//------------------------------//
// Chapter 2 
// Story: Sweet Carrots 
// by Epic Yarn 
//------------------------------//

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.