Written by: Tomification
Rated Everyone
The mare was old. Everypony knew it; they all got a fine chance to see Granny Smith in all of her archaic glory when she took ten minutes to cross the road. She had liked to think this hadn’t slowed her down…at first. When the eldest Apple began to feel the odd ache and pain she convinced herself it was due to, perhaps, working too hard. Maybe she had bucked too many trees or spent too long under the sun. However, time caught up, as it always does. Besides, it was hard to deny one’s feebleness when you were sitting on a sputtering mechanical stair-lift.
One green hoof tapped an impatient rhythm while the blasted contraption descended the staircase at about minus ten mph. The only thing stopping Granny Smith from throwing caution to the wind and swan diving off her perch was that it would certainly wake up her family. She often found herself up long past everypony else had retired as of late. When you spend the entire day napping in the front room it does make it slightly difficult to wind down at night. It had started small, but now the aged mare was downright nocturnal.
The stair lift had half-reached its destination; there was nothing to signify that though. A click would have been nice, or perhaps a little automated voice that said, “You’re halfway there, Partner!”
But no, Granny Smith knew only because she rode this machine every day, having grown quite accustomed to the amount of time the journey took. The stair lift carried on as normal, whirring steadily and emitting sporadic groans. It was an old device; in fact the Apple family could almost certainly afford one of those new-fangled models. However, there was something that tied her to the device.
Many ponies would assume it was camaraderie. These were two beings, both noticeably ageing and both being overtaken by society’s progression. This though was simply not the case. The thing tying them together was the fact that Granny Smith pitied the device. It simply drifted, aimlessly and consistently. This stair-lift was on a journey with no goal. It just travelled. It travelled and spluttered and occasionally needed fixing. Granny Smith had no such trouble though, the lime earth pony knew exactly where she was heading. She was heading to the kitchen.
Eventually, the apple farmer reached the end of her travels. Five metres of travels to be exact, and they had been covered in 10 minutes. Even Granny Smith thought that was abysmal. Her partner stopped and took a well-deserved rest. A normal stair-lift would have probably died down with an elegant beep or perhaps a whistle of air. This stair-lift was not normal; it choked and sputtered. To be quite frank, the contraption sounded like it was in pain.
After 20 seconds of enduring the disturbing death-rattle, Granny Smith could relax. The Apple-house was silent, and, by what was surely a small miracle, nopony had been woken up. To be fair to her steed, nopony ever had yet. She went through the same tense 20 seconds every night, and the end result was always the same. Silence, save for the odd creak or snore from upstairs -- it was always silence.
This was good though. Granny Smith didn’t want to wake any of her family up. It was not for them to be concerned with the rituals of an old mare. Ever since she had not been able to work the fields anymore, Granny Smith had been gently making herself scarcer and scarcer. A burden was the last thing she wanted to be.
On four already aching hooves, the farm-pony trotted steadily into the kitchen. The only source of light was Luna’s Moon. It shone through the windows, creating silver-lined shadows on the creaky wooden floor. Granny Smith needed better visibility though, so she fumbled in a drawer until she found a match-box. With a considerable amount of effort, she was able to strike one match against the dull red strip on the box.
With a pleasing simmer the match lit, creating a flickering glow in the room. Shadows ceased to be stationary and began dancing with the fire. They cascaded and gyrated in bizarre ways. By the time Granny Smith had finished lighting several lamps she was glad to blow the match out.
The kitchen was ready, her proverbial stage was set and she could now commence with her task. Every night, without fail, Granny Smith made cider. Not a whole barrel, not even half a barrel, just one glass of cider. One apple, a couple of drops of alcohol, a dash of tonic water, and some spice. Nothing more, and nothing less.
There was only one aim. No matter how she did it, no matter how much she made and no matter how long it took, Granny Smith was striving for perfection. She had been trying for years and tonight was no exception. Her previous try had not been without fault, and so Granny Smith had resolved to try again. Just as she always did.
