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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
A Nice, Crispy Dinner
Sweetie Belle stared at the raging flames engulfing her apartment.
Behind her, the firefighters scrambled, hooves pounding and muzzles yelling, hoses unrolled and buckets prepared. Somepony had draped a blanket in the time she sat there on the sidewalk of Fillydelphia but she never noticed, so intent was her attention on the fires. She only wanted to have a simple dinner with her coltfriend but…
“Why does it always happen when I cook for somepony else…?” she muttered.
A flap of wings and a meaty thump on the ground beside rustled her out of her reverie. Her coltfriend had arrived.
She looked up to the purple and green dragon towering over her, his head tilted upwards to the conflagration bellowing from her apartment windows.
“Woah, what did you try to cook this time? Pot roast?” he asked.
Sweetie Belle narrowed her eyes. “Har har. Very funny, Spike.”
Spike stared at the flames for several moments before saying: “So… you wanna eat out?”
Sweetie Belle groaned.
Sweetie Belle. The White Wraith of Fillydelphia. The Siren of Metrocoltlitan Opera House. Burner of Kitchens. The last title was a foalhood epithet associated with her tendency to burn any and all food she had ever cooked in the kitchen. She had gotten better over the years—she didn’t burn the toasts now. Sometimes. Occasionally. She could even make a proper breakfast in the mornings where she didn’t have to practice her voice.
Cooking for somepony, however, was another thing entirely. Sweetie Belle still cringed—just slightly now—whenever her mind returned to those mornings when she made breakfast for Rarity, with their mother at her side giving her pointers. Toasts consisting of unidentifiable sludge. Burnt juice. Charred salad.
But this evening, it’s different, Sweetie Belle mused as she stepped into her studio apartment. Tonight, it was her second anniversary with Spike. It had to be something special. Crystal Thimble, her manager, had been very understanding and so Sweetie Belle was home and ready to cook.
Her horn lit. The refrigerator door flew open and out floated a barrage of broccoli, bell peppers and garlic and a packet of pasta. A pot filled with water in the sink and flew to the stove. Lastly, a mixing bowl, several measuring cups, flour and a large bowl of sapphire floated from a kitchen cupboard.
So dinner would be a nice vegetable aglio olio and sapphire crusted cake. First, Sweetie Belle chopped the peppers and garlic as the water brought to a boil. Then a dollop of olive went on a shallow pan. Next, Sweetie Belle stirred in the garlic, broccoli and peppers. She moved the spatula deftly. Mechanically. Sweetie Belle’s mind soon turned to the cake.
Might as well get it done while I fry…
Turning her head, her magic lit upon the bowl and flour. The latter poured into the bowl and her magic lifted it to the sink for four…? Four cups worth of water. The bowl returned and Sweetie Belle broke a couple of eggs over the flour and stirred the mix—
The burning smell of smoke hit her nostrils.
Ice condensed in her stomach. Sweetie Belle whipped her head around, only to send the pan—still held in her magical grip—sailing into the dried, smoking pot. The pan’s charring and boiling contents emptied onto the exposed flames.
An enormous fireball erupted.
Sweetie Belle’s magic winked out as she backed away, wide eyed. She ran for the fire extinguisher. When she returned, the fire had already consumed several cupboards. Sweetie Belle took a look at the angry, orange flame licking rapidly up the ceiling, turned and galloped out of the apartment.
This is the last time I get talked into getting varnished kitchen furniture…
“Huh, so that’s what you were making,” Spike said, nodding. “I thought you would’ve learned your lesson after the lava cake.”
Sweetie Bell hung her head as the waitress set two plates of broccoli aglio olio on the table.
“I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to contain actual lava…” she said finally after a few minutes.
Spike laughed. His claws rested on Sweetie Belle’s hooves. She was silent again, her eyes downcast. Spike squeezed her hooves.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Sweetie Belle blinked twice and then her eyes rose, meeting Spike’s.
“… Am I stupid?”
Spike frowned. “What makes you say that?”
Sweetie Belle’s eyes turned downcast again. “I can’t get any cooking right.”
Spike squeezed her again.
“It’s the thought that counts, Sweetie.”
