’s a shame really. Pear Butter and Bright Mac would probably be really good friends if their families could get along.
I look back at my cakes sitting sweetly in the cart. “Say, Bright Mac, would you like one of these cakes when I’m done? I made too many—nerves I suppose. So once I’m all set up, would you like to take one?”
“Would I?! Yeup! Do you mind if I take one of your carrot cakes? That cake of yours is delicious!”
“You’ve tried my carrot cake?” I almost stop trotting. How would Bright Mac know how my carrot cakes tasted? Once I got the cake part down, I stop testing it out at Sweet P’s and only a few ponies have tried my Coconut-Pecan Caramel Carrot Cake. I’ve been very selective and secretive. “When did you try it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, well…I guess I haven’t…yet . Pear Butter said it was the best cake she’s ever tasted and I can always smell it when you bake at the Pears. Yeah, th-that’s right…it smells delicious.”
Of course! Gosh, these nerves must be making me paranoid on top of everything else. “Yeah, Pear Butter’s eaten more carrot cake these last few weeks than anypony I know. I don’t know where she puts it.”
“Uh…yeup…NO IDEA.” He smiles at me and I start to feel a bit better. It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be fine.
We’re finally close enough to see the contest banners at the center of town. My stomach suddenly starts to tighten again. I’m so nervous. I’m starting to wish Pear Butter was here with me to snap me out of it.
“Chiffon Swirl,” I say to the pony sitting behind the table at the entrance. I try to keep my hooves as still as possible.
“Let me see.” The pony looks down at a clipboard. “Here you are! Your numbers are 3A and 4B. 3A for the…carrot cake and 4B for…”
“Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl Cake.”
“That’s the one. Judges are at the tent at the end, so they won’t see you put your cakes on your assigned number. Put them on the right number but don’t hang around after the bell rings. You’re welcome to stand with the other contestants and watch the tasting.”
“Thanks!”
This won’t be so bad. I can totally do this. I’m sure by the time the bell rings, my stomach will finally have calmed down.
The tables are labeled nicely enough and Bright Mac helps me get my Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl on the table. The carrot cake is something I can handle without the extra help.
I’m the first one here. I guess I didn’t actually need all that extra time to set up.
“Thanks again, Bright Mac.” I wave him off with my cart of extra cakes. “If you see Pear Butter, could you give her the other carrot cake?”
“Yeup. Say, what about this extra Cinnamon Swirl.”
“Oh, um…” I swallow down a blush that’s about the come up. That one goes to Sticks—since he likes it so much. “Just put it somewhere safe, will you?”
“Sure thing!”
I watch him pull the cart away. There’s nothing more for me to do but wait while the rest of the tables start filling up. I see braided breads, pies, tarts, cookies, and eclairs. I also see a lot of cakes. Still no one with a carrot cake or a Cinnamon Swirl.
I check the time. Whoever it is better get here quick or they’re going to miss the bell. As much as I want to win, I don’t really want to win by default.
All the other tables are full when I finally hear another cart pulling up. About time. I turn to have a look and have to do a double take.
It’s Carrot Sticks!
My jaw goes a bit slack. All I can think is “Wow, he cleans up real well.” Not that I had any doubt. It just I’m so used to seeing him with bags of carrots that I almost don’t recognize him.
Almost.
He actually looks a lot more handsome with his mane slicked back. He’s also wearing a really snappy bow tie and a baker’s hat to match. Somehow my insides go from wanting to come out to feeling like pear cobbler fresh out of the oven—all warm and gooey.
He glances at me and I straighten up. ”Hi, Sticks.”
Did my voice really just squeak? Oh, ponies, my stomach is doing backflips now.
“H-hi,” he says. He kinda stares at me and I look away because I’m pretty sure if I don’t, I will melt. Did he notice me staring? Oh Celestia, how embarrassing would that be?
I decide to try and act busy by smoothing the table cloth under my cake. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to wander over to him and—“That’s…my cake!”
Actually, it’s not my cake because I didn’t make it. It’s an exact replica of my Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl…made by Carrot Sticks!
“Y-yeah,” he says.
I have to blink a few times.
