//------------------------------// // Chapter 25 // Story: Down With the Pastryarchy // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// It hurts to commit to things. Sumac’s words lingered in her mind. For countless years while she made her long walk forward, all that time spent separated from her friends, taking the long way home after venturing into the past, Sumac’s words echoed in her ears, in whatever form her ears happened to take. She had injured her eye while making a Pinkie Promise and he had said these words to her. She couldn’t be afraid of pain, could she? Pinkie Pie had certainly found her groove. She wiggled while she worked, humming to herself, and she appeared to be a happy pony. Something about her eyes… the way she moved… or maybe it was Pinkie’s happiness that made Twilight feel better. There was certainly something infectious about her smile—that she could smile while under so much pressure was a testament to Pinkie’s character. The cakes, just out of the oven, went into the Sparkheim Cake Cooling Tower Mark IX. Twilight’s ears pricked when the powerful fans kicked on and the machine made a pleasant mechanical hum. A gleaming column of glass and steel, the cake cooling tower was the home version of the commercial grade product made for rapidly cooling cakes that had just come out of the oven. Time was money and time lost while a cake cooled represented a loss of productivity. Appliances were the future, it seemed. The smell was amazing; sweet, sugary treats perfumed the air, along with spicy, exotic scents. Savory smells could also be detected and from her lofty perch, Twilight could see a steaming quiche cooling on the counter. Could a hot pie or quiche also be cooled in a cake cooling tower? In silence, Twilight debated this issue; the cooling tower was specifically for cakes, as suggested by the name, but pies and other baked goods would fit. A rather pudgy stallion pulled out a loaf of braided bread from his oven. In every direction there were vibrant colours that caught the eye; pinks, oranges, yellows, reds of every shade, whites of every grade, vivid blues in various hues, as well as plenty of greens all demanding to be seen. A camera came rolling by, as cameras tended to do, and it came to a halt in front of Pinkie’s cubicle. The tiny railroad tracks that the camera sat upon fascinated Twilight and filled her head with all manner of ideas. Perhaps rails were the future, an improvement upon roads. On the counter, there was a bowl of whipped frosting that Twilight could not determine the colour of. It appeared white, but if she blinked her eyes or tilted her head a certain way, there was a good deal of yellow hiding in plain sight. It was almost as if the frosting was magical, though it could just be a trick of the lights. “Care to share on camera?” the camera operator asked. “We’re documenting the survivors. Many have fallen this day.” “Were they distracted by ponies with cameras?” Pinkie Pie wore her best wry grin and there was a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes while she asked her question. This got a chuckle out of the camera operator. “My name is Pinkie Pie and I like to think of myself as a baker. I’m also a part-time party planner, I teach cooking, so I guess I’m a teacher, and I work full time as the Element of Laughter. Sometimes, I go on adventures with my friends. Recently, I was appointed as the Senior Advisor of Earth Pony Affairs by Princess Celestia. Oh, I also work as a dance instructor whenever the opportunity presents itself.” Twilight did a double-take. Senior Advisor of Earth Pony Affairs? Was this why Pinkie was in Canterlot just before they left? “Sounds like you stay busy,” the camera operator said to Pinkie Pie. The Sparkheim Cake Cooling Tower Mark IX dinged (or perhaps the machine went ping) and Pinkie—excited by the sudden sound—pronked in place. Tail twitching, she sprung into action and with a few deft movements, she pulled her cakes from the cylindrical cake chiller. Six golden yellow cakes, now chilled, were set out upon the counter and Pinkie cast a critical eye upon them, looking for any flaws. “I’m making my Absolutely Bananas wedding cake,” she said while peering at her cakes from every angle. “It’s kinda famous. Most wedding cakes are vanilla… and boooo-ring. A wedding is s’posed to be exciting. In my opinion, a wedding cake is no good unless there is a fight over the last slice. Not a real fight… a scuffle. Weeeell”—she stretched this word almost to its breaking point—“not a real scuffle. Uh, ponies should be motivated to get the last slice and nopony feels that way about a snorefest vanilla wedding cake. Who wants to eat that dry, flavourless brick?” “Absolutely Bananas?” “Yeah. The banana mash keeps the cake super-duper moist. How’s the bride supposed to get moist if the cake is dry? Put something that dry in one end and you suck all the moisture out of the other end. It’s science, ya know.” Pausing, Pinkie turned to look at the camera pony, who was chuckling. “Banana cakes are quite appealing, if you ask me.” Up in her lofty perch, Twilight groaned while Applejack chuckled. “Well, Miss Pie… it is Miss, correct?” He waited for Pinkie to nod before he continued, “What would you do to make the world better, if you could do something? As the newly appointed Senior Advisor of Earth Pony Affairs, it sounds as though you are in a position to do something. What do you believe would make the world better?” “To start,” Pinkie Pie began while flipping her cake pans over, “I’d find a way to get more ponies laughing together, instead of at each other. That’s mean and it bothers me. If we