Sweetie Belle smiled.
“Thanks, Spike.”
Behind her, the firefighters scrambled, hooves pounding and muzzles yelling, hoses unrolled and buckets prepared. Somepony had draped a blanket in the time she sat there on the sidewalk of Fillydelphia but she never noticed, so intent was her attention on the fires. She only wanted to have a simple dinner with her coltfriend but…
“Why does it always happen when I cook for somepony else…?” she muttered.
A flap of wings and a meaty thump on the ground beside rustled her out of her reverie. Her coltfriend had arrived.
She looked up to the purple and green dragon towering over her, his head tilted upwards to the conflagration bellowing from her apartment windows.
“Woah, what did you try to cook this time? Pot roast?” he asked.
Sweetie Belle narrowed her eyes. “Har har. Very funny, Spike.”
Spike stared at the flames for several moments before saying: “So… you wanna eat out?”
Sweetie Belle groaned.
Sweetie Belle. The White Wraith of Fillydelphia. The Siren of Metrocoltlitan Opera House. Burner of Kitchens. The last title was a foalhood epithet associated with her tendency to burn any and all food she had ever cooked in the kitchen. She had gotten better over the years—she didn’t burn the toasts now. Sometimes. Occasionally. She could even make a proper breakfast in the mornings where she didn’t have to practice her voice.
Cooking for somepony, however, was another thing entirely. Sweetie Belle still cringed—just slightly now—whenever her mind returned to those mornings when she made breakfast for Rarity, with their mother at her side giving her pointers. Toasts consisting of unidentifiable sludge. Burnt juice. Charred salad.
But this evening, it’s different, Sweetie Belle mused as she stepped into her studio apartment. Tonight, it was her second anniversary with Spike. It had to be something special. Crystal Thimble, her manager, had been very understanding and so Sweetie Belle was home and ready to cook.
Her horn lit. The refrigerator door flew open and out floated a barrage of broccoli, bell peppers and garlic and a packet of pasta. A pot filled with water in the sink and flew to the stove. Lastly, a mixing bowl, several measuring cups, flour and a large bowl of sapphire floated from a kitchen cupboard.
So dinner would be a nice vegetable aglio olio and sapphire crusted cake. First, Sweetie Belle chopped the peppers and garlic as the water brought to a boil. Then a dollop of olive went on a shallow pan. Next, Sweetie Belle stirred in the garlic, broccoli and peppers. She moved the spatula deftly. Mechanically. Sweetie Belle’s mind soon turned to the cake.
Might as well get it done while I fry…
Turning her head, her magic lit upon the bowl and flour. The latter poured into the bowl and her magic lifted it to the sink for four…? Four cups worth of water. The bowl returned and Sweetie Belle broke a couple of eggs over the flour and stirred the mix—
The burning smell of smoke hit her nostrils.
Ice condensed in her stomach. Sweetie Belle whipped her head around, only to send the pan—still held in her magical grip—sailing into the dried, smoking pot. The pan’s charring and boiling contents emptied onto the exposed flames.
An enormous fireball erupted.
Sweetie Belle’s magic winked out as she backed away, wide eyed. She ran for the fire extinguisher. When she returned, the fire had already consumed several cupboards. Sweetie Belle took a look at the angry, orange flame licking rapidly up the ceiling, turned and galloped out of the apartment.
This is the last time I get talked into getting varnished kitchen furniture…
“Huh, so that’s what you were making,” Spike said, nodding. “I thought you would’ve learned your lesson after the lava cake.”
Sweetie Bell hung her head as the waitress set two plates of broccoli aglio olio on the table.
“I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to contain actual lava…” she said finally after a few minutes.
Spike laughed. His claws rested on Sweetie Belle’s hooves. She was silent again, her eyes downcast. Spike squeezed her hooves.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Sweetie Belle blinked twice and then her eyes rose, meeting Spike’s.
“… Am I stupid?”
Spike frowned. “What makes you say that?”
Sweetie Belle’s eyes turned downcast again. “I can’t get any cooking right.”
Spike squeezed her again.
“It’s the thought that counts, Sweetie.”
Sweetie Belle smiled.
“Thanks, Spike.”