Bugs, Fluff and Other Stuff

by Silent Whisper

A Hobby for Roseluck

The morning was quiet, more peaceful than I’d expected it to be. It’s not often that I arise this early, and when I do, it’s usually because something horribly wrong has happened. Like, “the kitchen is on fire because Lily left the stove on all night and the curtains caught alight” sort of disaster. Lily usually woke up earlier than me, but that wasn’t saying much. When I had the choice, I’d sleep ‘til noon.

But today was different. I’d set an alarm and actually woke up when it went off. It was time, Daisy said, that I got a hobby. Something to fill the days until we were allowed to leave the house. The Parasprites hadn’t yet figured out how to open doorknobs, so we were safe as long as we kept indoors. Nopony was buying flowers at the moment, and I trembled to think of what had happened to our garden. These days, none of us bothered checking. It was easier to ignore it, for the time being, and we’d made a silent agreement to deal with it when we were allowed out again.

For my sisters, it meant more time to spend doing the other little hobbies they’d neglected. Lily spent her afternoons knitting, and every day her stitches grew more even and perfect. We’d be well-prepared for the winter at the rate she was creating clothing. Daisy had hardly left her room in a few days, and sometimes the only way I knew she was awake was the faint noise of New Age music coming from her room, bringing with it the lingering scent of charcoal and fresh parchment.

I had yet to find a decent hobby, so I’d made up my mind to try a few different ones when everything was over. I couldn’t paint or learn an instrument, since we didn’t have the materials required, so I decided I’d learn to bake.

So far, so good. I’d gotten up early to make the dough. I just hoped the recipe I found in the back of the cookbook would be good. They all seemed to recommend the same thing: buns, buns, buns! We’d all be sick of buns if I got good at making bread, but there were worse things to be sick of. At the very least, our complaints would shift from the outside world to the yeast content of my baked goods, and we could do with a bit of variety.

I piled the flour high into the mixing bowl, and poured the liquid ingredients on top before grabbing a spoon to mix. I could grow to like the quiet of mornings, before the sun was up. I could get used to a little peace in my life, instead of boredom and anxiety. It’d be a treat when my sisters awoke and I’d be able to greet them with rolls that I’d made, still buttery and warm from the oven. That would be a good while longer, though. Now was the time to prepare.

I took the dough - now a sticky lump - and turned it out onto a floured cutting board, and began to knead it. Maybe, I thought, maybe we were all kind of like this dough. Sticky, uneven, lumpy and rough on the edges, but with time and patience, we could be made smooth if we put in the work.

I groaned and put my weight into my hooves as I flipped and pressed the dough. Kneading was tough, tougher than I’d expected. It was easy to get into the rhythm, but my hooves would be a little sore later. I’d always been called a delicate flower, and accepted that, but maybe I could do more than that. Maybe instead of a delicate flower, I could be tough… and covered in flour? I looked down at my chest and laughed.

Setting aside a bowl, I gently oiled the dough and glanced up at the time. An hour or two to rise, the instructions had said. Covered, and in a warm place. I settled the round lump into the bowl, covered it with a plate, and set it near the hearth. Things took time to rise, just like my sisters and I in the morning. Perhaps this was what I’d been missing, though. I clapped the worst of the flour off my hooves and trotted over to the kettle. Maybe, I mused as I filled the kettle with water, the mornings could be my time.

I curled up near the fireplace, the embers low but still warm, and waited for the kettle to warm on the stove. Wrapped around me was an earlier attempt at a blanket, from Lily’s brief crocheting phase before she discovered knitting. Above the mantle was a sketch of the three of us, done by Daisy. She insisted she could do far better now, but none of us had the heart to remove it. It was imperfect, sure, but it still captured us.

Lily, the crafter. Daisy, the artist. And me. I wasn’t sure if I’d stick with baking, but regardless, when we all came out of this, I’d find myself more well-rounded, less rough. But at the moment, I’d have some tea, watch the embers of the fireplace cool, and think. I had all the time in the world, after all.

When my sisters awoke, later that morning, they found me half-awake but content: wrapped in a blanket, a mug of cooled tea in my hoof, and in the kitchen a tray of lopsided-but-still-delicious baked rolls sat waiting, still warm from the oven.

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[MixMassBasher]

Now I'm hungry for bread...