After I had washed my hooves and face and plastered up my bigger cuts and scratches, I scanned the kitchen for the recipe books. Eventually I spotted them, on a high shelf, and instinctively tried to use my magic to bring them over to me. Since I had no magic, it didn't work.
I sighed, walking over to the books, rearing up on my hind legs and stretching my front hoof towards them. Though I could reach them, my hoof just scuffed uselessly over the spines.
I was about to give up and ask one of the Cakes to get the book for me when I remembered how Pinkie could somehow grip spoons and whisks with her hooves. I was determined to get hold of the book, whatever it took.
I reached for the book again and tried to prise it off the shelf. It tilted forwards a bit, but then the back corner of the book hit the shelf and it refused to move any further. When I let go of the book it fell back into its original position.
Frowning, I prised it out again before clamping both of my hooves around the book and pulling. My hooves slipped off it and it fell back again. I frowned again.
About ten minutes later, I finally got the book out and using my hooves, flipped to the page on a vanilla Victoria Sponge, which I somehow knew was what I had eaten. I scrolled through the ingredients and trotted over to the fridge, returning with a block of butter and a box of eggs in my mouth. After I had collected flour, sugar, milk and vanilla, I got out a mixing bowl and spoon. I set the oven to the temperature the book stated.
My eyes fell on the first line of the instructions. Cream the butter and sugar in a bowl.
Cream them?
Maybe that means add cream to them, I thought. But there's no cream in the ingredients. But then, who am I to argue with a book?
I went to the fridge and found single, double and whipped cream. Unsure, I decided to use them all.
I put the butter and weighed-out sugar in the bowl and then poured some single cream on them. Then a splash of double cream, and after a bit of struggling with the aerosol, a spray of whipped cream.
The next line read Add the eggs and whisk until light and fluffy.
I frowned. I'd never tasted eggshell in one of Pinkie's cakes, but I decided to follow the instructions exactly and gently put three eggs in the bowl. Then I searched for an electric whisk. I found it, gripped it between my hooves, and switched it to full power.
Only a few seconds later I was standing, speechless, covered from head to hoof in egg and cream. The whisk was still smoking, a large block of butter jamming the whisks.
I quickly cleared up and started again, though I couldn't get the butter out of the whisk. This time I didn't add cream, instead I just mixed the butter and sugar, and broke the eggs first. Soon I had a smooth-looking mix. I returned to the book.
Add a few drops of vanilla and pour in the milk. Beat well with a wooden spoon.
That was easy. Or so I thought.
I struggled with the tiny bottle of vanilla extract, trying to add just a few drops. But my concentration slipped for a second and I poured the whole bottle into the bowl.
There was nothing I could do, and I couldn't start again since I had no vanilla left. So I added the milk, staying entirely focused this time.
Only when I finally pushed the cake mix into the oven in two tins did I take a breather. I had eventually managed to stir the mix, holding the spoon with my hooves (don't ask, even I don't know how I did it). Now, my mane white with flour and the remains of my failed first attempt still splattered over me, I turned to the book again to get started on the cupcakes.
I was still juggling with the cupcakes when the oven timer beeped. I pulled out my cakes proudly; a bit lopsided, but pretty good for my first try. I put the two separate cakes out to cool; I'd sandwich them later. Now I pushed a tray of cupcakes into the oven and with trepidation began to work on the eclairs.
The choux pastry recipe was ridiculously complicated; I was kneading my very sticky dough when the cupcake timer beeped. I turned to the oven, but my dough stuck to my hooves. I shook my hooves, trying to get the dough to fall off them, but it didn't work. I shook my hooves harder, tried to pull it off, stretched it, and finally the dough flew off my hooves to stick fast to the ceiling. But I had no time to worry about that; my cupcakes were burning.
I pulled the tray from the oven in a hurry. The cupcakes were dark brown, with a little bit of black creeping in. I put them on the side, then hurried to sandwich my cake.
I spread jam on one cake and plenty of buttercream on the other and carefully put them together before sprinkling the top with icing sugar. I felt very proud, and was carrying my cake out to the front when the eclair dough fell from the ceiling to land on my head. I cursed and, very slowly, reached up to pull it off, my finished cake balanced precariously on my back. The dough was stuck firmly. I frowned, then jumped a foot in the air as there was a small explosion behind me. I had forgotten to turn off the electric whisk, and it had been smoking away until it finally overheated and exploded.
When I jumped, my cake went flying, to land with cartoon perfection directly on Mr Cake's head as he entered the kitchen.
After he'd cleaned the cake off his face and taken a quick look at his messy kitchen, Mr Cake gently suggested that I take a few days off until I was thinking straight again.
As I left, I couldn't resist a quick bite of my cake, which was lying on the side in a bit of a state. I almost spat it out; the taste of vanilla was overpowering, and I was sure I'd be able to taste it for several days.
It was then I realised that neither Mr or Mrs Cake had looked at me strangely. Looking down, I saw that my changeling-like coat was back to its normal solid state. I smiled, starting to bounce as I headed for the library.