Grand Pear licked his lips. They were always dry nowadays. Along with his throat. He took a wet swallow, trying to moisten his esophagus. Winter wasn’t his favorite time of year. The air was too dry. The weather was too cold. The sky was too dark. The worst part was that the trees wouldn’t grow.
In a lot of ways, Winter was wasted time. He’d had too much wasted time in his life already. Time where he could be doing something else. At least with Winter there were ways to work around the wasted time.
He glared awkwardly at the wooden floorboards. When he was younger, he would never have imagined himself sitting in a rocking chair and warming up his bones early in Hearth’s Warming morning in this particular ancient wooden chair in this particular hoof built manor filled with this particular scent of apples.
His eyes drifted across the floorboards. They were expertly made from apple-wood. The walls as well. Even the ceiling. Not a single joist was made out of pear-wood, and there were half as many as Grand Pear would have used. It was obviously his hoof-work. The sight made Grand Pear uncomfortable. But then again, he wasn’t here for comfort.
If he had wanted to stay comfortable, he’d have stayed in Vanhoover. The house there had been built right. It was built out of pear-wood, and every floor and ceiling was double reinforced the way it should be. It was far sturdier than anything these Apples had built.
Groaning, he bit his tongue. No, he couldn’t think like that. Mac’s work was more than sturdy enough to last the years, clearly. Besides, Grand Pear was a guest.
An invited guest.
Applejack had asked him to come by this Hearth’s Warming. Big Macintosh had also nodded in agreement. Little Applebloom had made those big puppy dog eyes at him. Even Granny Smith had allowed it.
He could be alone and comfortable in Vanhoover. Or he could be here, uncomfortable but with them.
His family.
Grand Pear let his eyes drift to a picture on the wall. He hated when they lingered there, but he couldn’t control them any more than he could control his thoughts. There she was. His daughter. And yeah, she was standing next to Mac, but it was still her. Back when she was young. Back when she looked happy. Back after he’d gone. If only he’d…
Blinking back tears, he was glad the air was dry. The moisture in his eyes would dry faster.
He couldn’t change time. Nothing could. She was gone, through no fault of her own. But she hadn’t entirely left.
The pictures on the wall continued, and he let his eyes drift to the images of the Apple siblings. Big Macintosh, Applejack, and Applebloom each stood proud and happy in their pictures. No parents to be seen. But in their eyes he could see her.
She stood in their posture. Her eyes were theirs. She wasn’t alone. Bright Mac was still there, still with her, alive in their children. Even still, Grand Pear would give anything to bring them back. Both of them. And if he could, he’d drop to his knees and beg them. He’d beg and cry until his dry, cracked throat bled. And then he’d keep on begging.
But he couldn’t. Because they were gone.
He rolled out of the old wooden rocking chair, stamping his hooves and startling the sleeping Granny Smith.
“Huh? What? Where am I? Are we under attack?” She blinked, looking around the fire-lit room in alarm.
He shook his head, “Don’t you worry none, Granny. I just need to shake these old hooves out. It’s still dark out, and it’s Hearth’s Warming Day. We fell asleep last night, and I’ve been sitting so long that I was afraid I’d put down roots.”
She narrowed her eyes, almost angrily, “Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
He snorted on reflex, almost angrily. “No, we wouldn’t.” Then he sighed, “Then again, you Apples sure know how to manage your trees. If I had to live in an orchard that wasn’t mine, this is the one I’d pick.”
She blinked, seemingly confused, “Shoot, our orchard’s the best and you know it. That’s wh… wait. It’s still dark? I still got a few hours left in me. You and your hooves be on your way, Pear. I got a war to win!”
Then she immediately closed her eyes and went back to snoring.
Grand shook his head. She was odd, a grouch, and maybe a too little too proud, but her heart was kind. Pride was certainly nothing he could hold against her. They were both weathered by age. Just a decrepit pair of old, worn, weathered, wooden ponies. She was strange and gnarled, but she was a nice solid beam. The foundation of a house. Strong through any weather, any storm or earthquake.
He was an old rotten plank. His heart had died long ago, leaving him empty and hollow. His termite eaten core had long ago crumbled under the pressure. Of course, it was his own fault. He’d put too much stock in himself. He’d built his house with too much rigidity. The moment any pressure had been applied, it had collapsed.
Grand Pear made his way from the sitting room, leaving the crackling fire and the snoring Apple matriarch comfortably alone together. She deserved her peace. She’d earned it.
He shouldn’t have came back. He shouldn’t have said yes. He didn’t deserve to. But when Applejack had looked at him and honestly invited him over as family, he couldn’t help it. Applejack’s eyes hadn’t been her own. There she was again. He remembered his heart; if only for a moment.
A moment was all it took to say “Yes.”
Wandering the house, he found himself in the kitchen, surprised to see anypony else awake. Applejack was there, fiddling with a pot of boiling water and a few jars of preserve.
Was she making some kind of breakfast? It was a might bit too early, but she was a proper farm pony. If anything, it was a surprise the other two Apples weren’t up yet. As quietly as his old knees would allow, he snuck up to watch her.
She was focused. Her eyes didn’t waver as she stared at the pot. Next to her were bottles, a few measuring cups, and some spices. Was she making jam? You didn’t make jam in the winter, you needed the fruit fresh. Why did she have so much sugar?