I must be the silliest mare in all of Equestria. Goodness, how dumb can I be? How did I not see it sooner? Of course he kept coming into Sweet P’s for my cake. We’re competing against each other! He was getting it all the time to test against his version and not for…other reasons.
Wow, I’m a fool. If Pear Butter was here, I’d tell her and then we’d laugh about it.
Except, this doesn’t feel funny.
I really hope I’m not blushing right now.
I’d say “Good luck,” except his back it towards me and I get a very nice view of his hindquarters. My eyes roam over it like butter melting in a hot pan. By the time he finishes, my eyes have lingered a bit too long. I quickly shift away. “Your cutie mark…it’s cake.”
“Yeah, I…I suppose it is.”
“Isn’t your name Carrot Sticks? How’d you—”
“Cake. It’s actually Carrot Cake.”
“Oh! But I thought—everyone calls you…”
“Sticks is just a nickname my pa called me when I was a little foal. I was tall for my age and he said my legs look like sticks.”
Somehow, I feel things pulling together.
Carrot Cake.
Carrot cake.
Carrot Cake’s carrot cake!
My mouth starts to fall open and I watch as he pulls out his other contest entry: a rectangular cake with powdered sugar on top.
We’re not just competitors. We’re double competitors! That carrot cake recipe is from him.
The bell rings, signaling the judges. Sticks’s eyes go wide and he hastily places his carrot cake on the table next to mine then pushes his cart out of the way.
I need to move. I know I need to move. The judges can’t see me lingering around the table, but I keep looking at Sticks—I mean Carrot Cake . “Did you know?” I say.
“What? Chiffon Swirl, we need to move.” He nods at the forming crowd and I follow him. My face is burning. My ears are laying flat. Once we’re at the edge of ponies, he turns to me and smiles. “Good luck.” He reaches his front hoof out for me to shake.
I don’t lift mine. “Did you know we were competing against each other?”
“…yeah.”
“Was that before or after telling me about the hoof-shredded carrots?”
“Um…” He won’t look me in the eye and that tells me everything I need to know.
“That’s against the rules!”
“I know, but…”
“But what?”
“You were struggling and I…just wanted to help?”
“By breaking the rules? Competitors aren’t supposed to help each other!”
“It’s not like that—It’s just…”
He had better have a good answer. I’m waiting for one, except he’s not looking at me, but rather over my head. His face has gone from a buttery-yellow to almost spoiled cream.
Behind me, I hear a rather pretentious cough. I turn to find a silver unicorn mare standing behind me. Floating in her magic is a clipboard and quill. She’s looking at both of us over her very thin glasses and her mane pulled back in such a tight bun it looks like a very hard, overbaked roll.
“Did I hear correctly?” She’s looking at me. “You received help from a competitor for your entry?”
“I…” I look at Carrot Cake, his face is still more cream than butter. My whole stomach drops and my eyes fall to the ground. “I suppose I did.”
“It’s not her fault!” Carrot Cake steps forward. “It’s mine. She didn’t know we were competing and I offered the information without her knowing.”
The unicorn looks at him over her thin glasses. “Did you now?”
“Yes.”
“You know it’s against the rules, don’t you?”
“I—well…”
“Either you did or you didn’t. Which one is it?”
“Yeah, I did, but you shouldn’t disqualify her. It was something I did without her knowing.”
“I see.” However, she doesn’t look like she sees at all. She sighs and looks over her clipboard. “And why, exactly, did you give…” She looks at me.
“Chiffon Swirl.”
“…Miss Swirl help? Did you think she could not read?”
“What? No, not at all.”
“Then was there something in your recipe that wasn’t clear? Was there some vital ingredient you forgot to include?”
“No.”
“Then you must have thought her not skillful enough, or perhaps she is incompetent?”
“Of course not!”
“Then what reason could you have to knowingly break the rules?”
Whatever color had gone from Sticks’ face is back in full force. He looks at me, then back at the judge. “Well…I just…wanted to…help?”
The judge’s face goes from stony to full fledge statue. She doesn’t look pleased in the least bit. Her clipboard hovers and slowly she flips the pages and her quill moves to make a mark.
