A Few Highs and Lows...

by Some Leech


A Gastronomic Coup

Anon groaned, rolling to his side and away from the glaring rays of sunlight creeping through his window. Pulling a pillow up and over his head, he froze. Something wasn’t right; the sun shouldn’t be up before he…

“Oh no,” he grumbled, fumbling for his alarm clock. 

Reaching for his night stand, after throwing the blankets back, something sharp and cold pressed into his palm - several somethings, in fact. As he pushed himself up and looked to the side, wondering what in the hell had jabbed him, he blinked in disbelief. Where his clock had sat, only glass shards, bent metal, and cogs lay scattered. What in the ever-living hell had happened to his beloved and faithful timekeeping contraption, he couldn’t say, but it had been ticked its last tock.

“Nord,” he hollered, suspecting his boorish roommate had something to do with the unwanted destruction, “did you break my -”

He fell silent, as a curious aroma tickled his nostrils. Inhaling through his nose, utterly perplexed, he tried to place the scent. It didn’t smell bad - hell, it actually smelled pretty damn fantastic, which only deepened the enigma. Drawn by the siren’s call of something tasty, he flung his legs over the side of his bed and got to his feet.

Stepping into his slippers, he shuffled into the hallway and out of his room. Every step he took left him increasingly confounded. Somebody was definitely cooking, though he couldn’t rightly say what they were making. Sniffing the air, led by the odd fragrance, he peeked into the kitchen; lo and behold, a king’s banquet awaited him.

Though most of the dishes were unfamiliar, every ounce of food looked absolutely delicious. His table was absolutely heaped with vittles, but that wasn’t the only thing of interest in the room. Lingering by the stove, bedecked in an undersized apron, Nord prodded something within a big iron pot.

Larger than life, far bigger than any pony he’d ever seen before, the mare stirred the heated pot. Covered in a creamy coat, with fiery mane and tail, she was nearly the size of an actual horse from his homeland. A great many mysteries revolved around her, though she’d inexplicably become his housemate for the foreseeable future.

To make a relatively short and confusing story even shorter, he’d been volunteered to be her tender. While she was massive and spoke in a nearly indecipherable manner, she really wasn’t that bad of a housemate - well, that is, when she wasn’t stealing his bed or accidentally breaking shit. As things were, with Twilight having asked him to keep an eye on her, he really didn’t have a choice in the matter. 

“Ah, ah wis aboot tae wake ye up! Breakfast is a'maist duin,” she announced, smiling over her shoulder at him.

Licking his lips, Anon turned his attention to the arrayed feast. Scanning the different dishes, his eyes locked onto something that was clearly out of place. Atop a small wooden slab rested what almost looked like some sort of smoked fish, but that couldn’t be right. Ponies weren’t carnivorous or even omnivorous, so he was almost assuredly mistaken - right? Stepping closer and leaning in, he gave the suspect platter sniff.

“I...is this fish?” he asked, lifting his head and peering over at the titanic chef.

“Aye,” she smugly hummed. Wheeling around, pointing a wooden spoon at the various courses, she named them off one by one. “Arbroath smokie, butteries, tattie scones, white pudding, porridge, 'n' th' best pairt is juist gettin’ dane.”

As usual, Anon couldn’t tell what in the hell she was saying, but his hunger eclipsed his confusion. He could always attempt to puzzle out why she’d cooked a meat dish later - for the time being, his chief concern was the rumbling in his stomach. Pulling out a chair and taking a seat at the table, he tried to figure out what he was going to try first.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast for us,” he murmured, spying her fish something from her cauldron. “By the way, how did you afford all this?”

“Ah tore doon a hoose,” she proudly exclaimed, sauntering over with a large platter balanced on one forehoof.

“Well it was…” he trailed off, as she deposited a steaming, ball-like thing onto his plate. Whatever it was, it smelled almost as strange as it looked. Lifting his fork, giving it an experimental poke, he wrinkled his nose. “And this is…?”

“Haggis!” she bleated, hopping into the empty seat opposite him. Foregoing any silverware whatsoever, once she’d plated a portion for herself, she bit into her serving and loudly chewed away.

Of all the things she’d named, the last was the one he recognized, though he wished he hadn’t. He didn’t know the specifics of how haggis was made, but he knew it contained various innards and, if he wasn’t mistaken, some sort of grain. It was a less than appetizing prospect, causing him to knit his brow, which apparently didn’t escape his guest.

“Ah’ll hae ye ken, ah won th' local haggis contest fur five years straecht,” she sputtered, sending flecks of chewn food over the table. Nodding at his plate, she glowered. “Huv a go it, ah ken ye'll lik' it.”

Swallowing hard, not wanting to offend her, Anon sawed a small morsel from the dubious cuisine. If he didn’t try it, he ran the risk of pissing her off or worse - having her festoon the rest of their meal with bits of masticated haggis. Steeling himself, he lifted the bite and slipped it past his lips.

“Bonny guid, innit?” she inquired, watching him mechanically chew his forkful.

Anon forced a smile, powering through the mouthful and forcing it down. Whatever the hell the stuff was made of, it was palatable - if only just. Rich and with a very minerally taste, it was dotted with bits of oats. Truth be told, he was much more interested in the other dishes available, but those would have to wait - for the time being, he had to put an appreciable dent in his serving before moving on.

Doggedly working his way through his potion, forkful by forkful, an unforeseen issue reared its ugly head. Not only was he getting full, but he was quickly losing his appetite. The haggis was remarkably filling, leaving him to wonder how she expected him to enjoy any of the other cuisine she’d prepared. It wasn’t until he raised his head, averting his eyes from the sinister entrée, did he realize why she’d made so much food.

Nearly half of the spread had disappeared in what felt like a heartbeat. Glancing at the platters, his eyes wandered over to his guest. Nord, like some quadrupedal trash compactor, sat and gobbled from a pile of mixed courses on her plate. Quite literally burying her face in her breakfast, the hedonistic sight gave him a moment for pause.

It was an odd spectacle, though it did explain a few things. If the mare ate that prolifically on a regular basis, it was no wonder she was such a colossal size. The development was an interesting one, especially because she clearly had no reservations about eating meat, and he made a mental note to ask her about it later. Lowering his gaze, fixating on his partially consumed meal, he sighed.

By the time everything was said and done, he was absolutely stuffed. He hadn’t even been able to finish his portion, before he felt like he was weighed down by the dense substance. Fortunately or unfortunately, leftovers wouldn’t be much of an issue. As seemingly impossible as it may have been, Nord was able to polish off damn near all of the food she’d made. There were a few scraps left, but he didn’t feel like he’d be very hungry for the remainder of the day.

The mare loudly belched, proudly patting her full belly and hopping from her chair. Sauntering over to the stove, she retrieved the pot from which she’d fished the haggis. Awestruck that she was going back for more, his assumption quickly turned to dread. As she trotted over, plopping a second haggis onto his plate, he grimaced.

“Sloch up, ye need some bridie oan yer bones,” she chuckled, playfully elbowing his side.