• Published 26th Jul 2018
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Down With the Pastryarchy - kudzuhaiku



"When the revolution comes, who will be the first against the gingerbread wall?"

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Chapter 30

“You know, Twi… I think I owe Sugar Belle an apology. A biggun.”

“Oh?” Twilight’s ears rotated and pricked so she could better hear Applejack’s near-whispered words.

“Now that I’m away from the situation and I’ve had a chance to think about it… yes.” The apple farmer sighed and her withers sagged. “That mare has done nothing but take one for the team. Over and over. Among other things. I couldn’t see it clearly ‘cause I was right in the middle of it all. Some things coulda been handled a bit better, methinks. I’ve been so busy keepin’ track of all the ways I fear things could be changing that I haven’t been grateful for the good way things have changed. Sugar Belle isn’t a bad sort… but she is a broken sort. She’s so eager for approval and acceptance. Like, she’s starved for even just a little bit of praise.”

“The ponies of Our Town have wounds, Applejack—”

“I know, I was there.” Applejack’s jaw muscles clenched tight. “When I praised her or said she did well, she’d burst into tears and cry about it. That was awkward, and made me feel all confused, so to avoid it, I stopped doin’ it. That has to change. When I get home, I’m gonna praise the ever-lovin’ shit right outta her, and then I’m gonna let her cry for a while. Just her and me. Until she gets it out of her system, like. I was thinking ‘bout what I said, Twi. ‘Bout recognising the struggle. I’d do it for a fellow earth pony, but not for Sugar Belle. What in Tartarus is wrong with me?”

Twilight almost said something, but stopped because she wasn’t sure what to say and a generic response felt wrong. Her friend was hurting, struggling, and Twilight felt bad that she had no words to comfort Applejack with. Several things came to mind, but not a one of them felt apropos or adequate. A response had to mean something, it had to connect in some way, otherwise it might feel patronising—or worse.

“My parents? They’s gone, Twilight. Have been for a mighty long time now. Granny Smith was laid to rest—it’s been a while now. My husband? He done walked out on me. In some ways, it’s worse than being dead. That sumbitch is alive and he just chooses to avoid me and his daughters. And here I am, on the cusp of having a big ol’ family again… and I ain’t doing diddly-fiddly-shit to hold us together. I damn sure ain’t keeping my girls under control. And poor Sugar Belle… she’s so eager to fit in… to belong... she’ll take whatever abuse comes with a smile. When I go home, it’s time for me to lay down the law of the land. It’s time for me to step up and act like the matriarch I was raised to be. But I don’t know how. It scares me, Twi. It scares me. I like being in charge, but I’m not so sure I like being in control.

“I understand,” Twilight whispered to her friend. “I do… I really do. Being in charge just means bossing others around, but being in control means taking responsibility for everything around you. That was one of my hardest lessons as a princess… and if I can be completely honest about it, I am still learning all these years later. I can tell other ponies what to do, but I am also ultimately responsible for them and their lives if my commands harm them in some way. And that’s terrifying. It’s why I freeze up and fail to take decisive action. It’s easy to be bossy, but when there are consequences involved… very real consequences…” Her words trailed off into an anxious sigh.

“That makes me feel so much better to hear you say that, Twi.” Applejack breathed out these words and they were almost inaudible over the ambient noise that surrounded them. “That’s a load offa my back, it is.”

“I’ve been watching and observing,” Twilight continued, her voice low. “Octavia is in charge of the household, for the most part, but once there is a crisis, Tarnish is in control. He just steps in and takes command like it is the most natural thing ever. Lemon Hearts rules her house and her kitchen and her word is law. She’s clearly in charge. That is, until there is trouble, and then either Trixie or Twinkleshine take control, depending on the situation and the nature of said trouble. I’ve actually been observing the power dynamics in play for quite some time. I even make notes and I’ve organised my observations into a collection, so that I might learn from them.”

“Twilight… that’s just about the most eggheaded thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Then, in a low, breathy whisper, Applejack asked, “Can I borrow those notes sometime? Can I get a copy? Might be good to do a little outhouse readin’.”

Without realising that she was doing so, Twilight smiled. “Spike’s been busy collating them into a bound novel so it can be duplicated. Have I ever mentioned that Spike is growing into the finest bookbinder I know?”

“Only a few hunnert times or so,” Applejack replied in a drawl as thick as near-frozen molasses.

“It started off as a hobby. Now I’m starting to suspect that it is his calling. Dragons can have a calling, if they want to. Spike shows an almost preternatural level of skill. It’s almost as if he knows certain things instinctually, or in very much the same way a pony might when they have a cutie mark signifying a trade. Sorry. I’m babbling. But I’m very proud.”

“I can tell,” Applejack deadpanned.


A critical eye was turned upon the Pie, and then upon her creation. The celebrity judges all paused at once, sniffed, and each of them reacted in their way. Smiling, Pinkie Pie awaited for judgment of her pie, a beautiful specimen that evoked everything to do with autumn. The crowd collectively seemed to be holding its breath, and Twilight found that she was as well.

The wedding cake was every bit as beautiful as it was delicious, but the pie was… well, it was a pie. A very pretty pie with an eye-catching orange colour that caused Twilight to shiver in anticipation of a winter that was still a few seasons away, seeing as how it was spring at the moment. It was not as impressive as the wedding cake had been and Twilight—thinking of Pinkie’s first entry, the lemon zinger cake—worried.

“Sweet potato pie?” one of the judges asked, his tone rather dubious. “But not?”

“Maple cayenne sweet potato pie,” Pinkie Pie said through her unmoving, unwavering, unfaltering smile. “Sometimes I like to think of it as the cosy fires of autumn… you know, when the very first frost sets in and the evenings are cold. This is a pie very much like myself; it’ll keep you warm on a cold night. But if you take me to bed, I don’t leave crumbs behind. Except for when I do.”

