Blueberry Pie
Pinkie Pie whirred into the kitchen of Sugar Cube Corner, curls bouncing with the energy that imbued her every step. She began to move from cupboard to cupboard, the muscle memory of her movements overriding her thoughts. Measuring cup, teaspoon, and tablespoon. Cinnamon, milk, and sugar. She balanced and bounced them from her rump to the table, clattering into the perfect position. Lemon juice from Citrus Tree down the lane, and blueberries from Mrs. Cake's cousin from out of town. Finally, the pièce de résistance, the crusts prepared in the fridge.
Baking was one of the skills Pinkie prided herself the most on, along with partying, singing, dancing, playing 10 instruments at once, and tic tac toe (she was the current champion of Ponyville, Appleloosa, and Canterlot. Manehatten had a tougher crowd, but she was on her way to the top). But baking was something that required a constant eye on. You couldn't sit and wait for inspiration to strike, or do everything quickly in one fell swoop. Baking took time, and Pinkie was willing to pay the toll.
Pinkie nosed a pie plate out of the cupboard, humming as she set it on the table. A hop to the sink and Pinkie found herself humming as she washed her hooves. The rush of water wasn't quiet, but Pinkie's humming still managed to coat it and coast over it. With another reach for a mixing bowl in the cupboard below the shelf by the door, Pinkie set to work.
Many long time bakers would say to Pinkie that when you are truly experienced enough, you could measure everything with your heart. Pinkie often subscribed to this ideology, well aware of exactly how many names she would have to count off for a souffle to cook to perfection and that Fluttershy always liked her cupcakes with more chocolate than what it officially said was the right amount. But sometimes it was nice to fall into a routine, the gentle assurance of experience not hers.
Every tablespoon and cup poured into the bowl, every teaspoon and dash. Cup after cup of blueberries, until the contents of the bowl, looked as blue as Luna's sky. The specks of sugar could even be stars. It reminded of the sky over the rock farm- dizzying in its openness and how bright it was as everything in Equestria fell into impenetrable shadow. A stirring spoon retrieved, and Pinkie began to mix. Her movements were swift and steady, pushing through solids until it faded into a smooth, creamy coat.
Baking a pie was nothing like rock farming, but Pinkie was reminded of it. The steady effort, trying to not be too strong or too weak but retain consistency in each strike. If you struck too hard, you risked fracturing the gems hidden inside. If you didn't push enough, the rock would never yield at all. Pinkie knew that well- and sometimes, she could get overenthusiastic, and try to strike all at once with so much effort it would show everything in perfection. But rock farming was messy, and so was baking, and that would just make everything fall to pieces. You had to be steady and consistent, and not too strong, and you'd get everything right. Or maybe not everything, but the pieces would be together more.
Once she was satisfied with the mix, she placed down the first pie crust into the pie plate. Pinkie tilted the bowl and watched the mix slide into the pie plate. That wasn't clean either. Traces would be left behind in the bowl, and Pinkie did her best to sweep them out with her stirring spoon, watching as more and more pulled from the bowl. It was so blue, Pinkie smiled. She remembered the blue of Limestone's coat, waking up in the morning with her dear sisters with the crow of the rooster and the rise of Celestia's sun.
She retrieved the second crust and rolled it out, before turning to another drawer and retrieving a pizza cutter stored for such occasions. With a careful, practiced hoof, Pinkie sliced the crust into strips, watching the thin little lines emerge from the dough. She thought Maud might compare them to fault lines, cracks deep in the earth but so slim you couldn't fall in, where slabs of the deep deep earth beneath them would slide together and slide apart.
Now came the hardest part for Pinkie. Weaving was an easy skill for unicorns to learn, with their magical manipulation of small objects, but Pinkie just had her hooves and a whole lot of gusto. She didn't see it as a bad thing, though, as she began to weave the strips under and over and together. It was a devotion to all of her attention. For once, she could feel her mind fall to quiet focus on a singular point, as all of her baking skills filled her every moment. The lattice came together, and Pinkie stepped back and sighed, looking at her work. She didn't have to make pies like this, pies with the cover like a tiny version of the fence at the edge of the farm.
But it was something to devote herself to. Steady work, consistent. Not too strong or fast, not to still or slow. She used the pizza cutter to trim the edges, then scurried to retrieve one of Mrs. Cake's pastry brushes. A tablespoon of sugar sprinkled the top of the pie, and the brush tinted white with milk. She thought back to painting the fence back home, seeing just how many bright colors she could make each slat. She remembered her dad's amused befuddlement, smiling as he picked her up and hugged her.
The oven was set, with a timer to boot. The pie slid into its warm, waiting embrace, and Pinkie thought back to when she was a little, itty bitty filly. Her Nana Pie loved to bake. She tried to teach her mom, but Pinkie's mom was a much more practical mare, and dad always liked cooking more anyway. Of course, because of who they were, all of Nana and Pinkie's pies had rocks in them, but that was just fine. (Until she moved to Ponyville, where she learned that eating rocks was less than ideal for other ponies.) She remembered how cloudy it used to get back on the farm, like a constant cover over the day sky, until rainbows had blown them out of the sky. She remembered the look on Maud's face when they first exchanged rock candy necklaces.
Pinkie remembered the rock farm. And then before she knew it, the little chicken clock went off, and Pinkie grabbed her oven mitts and pulled out the pie. She breathed in, the smell of blueberries and pie coming in, and the memories of home coming out. She moved out into Sugarcube Corner, opened the case, and slipped in her blueberry pie. Pinkie left the counter. Someone would buy that pie, maybe, and someone would feel at home again, maybe, and someone would remember childhood memories, maybe. But Pinkie had baked a pie today, and that was enough.