“Wait,” Stick yells and the quill stops in midair, “it wasn’t anything complicated, nothing like that. It was more of an off-handed remark. I mean, it’s just carrot cake . Chiffon Swirl would’ve figured it out without my help. This isn’t her fault.”
The judge’s pen doesn’t move. “Carrot cake, did you say?”
“Sticks—” I say.
“Um…yeah. It’s not even a hard recipe, not like Chiffon's, which is just amazing and—”
“Sticks…” I say again. The more he talks, the more the judge deadpans her expression.
“—is really good. I mean, it took forever to get the—
“CARROT CAKE!” He finally looks at me, his eyes all wide.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“Just, stop, will you?”
The judge lets out a long sigh. “Young stallion, even if I wanted to overlook your…unfortunate communication with Miss Swirl, I cannot possibly taste her entry now.”
“What?! Why? Really, it was—”
I kick him at the same time the judge raises her hoof for silence. “I cannot, because now it is no longer a blind taste test. Miss Swirl, I am sorry to say but you are disqualified. You may try again next year. However, I seriously encourage you to read the rules and perhaps not talk your competitors during the competition.”
“But—” Sticks—Carrot Cake—whatever he goes by—steps forward.
“Stop it,” I snap at him. The judge has already moved to the next table, completely skipping over the carrot cakes.
I’m disqualified. It almost doesn’t feel real. All it took was three minutes—faster than cooking an egg.
“It’s not fair,” Sticks is still beside me. “You didn’t do anything wrong!”
I nearly stomp my hoof on the ground. “I know.”
“I’ll talk to her again. Maybe I can—”
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
“I can fix this.”
“Don’t bother.” For the first time today, my stomach has finally stopped. My heart is pounding. Everything above my neck feels hot.
He takes a small step back from me. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Do me a favor. Don’t talk to me. Ever again.”
He tries to say something else to me, but I just can’t. I turn to leave before anypony can see me cry.
Author's Note
Next chapter updates tomorrow! See you then.
CARROT CAKE
“Chiffon Swirl! Wait!”
I should’ve been able to follow her through the crowd, but she somehow slipped through. My eyes darted from one pony to the next, hoping to catch a glimpse of her mane or coat, but all I caught were glares. Apparently everypony had either seen or heard what just went down.
I messed up. Really, really messed up. She’s never going to forgive me. I’m not sure I can forgive myself. I didn’t care one lick for this competition—not in the way she did—and I ruined it for her. If only I could go back to ten minutes ago. I’d bite into a piece of taffy and never let it go.
I need to apologize. If I can get her to listen, that is.
I can still feel the small box of chocolates I put in my apron. It feels useless now. I had such great plans for those chocolates.
I knew this was a bad idea. I should never had done this in the first place.
She’s never going to forgive me.
I have to try though. That look she gave me before she ran…
I try Sweet P’s first, but the door ended up being locked. I peeked through the window and my stomach slipped to my knees. The whole place had been redecorated in blue and pinks. A huge banner saying “Congratulations Chiffon Swirl!” stretched across the entire back wall.
She’s definitely not here. No way she’d stick around even is she was.
There’s no answer at her house, either. I guess I wouldn’t answer the door, knowing it's as me on the other side. Her parents were probably at the competition, anyway. I bet they saw the whole thing and hate me now.
Oh, ponies, this is really bad.
I bet by the end of the day everypony will have heard.
Where else can she be? It probably doesn’t matter. I mean, what do I say if I do find her? “I broke the rules because I can’t seem to go a day without thinking of you?” I’d rather never bake anything ever again than say that to her.
Maybe she never left the competition? She might still be watching the judging. It’s a long shot, but at this point it’s all I got.
I start winding my way back to the center of town when I see Bright Mac carrying a sheet pan of cake—cake with no frosting, only powered sugar on top.
“Hey!” I call out. I know he heard me because he looked right at me. He doesn’t stop, though. “Bright Mac! You’ve seen Chiffon Swirl?” He doesn’t say anything or slow down. He sorta has this grimace on his face. “You…uh…see what happened earlier?”
“Yeup.”
Drat. “I just want to tell her I’m sorry. Have you seen her?”