The earth pony began to rummage through various cabinets, locating each piece of her toolkit. A juicer was needed; she couldn’t forget to include a knife as well as well as a large jug. Three cinnamon sticks and a lemon wedge also, and the apple couldn’t be forgotten. A single, shining red orb. Neither blemish nor bruise interrupted the consistently appealing surface of the fruit. A meal for the eye as much as for the stomach.
Granny Smith regarded the fruit for a second, totally perfect. It never had to try to be what it was, it never had to aspire. The apple simply was... it was perfect.
With a quick glance over each shoulder, Granny Smith darted over to an unremarkable cupboard on the kitchen wall. She opened it as delicately as her shaking hooves could manage. Despite her knowledge that nopony was up, and that a miniscule creaking noise was not going to cause everypony to gallop out of bed and stand to attention, she still had to be careful. Nopony knew about her secret stash, and she wanted to keep it that way.
Reaching into the cabinet’s gloomy interior, Granny Smith tapped the most average of average wooden panels, and, almost like magic, it opened up. The Apple matriarch couldn’t see very well in broad daylight, so she was having to feel her way along and play it by ear. That statement was, of course, purely metaphorical. There was no way in this life or the next that Granny Smith could rely on her ears for anything.
After a minute of fumbling around blindly, the earth pony felt her hooves come to rest on a cold, smooth surface. Still being careful not to make a sound, Granny Smith withdrew the bottle from its hiding place. It was alcohol, a distinctive mix of Trottingham and Canterlot blends. However, to Granny Smith, it was simply another ingredient.
It was the youngest Apple that was the cause of Granny Smith’s conspiratorial spirit-hiding. Safe to say, after Applebloom and her friends had tried to be ‘CUTIE MARK CRUSADER CIDER TASTERS!’, there was no way Granny Smith was going to leave a potent alcoholic elixir in plain view. Those three little fillies were hard enough to control when sober.
Now her set up was complete, the aged pony began to get to work. First things first, she needed the apple’s essence. With a single pale green hoof, Granny Smith seized the apple. With her other free hoof, she picked up her knife.
The lime pony began to carefully slice down the middle of the fruit; it was crucial to keep a nice, straight cut. A perfect cut. When that was done, Granny Smith picked up one half and gently pressed it onto her juicer.
There was an art to harvesting the delicious golden liquid. Granny Smith was a savant in all things apple, so drawing out the sweet tasting pulp was second nature to her now. With one hoof she held the juicer steady, with the other she gently pressed on the apple. It was key to rotate it slightly, so as she ground the fruit, more of her prize filled the reservoirs around the peak of the juicer.
When her current half was exhausted of its nectar, Granny Smith put it aside and picked up its twin. She repeated the procedure, grinding in slightly circular motions while keeping a measured but definite pressure on the apple. After a few moments the fruit was totally dried out, so the Apple matriarch placed it with the other apple half. After that, Granny Smith carefully poured the liquid from the juicer into her jug. This would serve as her mixing pot.
Now she had her apple essence, Granny Smith set to introducing some additional flavouring. Using spices was not essential in making cider, but the small touches were what set Sweet Apple Acres’ blend apart from others. Many breweries had begun to favour mechanisation; methods such as the ones favoured by -- ugh -- Flim and Flam were starting to become the industry standard. However, as efficient as they were, their new fangled ways just didn’t have the care and heart to compete with good old fashioned hoof-made cider.
These new methods forgot about flavour, texture, smell and care. They forgot about perfection.
Granny Smith had no such dependency on technology, she knew instinctively what spices to use and in what proportions. cinnamon, almond essence and a pinch of vanilla. With slightly shaking hooves, she was able to get the correct amounts into her jug. Added to this, by no small miracle, Granny Smith was able to not spill a single grain. That was good -- the spices only worked in their precise mix.
The next stage was the one the earth pony hated. She had no logical reason to dislike it, yet there was a thick fog of apprehension in her mind. A quick glance to either side, a hoof to wipe the perspiration from her brow, a deep breath, and she was ready. With a popping sound, the cork of her liquor bottle was removed. The smell of the alcohol was undoubtedly very strong. The earth pony winced as the pungent vapour stung her eyes slightly.