can just find something that we can laugh about together, we’d have some common ground. We might be able to talk about why we found it funny. If we talked about why we found it funny, we might understand one another better. Laughter brings ponies together. It’s a shared experience that we all have in common. Well, except for ponies who never laugh. Uh…” The camera operator’s ears drooped. “That’s uh… surprisingly deep. Almost everypony I’ve asked that today has spewed out some superficial garbage. Thank you, Miss Pie. I’ll let you go back to work. I appreciate your time.” Raising one hoof, Pinkie Pie waved so hard that her curls all bobbed. “Have fun riding your camera-train!” Did cakes have tiers? Twilight wasn’t sure. This cake had tiers, but she couldn’t be certain they were called that. Twilight had a woeful lack of cake terminology. The bottom of the cake used two of the six cakes baked, the largest cakes. Pinkie had frosted them with the mysterious frosting that was somehow white and yellow at the same time. Then, she had stabbed the cake with short wooden rods. How peculiar. Through observation, Twilight had learned that wedding cakes had internal, unseen support structures. Piece by piece, layer by layer, Pinkie Pie built her wedding cake, slipping in support struts as needed when new layers were added. When she was done, she began cementing everything into place with additional frosting, giving the cake a smooth, unblemished, creamy, delicious surface that completely concealed where the layers met, giving the cake a solid, finished look. When that was done, Pinkie Pie armed herself with a piping tube, and squeezing it between her fetlocks, she began to apply banana-yellow frosting to decorate the cake. It was slow, tedious work, the sort of work that made Twilight wonder how Pinkie had the patience to perform. For the first time, Twilight noticed that the mysterious white frosting that was sometimes yellow had more of a matte finish to it, while the banana-yellow frosting that Pinkie was applying was rather glossy looking. How? How was this done? Twilight found herself intrigued. There had to be a good explanation for how this was possible. Pinkie Pie was drawing bananas on the cake; one at a time, on the sides, the broad area that was a perfect canvas. Each banana sat between smooth frameworked lines of piping and had even, measured spacing. How was Pinkie Pie eyeballing everything without a ruler or means to measure distance? To Twilight’s own critical eye, each banana placement was perfect, absolutely perfect. Pinkie Pie operated in mysterious ways. Like circling sharks, but not at all like lurking Snarkle Sharkles, the judges appeared, drawn out of the primordial seas as if by magic because of the allure of a picture-perfect cake placed out on display. In a moment of serendipitous convergence, so too did a fedoraed reporter arrive. As the situation developed, a lump the size of a bank safe settled into Twilight’s throat as her anxiety manifested, returning with compound interest due. This time, Arroz Amandine actually pulled ahead of Gustave le Grande, eager to sample Pinkie’s cake. For Twilight, this made the situation all the more tense; Pinkie had a fan and fans had high expectations. Sometimes, they had downright unrealistic expectations and when these weren’t met, they ceased being fans. A trolley-mounted camera rolled up on the tracks, ready to capture this moment on film. Reaching out, Twilight grabbed Seville and pulled him close. She might have crushed him in her current state, but being a stout earth pony, he withstood the embrace of an anxiety-ridden alicorn—a distinct advantage of his tribe. Applejack’s nose was almost touching the see-through floor of the clear catwalk. “Care to tell us about your cake?” Arroz asked before Gustave le Grande had the chance. “It’s Absolutely Bananas,” Pinkie Pie replied. “I decided to go with something I’m already kinda famous for… something I’m familiar with. Then I pushed it to the next level and did my very best. This is my work… my livelihood. I guess maybe I want to know that my work has meaning.” “Yes”—another mare pushed forward—“that’s all fine and good and we’re eager to assess your work, but we want to know more about the cake.” “Oh.” This seemed to take Pinkie by surprise. “Oh.” She sniffed once, twice, and after the third time, she recovered her composure. “My Absolutely Bananas cake has the sweet flavours of bananas and cognac, with hints of citrus flavours from the cognac. The craziness comes whenever you eat one of the frosting bananas, because I make them from zingy lemon frosting and when ponies eat them, they’re expecting banana. It’s Absolutely Bananas! Ta-da!” “Eez eet white or eez eet yellow?” Gustave le Grande’s head darted from side to side and he squinted with fierce intensity. “Eez eet both?” Pinkie’s every breath caused her body to bob and Twilight redoubled her grip on Seville, who wheezed in response. Applejack had gone still and it was difficult to determine if she was even breathing. Arroz Amandine—whose cutie mark was a chef’s knife—pulled out a knife and went to work. From the topmost tier, she cut a thin triangle of cake just as one of her fellow celebrity chefs captured the moment on film with his camera. The judges went to work and the routine was now almost familiar for Twilight. There seemed to be a debate over who would get the frosting banana. Gustave le Grande pulled rank though and practically gloating, he sampled the frosting banana that wasn’t banana at all, but lemon. Afterwards, some of the cake itself was sampled and the thin slice was picked over until nothing at all