“Not sure she’s in a talkin’ mood just now.”
“So you know where she’s at?”
He doesn’t say anything, but his grimace deepens.
“Bright Mac, wait, please.” He stops at last and takes a hard look at me. He’s tall, like I am. Except, unlike me, he’s full of muscle. I look like a real pile of sticks next to him.
I swallow. I’ve never seen Bright Mac kick anypony, but right now he looks like he would buck me if he got the chance. “It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. I’ve got to tell her how sorry I am. If you know—”
“What I can’t figure, is why you did it. She worked really hard on that cake.”
“I know. And she has every right to be mad. I really messed up. I was just…” What can I say? The truth? I don’t know him very well. He seems real nice—a real stand up stallion—but we don’t hang out. I’ve got to tell him something. He knows where she is, and I don’t. All I have on me is the truth…and a small box of chocolates.
“Look, have you ever tried to…impress a really pretty mare? You had it all worked out in your head how it would go, but when you did it, it didn’t impress her at all and got her in trouble?” I look down at my hooves in the dirt. “It’s like that.”
Bright Mac doesn’t say anything for a bit, and I’m too chicken to look up from my hooves. At last he says, “Yeah, I reckon I do.”
I look back up. At least he doesn’t look like he wants to buck me anymore. “I want to make it up to her. I will make it up to her. Even if that means bring her flowers every day for ten years, or making her chocolates every week, or signing her up for a thousand baking competitions, or…” I swallow. “…never talking to her again, if that’s what she wants. I’ll do it, I swear I will.” I hope it doesn’t come to that. I hope she’ll talk to me again.
“I get it. Don’t have to convince me. I had no idea you…well, I’m guessing she doesn’t either?”
I shake my head.
“Look,” Bright Mac leans forward, “ya didn’t hear this from me, but I saw her with Pear Butter right after…it all went down. I reckon she’s at the Pear farm.”
Of course! Pear Butter, her best friend. It’s so obvious now. Why didn’t I think of that? “Thanks! I owe you one.”
“Just make it up to her. And I maybe wouldn’t mind havin’ the recipe to your carrot cake?”
“Anything.” I gotta go before I really do chicken out. “I’ll bring it by later. Thanks, Bright Mac.”
Thank Celestia for my long legs. The Pear farm isn’t that far, but it is still a good ways off. I decide to go full gallop.
The sun is a full, yellow disk in the sky so by the time I see the Pear’s farmhouse, sweat is dripping down my face and I’m almost out of breath. I wipe at the sweat, but all it does is makes my leg wet. If only I had some cool water to splash over me.
I knock on the front door and Pear Butter’s father answers. “Hi, sir. I’m looking for Chiffon Swirl. I heard she might be here.”
“Heard from who?”
I don’t dare say Bright Mac. Everypony in Ponyville knows there’s some sort of feud going on between the Pear and Apple families. I want him to let me in, not kick me out. He’s already is looking at me like he might have swallowed some sour candies. I wonder if he knows all about the competition. “I just heard, is all. Is she here?”
“She likes to use our kitchen, but she’s not there at the moment. I thought she was at the competition today.”
“She left early. I heard she might be with Pear Butter. Do you know where I could find your daughter?”
“If she’s not in town, then doing chores, I suspect.”
“Thank you, sir. Could I take a look around? She might know where Chiffon Swirl is and I need to speak to her. It’s really important that I do.”
“Suit yourself.” He then closes the door on me. I’m starting to see why the Apple family doesn’t like him.
I walk around the back and start towards the barn. I don’t make it too far, though, because I see a pile of sorbet swirled mane out of the corner of me eye.
Chiffon Swirl. She’s sitting with Pear Butter on a long, white wooden swing hanging from a tree branch. Her face is buried in her hooves and Pear Butter has her leg around her in a tight hug.
They haven’t seen me yet. All I can do is just stare as my insides squirm together. How am I going to do this? What am I going to say?
As quietly as I can, I trot towards them. Pear Butter sees me first. “Sticks.” She gets off the swing and stands herself in front of Chiffon Swirl, like some sort of bodyguard.
“I just want to apologize. Please.”