His eyes lingered as she lifted her head down and took a deep breath of the brew. She frowned and mumbled to herself, “Na…”
She took another jar of preserve and cracked it open, scooping some apples out and into the boiling pot. Frowning, she stared at the spices, then picked some nutmeg and ginger. Odd choices for a jam, but then again everything in this house was odd.
Actually, he vaguely remembered a recipe like this. His heart dropped as he realized that she wasn’t making jam.
She frowned again, smelling the pot and muttering to herself. “That ain’t it either…”
He chimed in—he couldn’t help himself. “Did ya add the pepper?”
Applejack jumped backwards, then whipped her head around to look at him. “Agh! What in tarnati… Grand Pear?”
He nodded, ignoring her surprise. “Did ya add the pepper?”
She glared at him, covering her heart with her hoof. “You scared the ghost right out of me. There ain’t no pepper in what I’m making, Grand Pear. I know when to add pepper. Why don’t you mosey on back to bed? Sides, you don’t even know what I’m making…”
He shivered uncomfortably. In the dim light, Applejack looked so much like her. He couldn’t do this. Grand Pear decided to leave well enough alone. This wasn’t his house. This wasn’t his home. She didn’t want him here. He was a guest. “I see…”
Grand Pear took a breath, calming himself. The deep scent of the brew tingled his nose, and a memory of bright twinkling eyes flickered in his mind. No, he was right. His damned pride wouldn’t even let him peacefully leave the ghost of his daughter to her own kitchen. “I’m old, but my nose still works. You’re making Hearth’s Warming Butter. Or you’re trying to at least.”
Applejack looked at him suspiciously. “How’d you know?”
He nodded at the pot. “The preserves. Too much sugar in it already. I can tell by the way it sticks to your scoop. Then you’re adding even more. And you aren’t worried about the pulp overcooking and turning to nothing. But you ain’t a novice cook either. So that means you want it to do that. Means you’re making butter. With the ginger, and the time of year, well, it’s Hearth’s Warming Butter. Pea… Buttercup’s Recipe.”
She sighed. “Yeah. I thought I’d give it a try. Haven’t had it in… a long time.”
He swallowed the pain in his dry throat. “She never taught ya?”
Applejack looked down. “I was too young. Melting preserves in the sugar slurry is too dangerous for a filly. That sugar is much hotter than water gets.”
He swallowed again, his dry throat scraping itself. “And, uh, Mac?”
Applejack shook her head. “He never was too interested in cooking.”
Grand Pear looked at the pot, then at the mare standing next to it. He closed his eyes, letting the smell fill his sense. “I… might have watched her once or twice. With pears, of course, but the rest of the recipe is the same. Maybe you’ll need a bit more sugar. I’m sure she… perfected the recipe. Pears are sweeter than Apples.”
Applejack shuffled awkwardly. “I think I got enough sugar.”
“You’re…” half a Pear. “Probably right then. But, you’re gonna need pepper.”
Applejack frowned. “I really don’t think there’s pepper in it, Grand Pear. Even if I hadn’t seen the pepper when I ate it, I’d have tasted it.”
He sighed. Young ponies always jumped to conclusions. He hadn’t been much different. He still wasn’t. “Not black pepper—white pepper. You couldn’t miss black pepper if was there—but white pepper blends in. It’s what gives it the warmth. Not too much, you don’t want it spicy, but there needs to be enough to feel it. Not taste it.”
She blinked. “Huh. That’s… clever.”
He smiled, feeling something strange as he took a step toward Applejack. “Yeah, she was very clever. You got the pepper-mint, right?”
Applejack nodded. “Yup. Can’t forget that. Still don’t taste right, either. She must have been using something a little different. I think she might have had a private garden.”
Grand Pear’s smile deepened, and he licked his lips. “Nope. She used regular peppermint. She always liked to buy it in town. Suppose it gave her a chance to visit some of the market stalls.” He’d always known that, maybe he had just preferred not to think about it. “Did you toast it first?”
She opened her eyes in surprise, “What now?”
He laughed. “Ah, that’ll get ya! The peppermint has to be toasted. Brings out the flavor and makes it warmer.”
Applejack looked at him, then smiled wide. “Huh. You know, that’s strange enough that I’d have never tried it.”
Grand Pear watched as she took out a pan, and put the peppermint leaves on it, warming them up. Her eyes focused intently on the pan, and her hoof held the handle oddly daintily for a farm pony. She looked just like her mother. Like his daughter.
It hurt, but it also made him feel strange. He didn’t want to leave. She would have been proud. Was that what he was feeling?
Awkwardly trying to make conversation, he asked, “Who you making the jam for?”
Applejack looked back at him, then bit her lip as she looked back to the pot. She gently swirled it, moving the leaves across the surface. Pear Butter used to do that when she was nervous.
Applejack’s voice was quiet, “I’m not good at lying, so I ain’t gonna. I’m making it for you.”
Grand Pear covered his face. The air wasn’t dry enough to help, so the back of his hoof would have to do. He wouldn’t call himself comfortable. Then again, he wasn’t here for comfort.
He was here for family.
Author's Note
Merry Jinglemas!
