It wasn’t an overly well known fact, but Ponyville baker and premier party pony Pinkie Pie couldn’t bake an apple pie. And it wasn’t from lack of trying, either. She’d consulted every recipe book that Sugarcube Corner had, borrowed a few from the library, and even managed to get her hooves on the Apple Family’s Super-Secret Apple Pie recipe over the years. None of it worked for the pink pony, and she really wanted to bake one, to surprise Applejack for when the farmer got back from Appleloosa. Pinkie knew that all their other friends had their own surprises for Applejack already sorted out, so she didn’t want to bother them by asking for their help. Setting her face in a stern visage, Pinkie Pie turned from the cookbook she was looking at back to her pile of ingredients.
“Right, you silly ingredients. Prepare to be Pie’d.”
Smoke filled the kitchen at Sugarcube Corner, and Pinkie Pie sighed. She opened the oven door, and retrieved the roughly pie shaped pile of burning pastry and apples, and dumped it into the bin with the five others she had already tried to make. Pinkie turned back to the cookbook and stared at the instructions again.
“What am I doing wrong?” muttered Pinkie. Dejected, she closed the book for a while, and headed out into Ponyville. She needed more apples, so she headed for the Apples’ stand in the market, where Big Mac was taking care of sales while Applejack was out of town.
“Ten bits, right Mac?”
“Eeyup.”
Pinkie hoofed over the required money to the stallion behind the stand, and then she spoke up again. “Hey, Big Mac, you wouldn’t know how to bake an apple pie, would you?”
“Nope,” drawled the stallion, his stalk of hay shifting to the other side of his mouth, “Sorry.”
“That’s ok,” sighed Pinkie, walking off with her apples, heading back to Sugarcube Corner, “I’m sure I’ll get it eventually.”
“Eeyup.”
For the seventh time that day, smoke poured out from the burnt and charred pie remnants in the oven, and Pinkie was really glad that Sugarcube Corner was closed to business today. She removed the remains, dumped them in the bin, and got ready for her eighth attempt.
“Stupid pie,” growled Pinkie, “Why can’t I bake you?”
***time***
By this point, anypony could have asked what the steps were to make an apple pie, and Pinkie would have been able to recite them from memory. As her hooves worked, Pinkie looked over to the cookbook anyway, making sure that each step was correct. She wanted this pie to be perfect.
Ding! Pinkie opened the oven door, not daring to look at whatever catastrophe she had made now. But oddly enough, she couldn’t smell smoke. It actually smelled kinda good, and her mouth began to water. Quickly wiping the drool away, Pinkie pulled the pie tin, and it’s hopefully delicious contents out and placed it onto the benchtop. The pastry was golden brown, and the delicious smell wafted off it. Prying the pie loose from the tin, Pinkie Pie carefully cut a slice, and let out a sigh of relief when the pie didn’t collapse, like her fifth attempt, or explode, like her second. Now came the real test, though. She tasted the pie, and quickly spat it out.
“Ugh. Too much sugar,” she grumbled, “Now what am I going to do for Applejack’s birthday?!”