//------------------------------//
// The Caka: 3 
// Story: The Pink Room 
// by Ponyess 
//------------------------------//

I open the door and step into the kitchen.  Of course there is a stove, a fridge and a freezer, this is the kitchen.  I also find the pantry, full of edible foods.  The cereals of choice, conserved foods and a number of items usable for baking.  Flour and sugar could apparently be found.

The floor is laid with smooth, shiny white stone tiles.  The fridge and freezer shiny, stainless steel; just as the kitchen sink and the table top with the space on which to place the dripping wet, dishes once they were done.  The table, chairs and so on are a light pink cherry, beech wood, not the fake variety that is merely made out to look like the real deal.

“Ah, finally!” I exclaim.

“At least, the home in which I found myself as I woke up is by no means abandoned!” I ponder and sigh in relief.

All the ingredients and tools required to baking could be found.  Maybe I could make something, just just pull it out from a plastic bag in the freezer.  Forks, knives, spoons, bowls and measuring cups.

“I will need some flour, sugar and eggs, for starters!” I point out, to myself.

Pun, is pun; yet, I still do recall each and every thing I have baked.  Not just the once at the Sugar-cube Corner. I mix the four, sugar and eggs, preparing for the first batch of muffins.  It’s a breeze, after all the times I have done it in the past.

Is that I who baked the muffins, or is it just the memory of baking them?  I am still the same pony.  I am pink and I still go by the name of Pinkie Pie.

Pulling out the ingredients, is easy.  The items soon finding themselves lined up on the table, ready to be used in my exploratory baking exploit.  Why leaving it in a pile, when it is so much easier to use the ingredients when you line them up.

With everything on the table; I turn on the oven and line up the pink silicon baking forms on the black stainless steel plate, from the oven.  Adjusting the oven; turning up the heat, to what the muffins require to properly bake.  I want my baking and my muffins just right.  No fun with burnt muffins or muffins with a slimy core.

Once I had filled the forms with dough; I let them rest for a few minutes, while I line up the next plate and fill the next set of forms up.  Once I have a second plate finished, I notice that the oven had heated up just right.

“If I had not known better, I would have claimed that the oven is magic!” I exclaim.

Opening the heated oven with bare hooves is a bit of a challenge, but I don’t let this get to me and insert the plate and hastily close the oven once more.

“This is going to be delicious, once they have been baked!” I ponder, as I look through the window with a longing gaze.

I split the dough up into different bowls and add spices and seasonings into the new sets; before I start filing up more forms onto new plates.  Biding my time, waiting for the pastries to bake into the delicious goods I had been known for in Ponyville.  Of course, I am not in Ponyville now; had I technically ever been there?  What if Pinkamena Diane Pie is still in Ponyville?  What if she is not there?  I do not want to dwell on this question.  I turn my gaze back towards the nearly done muffins in the oven before me.  Waiting.

Watching, waiting.

I pull out eh first batch, quickly replacing it with the next.  Since I had finished with the dough, I have little else to focus on.  I wait for the first batch to cool off, just enough for me to have a test and bites into it.  Soft and juicy, crunchy and delicious.  I slowly chew the pastry, thoughtfully contemplating my accomplishment as I wait for the next batch.  Nothing else to do.

“Maybe, just maybe I could bake a cake?” I ponder.

I wash of everything I used in my effort to  bake these muffins; waiting for the tools to dry off, so I can put them back into place, where I had found them.

Since it takes the oven fifteen minutes for each batch of muffins to bake; I work on mixing the ingredients for the cake and even whip up the cream, while I wait.  Including the sugar in the cream, while I whip it up to that fluffy delight I had been known for.

Only once the last batch of muffins had been baked, did I bake the cake itself.  Slicing it up and spread the cream between each slice.  Chocolate cream, on top of each layer of cake, and jelly over the cream; before I could put the next layer in place.

A thought strikes me, so I write; “Welcome home!”, on the top of the cake with green and red.

Of course, I had already known this was not my home.  Yet, since I woke up in the bed, I had assumed I live here.