“Not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Please, I—”
“It’s okay, Pear Butter,” Chiffon Swirl says. “Give us a minute or two, will you?”
Pear Butter doesn’t stop glaring at me. “Fine,” she says after a moment, “I’ll be over yonder. You holler when you want him gone.” She throws me one more glare before disappearing around the hedge.
I take a minute to look at her. There really doesn’t seem like there’s anything I can say.
“Well?” She says and it’s enough to snap me back.
I take a deep breath and pull out the little wrapped box from my apron pocket. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. The wrapping paper, which had been smooth and shiny this morning, is all crumbled and wrinkled. The bow on top is completely squashed flat and has started to fray. I guess a whole day sitting in my pocket as I ran around Ponyville hasn’t done it any favors. “This doesn’t make up for what happened, but I am really and truly sorry.” I place the box on the swing next to her. She doesn’t move, but just stares at it.
“I hope—“ I continue, but all the words in my head get stuck in my throat. “I mean—I just—” Her eyes flick to look at me and all words leave me. Instead, I can feel heat rising up my entire body.
“Why’d you do it?” she says.
“Um…”
“I can’t seem to wrap my head around it. Why’d you help me knowing it could get me disqualified? I just want to understand.”
“I…” My knees are shaking. I swallow. I have to tell her something. “I didn’t enter the contest because I wanted to win.”
“Don’t be dumb.”
“I’m not. It’s the truth.” It’s all I have left.
“Why would you enter the contest if you didn’t hope to win?”
I’ve got to tell her. There’s no way out of this now. “I signed up because…”
“Because?”
“Because…you signed up.”
She doesn’t understand. She’s looking at me like she’s not sure if she should hit me or start crying again. I have to tell her. I take a big breath.
“I think you’re something really special.” I take another breath. “You’re talented, and nice, and…” Dear Celistia, how can I say this?
“And?” She doesn’t look like she wants to hit me anymore. I have to go on.
“…and you’re beautiful. I thought if I signed up, you might…notice me.”
She says nothing, just stares at me.
This is the moment I’m going to die, I just know it. My insides are already feeling like their falling into one another. My legs are itching to run.
I should run. I should run all the way to Prance and never show my face again. She’s just staring at me. She’s trying to find the right words to put me down, I just know it. I screwed up too much and now there’s no chance she feels the same. I might as well be buried where I stand because this is the place I’m going to die from a broken heart.
“Oh,” she says at last. Then a moment later, a realization comes to her eyes. “OH!”
Well, at least she knows. I gently push the gift towards her. “These are for you. I made them for you. I was going to give them to you after the contest.” A “congratulations” tag can be seen sticking up. She turns her wide eyes to look at it.
She uses her teeth to pull at the bow and pushes the wrapping aside. She takes off the lid and just continues to stare at it. Her brows wrinkle together, like she’s a bit confused. “You…made these?” Her voice is flat. She’s not impressed—at all.
“Yeah,” I moved a bit closer to glance at the hoofmade chocolates made especially for her and I—“Dear Celestia! No!”
I thought I was going to die from embarrassment a minute ago, but now I know I will. I’m nearly choking on the words because they won’t come fast enough. “That’s not supposed—I didn’t make—” I grab the box back from her. I didn’t think her eyes could get any bigger. I can’t tell if she’s about to yell or puke. “Pears!” I yell before she can do anything. “They’re suppose to be pears! Not a pair of—” I squeeze my own eyes shut. Of all things to go wrong. “The heat of the day, plus running around…I drew pears on top of each chocolate because your signature dessert is Candy Pear Cinnamon Swirl. The chocolate must’ve melted. They’re pears! I swear! They’re pears!”
Her eyes are so wide. Her hooves have gone to her mouth. It sounds like she’s choking. I’m dead. I’m never going to—
“HAHAHAHAHA!”
I look at her. She’s not choking. She’s laughing!
“A PAIR OF—” Tears are actually running down her face. I guess it is sort of funny. I mean, you can see how they started out as pears, but got all squished and melted. At least she doesn’t think I’m some sort of jerky stallion sending her pervert chocolates.
Despite it all, I start to laugh right along with her.