If anypony were to wake, Granny Smith knew they’d rush down to help her. The eldest Apple would have the one thing she could do without aid tarnished, and the pony who came down to aid her would have yet another burden. Literally nopony won in that scenario. This was why Granny Smith decided to clamp a hoof over the bottle.
Her fear was ridiculous to say the least. She was frightened the odour may just waft enough around the house to draw somepony downstairs. If Applejack or Big Mac were to get a lungful, Granny Smith would bet money they’d be down in a heartbeat.
However, to her great relief, nopony stirred. In fairness, there had not been one single interruption to her nightly tradition as of yet. Needless to say, that was a trend the aged pony did not want to violate tonight.
With the speed of a much younger mare, Granny Smith upturned the bottle and let a few drops fall into her mixture. She wasted no time in corking the bottle and setting it aside once again. A relieved sigh left her mouth, and her heart ceased to thump against her ribcage.
Finally, she poured in a dash of tonic water to take the edge off and add that crucial fizz. With her beverage almost complete, Granny Smith took the jug and swirled the liquid inside. Various shades of yellow and brown converged in the container. The ingredients collided and danced with each other. This pleasing display was short lived however. After a brief minute the ingredients reached harmony and the colour settled on an appetising shade of golden amber.
The farm-pony was considering taking a moment’s rest. However, she decided against it. There was only one final step in her nightly procedure now, and there was no use prolonging the curiosity. Granny Smith took a glass from the nearest cupboard and placed it next to her jug.
Gripping the vessel firmly in both hooves, she tipped it into the smaller container. The liquid frothed gently as it was transferred into the unremarkable drinking glass. Finally, it was done, and to the victor went the spoils. The spoils in this case being a nice glass of refreshing, rich cider.
The lime green pony stared at the liquid for a moment, not quite sure how to go about trying it. Granny Smith tasted her creation every night, and to this day she still had no standard method of sampling it. Occasionally she would just grab it and unceremoniously neck it back. Sometimes she’d swirl the liquid and inhale its odour before delicately tasting the smallest drop. Sometimes Granny Smith would simply drink the beverage without any theatrics or fanfare.
Tonight, she decided that the latter approach felt suitable. Gripping the glass firmly, Granny Smith took a swig of the drink, letting it settle in her mouth for a moment. It was close. It was exceedingly close in fact.
In fact, this was one of her closest tries. The earth pony afforded herself a giddy feeling of excitement. This could very well be it.
Granny Smith swallowed her current mouthful and went to take another sip of the rich, golden nectar. However, upon her second taste, Granny Smith realised she had jumped the gun. It was slight, too slight for most ponies to even register.
But Granny Smith was not most ponies. She was an apple farmer, she had been all of her life and she had sampled more cider than most ponies had hot dinners. There was a problem every night, and no matter how small tonight’s problem was it still counted.
When adding the spice, Granny Smith had been just a little too overzealous. There was too much cinnamon. It would only have been a grain; the smallest, most insignificant shaving. However this didn’t change the fact that it was still there.
A shrouded, almost playful extra spice. Somewhat pleasant when it hadn’t been noticed, however, Granny Smith could sense the unbalance. The cow-pony swallowed her mouthful and smiled. It was a content smile, but one that hid a tinge of melancholy.
The cider was delicious, sweet, rich and flavourful. But for all of these admirable qualities, the drink wasn’t perfect.
And so Granny Smith would come down tomorrow night.
She took her time clearing away her cutlery. A quick rinse with water was all they required. After that, they were ready for the next time. The spices went back to the pantry, the glassware back to the cupboards and her alcohol back into its hidey-hole.
Granny Smith blew out her candles. She should have really opened a window to banish the faint wisps of smoke that trailed from the smouldering wicks. However, she didn’t think there was any need to now. If nopony had been woken by the pungent waft of alcohol that briefly traveled the house earlier, then it wasn’t likely they would wake up now.
The eldest Apple took her seat on the chair lift, and it sputtered into life. They began their agonising crawl to the top of the stairs. Granny Smith felt the smallest stab of disappointment - she had been so sure after that first mouthful. But there was no use in dwelling on it.
Indeed, as her steed rattled upwards, Granny Smith felt content in the knowledge that she could try again tomorrow.