SOUPE à L’OIGNON, CARROT CAKE’S MOM
Some Months Later
Zut alors! I should never have opened the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Carrot!” The little blue thing is smiling up at me. I do not like it.
“Gâteau!” I call up the stairs. “Ton petit problème bleu est là!.”
“Thanks Ma!”
I jump. So he is not up the stairs, but in the kitchen. He is not even looking at me, but at her. I will leave him to it then.
“Need anything from the kitchen before we start, Ma?” Gâteau is having that smile I cannot stand.
I place a hoof on the small stack of books on my desk. “Non, mais les cheveux de ta copine sont bizarres.” (No, but your girlfriend’s hair is weird.)
“Thanks.” Gâteau just beams and rushes la problème bleu into the kitchen.
I can hear her down the hallway, “What did your mom say?”
“That your hair looks great!”
Pft. Indeed.
I need to get to work. Articles do not write themselves. I pull out my paper and pens, open cookbooks and reader’s questions. I am three words in when I hear a small tap on the my office doorjamb. “Hello, Sugar Pie.”
“Carotenes, mon amour!”
He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You workin’ tonight?”
“The article is due tomorrow.”
“Care for a muffin?” He holds it out for me. It’s some sort of chocolate chip monstrosity. “She didn’t make them. Gat-tow did before she arrived. I think they’re makin’ croissants filled with cheese t’night.”
“Leave it on the desk. I will get to it later.”
“She’s not all bad, y’know. Can’t figure why ya don’t like her.”
And I cannot understand how Carotene can just accept her. “She will break his heart, you know.”
Carotene smiles and nuzzles my neck. “Your Pa said the same thing about me.”
“Il était un idiot.”
“Another familiar phrase. Heard that one passed around more than once when we eloped. I’m just glad your Pa accepted me when the foals came.”
“There will be no foals! Not from her.”
“I’m not to sure about that—Whoa, now calm down, Sugar Pie. I didn’t mean they’re making them now!”
I had not realized I had stood up. “They will not last. She will not be here forever.”
Carotene shakes his head at me. “She’s a sweet little mare. And she makes him happy.”
“Pft.”
“I have t’admit, it sure is nice hav’n so many sweets in the house.”
“She is using him.”
“For what? Your grand-mare’s recipes? We both know she don’t need an old cookbook from Prance to be a great patis—what’cha call it?”
“Pâtissier.”
“And I’m seein’ less and less stuff coming out of that kitchen. They spend most night just talkn’.”
“If you thought that would comfort me, you have failed.” I sit down. I am too hard on her, I know this.
“Sugar Cube,” Carotene reaches for me and pulls me in close. He smells like hay, dirt, and peeled carrots, “I know Gat-tow is your favorite—”
“I do not have favorites.”
“—but Chiffon Swirl is here to stay. At least, as a far as I reckon. She’ll be here for a long time, at least. I had a good, long talk with Gat-tow about her. We raised a good stallion. That is something to be proud of.”
“And what of her? Is she a good mare?”
“I can’t find a thing wrong with her.”
“She is too short.”
“If that’s her only failin’, then I think we can handle that.”
“He is suppose to go to Prance, not prance around with a ridiculous little blue mare.”
“Isn’t he, though? I thought that was still on.”
“He has not even started packing.”
“He’s still got time.”
“Three days!”
“Still plenty of time.”
“Pft.”
He nuzzles me again. “Don’t stay up too late, Cinnabon.”
Carotene is correct and there is nothing more annoying than a stallion knowing that he is. I must not let him know.
I set to work. The articles takes twice as long to finish. I keep stopping and staring out the window, watching the sky turn from yellow, to pink, to dark blue, to a night sprinkled with stars.
It is true. She is here to stay. I knew it the moment I saw them together. She stands too close and he enjoys it too much.
I do not like it.
Gâteau was always meant for something more than this farm. He is not like this brothers who love the dirt and the smell of fresh pulled carrots. No, he was never interested in such things. He loves the kitchen and cookbooks. He loves what he can create with flour, sugar, and milk. I should have sent him to Prance years ago. Mémé would have been proud to see someone follow in her hoofsteps.
He was so young, I had told myself. Wait another year. And then another. And then another. Now it is too late. Now, he loves her.
He will never leave Ponyville now. He will never follow after Mémé. Ponyville is a good place, but too quiet, too out of the way for a great patissier. He should go to Prance to learn as I had learned from La Bon E’Clair. Now he will never leave.
By the time I finish, the moon is high, spilling silver light on the tops of the carrots waiting to be harvested. I have worked hard, pushing myself to finish. The house is now still and quiet. I had not noticed the clanking of dishes washing, nor her leaving. My eyes are sore from all the reading.
I stretch, then push the papers into a pile and close my books. A creak on the floorboards alerts me.
So she has not left yet.
The door to my office not closed all the way and I can hear his hushed tones followed closely by her giggle. How awful. I do not wish to hear such things. I move to close the door. To let her know I am still here.
“I won’t have it, Carrot Cake.”
“But—”
“No.”
I pause. So things are not all perfect. I was correct. She will send him to Prance with a broken heart.
“I don’t want to go, Chiffon. I have everything I need here.”
“But it’s Prance! You have to go.”
“But…Chiffon…don’t you—”
“I will be here when you get back.”
Silence now. I move closer to the door.
Gâteau’s voice comes through. “Okay. You’ve convinced me.”
Répugnant!
But,” he continues, “you must visit me. As often as you can.”
“Oh? Well…” Her voice. So sweet. I despise it. “I might need some convincing as well…”
Enough! I step out into the hall. They jump away from each other. Even in this dim light I can see her cheeks are pink. Gâteau looks like a sheep getting caught out of his pen. “Didn’t know you were up, Ma.”
“Just finished now. Bonne nuit, Gâteau. Good night…Miss Swirl.”
“Good night Mrs. Carrot.”
I will pretend to not notice the dishevelment of her hair or the apron strap falling off her shoulder. No mother wishes to think on those things. I will have to speak to Gâteau—mais non, I will have Carotene speak to him. No stallion wishes to have such conversations with his mother.
At least she is not keeping him from Prance. I do not like that she will visit him. She will distract him. Perhaps a nice Prance mare will distract him from her.
If not, then I pray none of my future grandfoals inherit her ridiculous hair!