At last she finishes. Her front legs are wrapped around her stomach and she’s taking in long breaths.
“I’m sorry,” I start to say, but she holds up a hoof.
“Don’t.” She looks like she’s about to have another fit of laughter, but instead she just giggles then shakes her head. “Can I…try one?”
“S-sure.” I pass the box back to her. She licks one up.
“Is this…caramel in the middle? With oats?”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like. I used your salted caramel recipe, then added the oats.”
“They’re delicious!”
“Thanks.” I’m actually starting to smile and feeling has returned to my legs.
“How did you make them? I didn’t think anypony in Ponyville knew how to make chocolate candies.”
“It’s an old family recipe. You can come over sometime. If you like, that is. I still have the candy molds.” I still have the candy molds? What an idiotic thing to say.
“I’d…really love that.”
My whole body goes warm—in a good way. The best possible way. “I actually have a whole book of old family recipes. A lot of them are really fancy and…maybe this could make up for this morning? Even just a little bit?”
She goes a bit pink in her cheeks. “Sure. I guess so.”
It’s like my heart has finally started beating again. “Are you free tomorrow? Maybe after lunch you could swing by for a…demonstration? If you want to, that is.”
Her cheeks suddenly go darker. “Sounds like a date.”
Maybe she didn’t mean a date-date.
Then again, maybe she did.
My legs are a bit jelly-ish again, but I wouldn’t change that.
“See you tomorrow then. Enjoy the chocolates.”
She starts giggling again. “Sure, see you tomorrow.”
There’s so much to do to get ready for tomorrow. Top of the list is to hide Ma’s collection of embarrassing foal pictures.
“Carrot Cake,” Chiffon Swirl’s voice pulls me back. Is it normal to love the way someone says your real name? Is it normal to hope she does it again soon?
“Yeah?”
“Just so you know…I’ve always noticed you.”
Author's Note
Last chapter goes up tomorrow!
SOUPE à L’OIGNON, CARROT CAKE’S MOM
Zut alors! I should never have opened the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Carrot!” The little blue thing is smiling up at me. I do not like it.
“Gâteau!” I call up the stairs. “Ton petit problème bleu est là!.”
“Thanks Ma!”
I jump. So he is not up the stairs, but in the kitchen. He is not even looking at me, but at her . I will leave him to it then.
“Need anything from the kitchen before we start, Ma?” Gâteau is having that smile I cannot stand.
I place a hoof on the small stack of books on my desk. “Non, mais les cheveux de ta copine sont bizarres.” (No, but your girlfriend’s hair is weird.)
“Thanks.” Gâteau just beams and rushes la problème bleu into the kitchen.
I can hear her down the hallway, “What did your mom say?”
“That your hair looks great!”
Pft. Indeed.
I need to get to work. Articles do not write themselves. I pull out my paper and pens, open cookbooks and reader’s questions. I am three words in when I hear a small tap on the my office doorjamb. “Hello, Sugar Pie.”
“Carotenes, mon amour!”
He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You workin’ tonight?”
“The article is due tomorrow.”
“Care for a muffin?” He holds it out for me. It’s some sort of chocolate chip monstrosity. “She didn’t make them. Gat-tow did before she arrived. I think they’re makin’ croissants filled with cheese t’night.”
“Leave it on the desk. I will get to it later.”
“She’s not all bad, y’know. Can’t figure why ya don’t like her.”
And I cannot understand how Carotene can just accept her. “She will break his heart, you know.”
Carotene smiles and nuzzles my neck. “Your Pa said the same thing about me.”
“Il était un idiot.”
“Another familiar phrase. Heard that one passed around more than once when we eloped. I’m just glad your Pa accepted me when the foals came.”
“There will be no foals! Not from her. ”
“I’m not to sure about that—Whoa, now calm down, Sugar Pie. I didn’t mean they’re making them now!”
I had not realized I had stood up. “They will not last. She will not be here forever.”
Carotene shakes his head at me. “She’s a sweet little mare. And she makes him happy.”
“Pft.”
“I have t’admit, it sure is nice hav’n so many sweets in the house.”
“She is using him.”