The judges laughed; Gustave le Grande most of all.

“Sweet potato pies are typically a pale orange and I cannot help but notice that this pie is more of an orangish-red,” one of the judges said.

“Oh, that would be the cayenne,” Pinkie replied.

“Smells smokey. Did it burn?”

“I used smoked maple syrup.”

“Eez unique.” Gustave studied the pie in earnest and lowered his head down so he could be at eye-to-pie level. “Nothing eez burnt. Zee cruzt is uniformly golden brown.”

Arroz Amandine once again pulled out her trusty knife and with her fine-tuned telekinesis, she sliced free a slender wedge of pie, which she then plopped on a sampling plate. Her fellow judges crowded around and before anything could be said, she tried the first bite. It was only after she sighed in bliss that the others joined in, and also sampled the autumnal treat.

For the very first time, the judges did not swallow Pinkie’s delectable desserts, as they had previously. One allowed his bite to fall into a tiny paper cup, followed by another, and then a third. All three were visibly sweating and had red watery eyes. After Pinkie’s initial successes, this felt like disaster. Another judge spat out her sample into a tiny paper cup and then wiped her sweaty brow with her foreleg. The four judges who had spat out their food were now visibly panting, struggling to draw breath.

“There’s not enough spicy desserts in the world,” Arroz said after she swallowed her sample sliver. “Très magnifique!

Perhaps surprised by Arroz’s Fancy outburst, Gustave turned his attention upon the most curious unicorn—the most lively celebrity personality other than himself. “Zí,” he said, his own Fancy accent overpowering the burro word. “Eztoy de acuerdo.”

“At least the burro-hater packed up and left,” one of the judges muttered.

As Twilight’s anxious worry peaked, the judges formed a tight huddle…


After what felt like hours of deliberation, but was more like a mere five minutes or so, the judges broke their hush-hush huddle. Gustave appeared conflicted—sad perhaps—and he took a moment to brush away some nonexistent lint from his chef’s whites. His eyes strayed from Pinkie to glance at his fellow judges for a time, and after a muffled sigh, he turned his attention to the bubbly pink baker, who smiled while awaiting the final judgment.

Just as he was about to say something, the words caught in his throat and he stood there with his beak hanging open, with one talon-finger raised and curled like a question mark. When he did not—perhaps could not—speak, he gestured at Arroz.

“We all agreed that your pie was delicious.” Arroz was quick to take over and her eyes were bright. “But for some of us… it was just too spicy. After some deliberation, we concluded that if it is too spicy for us, it is likely too spicy for others. We cannot deny its unique appeal, but it can only be enjoyed by a specialised palate. We acknowledge that the zestiness and heat are the main attraction, which, sadly, also limits its potential for widespread enjoyment.”

With a pained expression, Gustave le Grande reached into a pocket and pulled forth a blue chip.

“However, with all that said, even those of us who don’t like too much spice recognise that this is food artistry at its finest, and art shouldn’t always be approachable or understandable by the masses. Art should cause decisive reactions—which this pie did. Unless something truly extraordinary comes along before the day ends, I think you can be considered our best candidate for most artistic dish in show. We all agree this is special, even if it violates some of our personal tastes and causes some of us some discomfort.”

“Thank you.” Pinkie’s strained voice cracked. “Thank you so much, all of you.”

“The pleasure has been ours, Miss Pie.” Arroz bowed her head, and then her fellow judges did the same.

Head still low, Gustave le Grande placed the blue chip upon the counter.

Then, before anything else could be said, the judges hurried off in search of perfection.


A cannonball made of bright, hot pink curls and pastel pink fuzz arced through the air in an impossible parabola and Twilight Sparkle reared up on her hind legs while bracing herself for impact. The cannonball squealed, as the cannonball tended to do when excited, and the overall effect was like an incoming bomb that trailed confetti and streamers.

There was a meaty smack upon impact, and Twilight was struck with terrific force, the sort of force that only earth ponies and alicorns could survive without serious, life-threatening injury. In fact, Twilight was shocked by just how durable her body had become; complicated maths suggested the squealing, confetti and streamers streaming pink cannonball struck with crippling, bone-shattering, internal-organ-liquifying force. Twilight knew all too well that in a fight, Pinkie Pie was every bit as dangerous as her sister, Maud, and it was because of her immense solidity, her weapons-grade density backed by earth pony magics that controlled gravity and inertia.

Still standing on two legs, Twilight held Pinkie in her forelegs, and Pinkie, wasting no time, slipped her own forelegs around Twilight’s neck. A kiss followed; no mere peck, but a mouth open, hot, breathy kiss that caused a dangerous wobble in Twilight’s hind legs. Lightheaded, struggling to stand, a cheer resonated in Twilight’s ears while Pinkie Pie drenched every inch of Twilight’s muzzle with slobber.

Pulling away with a near-breathless pop, Pinkie Pie then said, “Tonight we celebrate, Twilight. I’m in the mood to boogie down! Tonight is going to be the biggest, bestest night, Twilight!” Then, the expression on the pink mare’s face changed, going from hyper-excited to something that was almost pensive, or perhaps hesitant. “Twilight, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” asked Twilight while she cradled Pinkie in her forelegs.

“I can’t tell you,” Pinkie whispered, “even though I want to tell you. I want to warn you, because I’m your friend. But I can’t tell you or warn you. I owe you one great big, super-duper huge apology though, and I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life making everything up to you. Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.” While speaking, she went through the motions, which ended with her jamming her hoof into her left eye.

“Okay…” Twilight’s brows furrowed while her ears stood up straight.

“We need to have a good supper, because we can’t do what we’re about to do on an empty stomach!”

Author's Note:

Hang on...