remained, not one crumb, not one smear of frosting upon the tiny sample plate. “A wedding cake fit for royalty,” a stallion said and the others nodded in agreement. “Indeed,” said another judge. “Sweet notes of cognac… I think I like it better than bananas and rum.” “Zee cake eez heavy… denze… but eez not dry.” “I think the cake is more rich than dense. The butter and the bananas… the cake is solid without feeling weighty. You could definitely eat a hearty slice and go dancing.” “Or play a rousing game of hide the pickle in the pony pita pocket with a bridesmaid.” The judges snickered amongst themselves. “Every other wedding cake I’ve sampled today has left me wanting a glass of milk,” a rather fat stallion said. “This one leaves me wanting a chaser.” “They’ve been rather dry and bland, haven’t they?” “I’ve grown nauseated at the prospect of tasting vanilla.” “There was that chocolate wedding cake—” “It was drier than Las Pegasus sand! Even the frosting was dry and filmy. Bleh!” “When surrounded by terrible wedding cakes, finding an exceptional one makes it seem far better by comparison.” “Agreed.” Arroz nodded. “Sacrifices are made for presentation and structure. The cake has to be solid enough to support other layers. It has to be firm enough to survive transport. Making a cake durable and beautiful is a tricky task. It’s almost as if they were food sculptures that also just so happened to be edible.” “No zacrifizez have been made here,” said Gustave le Grande. “I do believe it would survive transport. It has excellent external structure with that frosting, whatever it is. I’m guessing the inside is made to match. No ruined wedding with a cake that fell apart mid-trip. It’s as solid as cement without being as dry as cement.” A mare with chubby cheeks gave Gustave a wicked side-eye. “We have tarried long enough.” “Are you in a hurry to eat more dry wedding cakes?” a stallion asked of his impatient celebrity companion. The mare’s chubby cheeks quivered. “Scheiß drauf.” “An oasis in the dessert desert.” Leaning in close, the judges began their earnest deliberation. Twilight’s anxiety had reached a point where she was now causing Seville’s eyes to bulge. Rather than a look of pain, pleasure could be seen upon Seville’s face whilst his princess used him as a stress-squeezy. Others too, were watching, waiting, and some of them were chewing on their hooves. A nearby filly pranced in place as if she had to go potty. “Get on with it!” a cranky old mare shouted. Perhaps sensing what might be an angry mob, Gustave le Grande paused, pulled away from his companions, and glanced around at the ponies above him. He studied their faces, their reactions, and Twilight found that he even stared up at her. After a good look around, he cast his critical gaze upon the cake. “Eet would be eezy to give ziz cake a zilver, by lack of competition, but that I do believe would be a mizcarriage of juztize. Eet eez a difficult determination. Zee fact that zee cake is without peer cannot be ignored.” “One above average cake surrounded by mediocre cakes does not a winner make,” a stallion said while nodding his head. “That makes this determination difficult. But I think we all agree this is not an above average cake. While it is true that this cake is made better by comparison, this is an exceptional cake to begin with. Giving it a silver would be a shame. We should not downgrade it for lack of competition.” Twilight, confused, wasn’t sure what was going on. “What’s happening?” she whispered into Seville’s ear. “A lack of competition,” Seville replied, his words strained from the pressure around his ribs. Blinking, Twilight was still just as baffled as she was before she asked her question. “Should Pinkie win by default?” Applejack cast a sidelong glance at Twilight while the judges continued their debate down below. “That’s what they’re deliberatin’. It’s a matter of merits, Twi. The competition is so bad that Pinkie’s cake stands out a whole bunch by comparison. But how good is it really, when there is nothing else to compare it with?” “Oh!” This was something that Twilight understood. It was the scientific method, but applied to wedding cake. The sample data was terrible and an anomaly emerged which just so happened to be a desired result. How should it be measured then? Twilight understood it as a matter of recognition. They were going to give Pinkie a silver, but the debate was whether or not she deserved a gold chip. Did she get a gold chip because everything else was terrible by comparison or because she had made a truly exceptional product? That was tough to sort out! The anticipation caused Twilight’s mouth to go dry. “Do the right thing!” the old mare shouted. Gustave le Grande looked positively tortured. Drumming his claws upon the counter top, the griffon wrestled with his difficult decision while Pinkie Pie flexed her knees and bounced in place. Arroz began nodding her head, a powerful message of confirmation. After what felt like far too long, the griffon reached into his pocket and drew forth a glittering gold chip. He held out before Pinkie’s nose, and the pink mare went cross-eyed trying to look at it. “I think,” he began, “you found your confidenze with zee first one.” Then, saying nothing else, he set the gold chip down upon the counter. Snapping his claws, he then made a gesture indicating it was time to go, and then he strode away. His fellow celebrity chefs followed, but it was Arroz Amandine who took a moment to bow her head to Pinkie. The pink pronker held herself together remarkably well, and it was only after the celebrity chefs had left her cubicle that she started to cry.