“For what? Your grand-mare’s recipes? We both know she don’t need an old cookbook from Prance to be a great patis—what’cha call it?”
“Pâtissier.”
“And I’m seein’ less and less stuff coming out of that kitchen. They spend most night just talkn’.”
“If you thought that would comfort me, you have failed.” I sit down. I am too hard on her, I know this.
“Sugar Cube,” Carotene reaches for me and pulls me in close. He smells like hay, dirt, and peeled carrots, “I know Gat-tow is your favorite—”
“I do not have favorites.”
“—but Chiffon Swirl is here to stay. At least, as a far as I reckon. She’ll be here for a long time, at least. I had a good, long talk with Gat-tow about her. We raised a good stallion. That is something to be proud of.”
“And what of her? Is she a good mare?”
“I can’t find a thing wrong with her.”
“She is too short.”
“If that’s her only failin’, then I think we can handle that.”
“He is suppose to go to Prance, not prance around with a ridiculous little blue mare.”
“Isn’t he, though? I thought that was still on.”
“He has not even started packing.”
“He’s still got time.”
“Three days!”
“Still plenty of time.”
“Pft.”
He nuzzles me again. “Don’t stay up too late, Cinnabon.”
Carotene is correct and there is nothing more annoying than a stallion knowing that he is. I must not let him know.
I set to work. The articles takes twice as long to finish. I keep stopping and staring out the window, watching the sky turn from yellow, to pink, to dark blue, to a night sprinkled with stars.
It is true. She is here to stay. I knew it the moment I saw them together. She stands too close and he enjoys it too much.
I do not like it.
Gâteau was always meant for something more than this farm. He is not like this brothers who love the dirt and the smell of fresh pulled carrots. No, he was never interested in such things. He loves the kitchen and cookbooks. He loves what he can create with flour, sugar, and milk. I should have sent him to Prance years ago. Mémé would have been proud to see someone follow in her hoofsteps.
He was so young, I had told myself. Wait another year. And then another. And then another. Now it is too late. Now, he loves her.
He will never leave Ponyville now. He will never follow after Mémé. Ponyville is a good place, but too quiet, too out of the way for a great patissier. He should go to Prance to learn as I had learned from La Bon E’Clair. Now he will never leave.
By the time I finish, the moon is high, spilling silver light on the tops of the carrots waiting to be harvested. I have worked hard, pushing myself to finish. The house is now still and quiet. I had not noticed the clanking of dishes washing, nor her leaving. My eyes are sore from all the reading.
I stretch, then push the papers into a pile and close my books. A creak on the floorboards alerts me.
So she has not left yet.
The door to my office not closed all the way and I can hear his hushed tones followed closely by her giggle. How awful. I do not wish to hear such things. I move to close the door. To let her know I am still here.
“I won’t have it, Carrot Cake.”
“But—”
“No.”
I pause. So things are not all perfect. I was correct. She will send him to Prance with a broken heart.
“I don’t want to go, Chiffon. I have everything I need here.”
“But it’s Prance! You have to go.”
“But…Chiffon…don’t you—”
“I will be here when you get back.”
Silence now. I move closer to the door.
Gâteau’s voice comes through. “Okay. You’ve convinced me.”
Répugnant!
But,” he continues, “you must visit me. As often as you can.”
“Oh? Well…” Her voice. So sweet. I despise it. “I might need some convincing as well…”
Enough! I step out into the hall. They jump away from each other. Even in this dim light I can see her cheeks are pink. Gâteau looks like a sheep getting caught out of his pen. “Didn’t know you were up, Ma.”
“Just finished now. Bonne nuit, Gâteau. Good night…Miss Swirl.”
“Good night Mrs. Carrot.”
I will pretend to not notice the dishevelment of her hair or the apron strap falling off her shoulder. No mother wishes to think on those things. I will have to speak to Gâteau—mais non , I will have Carotene speak to him. No stallion wishes to have such conversations with his mother.
At least she is not keeping him from Prance. I do not like that she will visit him. She will distract him. Perhaps a nice Prance mare will distract him from her.
If not, then I pray none of my future grandfoals inherit her ridiculous hair!
