“I’m just saying,” Twilight said, “that in many cultures, what we call ‘nepotism’ is considered a virtue.”

Applejack shook her head. “I already told you, Twilight, I don’t want any royal monopoly on apples.”

“It isn’t technically dishonest if I tell everypony I’m doing it.”

“Any sentence starts with the word “technically” is dishonest.”

“Technically, it didn’t start with—”

Applejack cut her off with one hoof. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Twilight sighed. She looked up at the old wooden sign overhead saying “Sweet Apple Acres”, just above the new banner saying “For Sale,” to the side of the cardboard placard saying “Yard sale! Everything must go!”

“Applejack, I have a palace made out of crystal and magical gemstones. I could chip enough gems out of one wall to pay off your mortgage.”

“It ain’t the money,” Applejack said.

“What, then?”

Applejack grunted as she rolled another empty cider barrel into place in the display of farm goods for sale. Then she turned to Twilight with a scowl. “It’s Pinkie.”

Twilight brightened instantly. “I can help with that! I know an ancient Hoofian meditation technique you can use when she’s around to lower your blood pressure and visualize everything she says and does as a bee buzzing in the background.”

“No, Twilight, it ain’t that neither. It’s her cupcakes.”

Twilight frowned thoughtfully. “You mean her cupcakes that have been voted to the top of the “Best of Ponyville” board at city hall every day for the past three years?”

Applejack gritted her teeth. “Those would be the ones.”

“Applejack,” Twilight said. “You aren’t… jealous?”

“I ain’t jealous,” Applejack said. “But I ain’t stupid, neither. Enough is enough, I’m saying. Look, Twi. It takes years to make a Sweet Apple Acres pie. I plant the trees. I water the trees. I wrap them in burlap when it’s cold. I chase off the varmints and insects that try to eat them. I buck the apples, haul them, sort them, wash them, peel them, and then it’s time to start baking. And then I use a recipe that’s been handed down from Apple to Apple since my great-grandaddy’s time to make the crust, and another recipe handed down since my great-great-granddam’s time to make the filling, and I bake it using the special Apple combination of earth pony magic, know-how, and instinct, depending on the variety, size, and age of the apples used, until the texture and flavor are exactly right. It’s flavored with a subtle combination of spices and thickeners, most of which we grow or gather here on the farm, that produces a complex series of sensations of taste and fullness in the mouth and belly of any pony discriminatin’ enough to partake of an Apple apple pie.”

“I know! That’s why I always come here for my pies!”

“Yeah, you and a few dozen other ponies. Meanwhile, Pinkie throws some cheap store-bought flour in a mixer, dumps in some water and enough sugar to choke a horse, stirs it up, bakes it, and she’s the talk of the town!”

“Applejack. Don’t let that bother you. You’re a true artiste, as Rarity would say.”

“I don’t wanna be an arteest,” Applejack said. “I wanna be on the top of that board. I wanna make food ponies eat and enjoy. Why do they only like bad food baked by a pony with no taste?”

Twilight bit her lip. “You can’t make objective evaluations of taste, Applejack. Pinkie has a different set of gustatory values.”

“Hogwash,” Applejack said. “I’m not sayin’ she has poor judgement, Twilight. I’m sayin’ the girl has blasted her tastebuds with so much sugar and spice she cannot taste her food. She’s just addicted to the sugar rush. She might as well pour a bag of sugar down her throat. Which sometimes she does.”

“Applejack,” Twilight said indignantly. “Just because you don’t share Pinkie’s taste in desserts—”

“You remember that time she baked two batches then forgot which batch was marshberry and which was jalapeño, and she had to ask you to taste them for her?”

Twilight shuddered. “Distinctly.”

“Okay, then.”

“Who would even think marshberry cupcakes were a good idea?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Twilight. The girl literally has no taste.”

“But Applejack, you know eater response theory says that’s irrelevant.”

“Yeah, well, her eaters ain’t got no taste neither. You gotta drown them in sugar afore they can taste anything at all. Them cupcakes are so sugary you could pour rat poison into her batter and nopony could tell the difference.”

“Actually, rat poison is tasteless. And illegal, ever since the Big/Small Mammal Treaty of Nine-Seventy-Seven. But you can’t say she has no taste. Some of her flavors are perpetually popular.”

Applejack snorted. “Blind luck. She just throws things into her mixer and stirs, and then gives the ponies more of whatever they buy the most of.”

“Actually, that’s a surprisingly powerful optimization method.”

“Yeah, well, maybe for cupcakes. It ain’t gonna get you a real meal. Them town ponies, all they want is cupcakes with sprinkles, and muffins dusted with powdered sugar with them little chocolate bits inside—”

“Mmm,” Twilight said.

Applejack glared at her.

“...-hmm," she finished. "You’re right. That’s all they want. Those foolish ponies.”

Applejack stomped one hoof on the grass defiantly. “Well, from now on, that’s all they’re gettin’ from me! I’m gonna move to town and open a bakery right across the street from Pinkie, and bake poofy sugar-soaked flourballs, and we’ll see who’s the real baker in this town!”

“Um…” Twilight dragged one hoof over the grass hesitantly. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Applejack finished hammering another “Yard Sale!” sign into the ground, then spit out the hammer and glowered at Twilight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you may not have as large a competitive advantage in pastries as you would in your current—”

“You don’t think I can bake cupcakes to beat Pinkie’s!”

“Well,” Twilight said, “I didn’t say that, but—”

“Come here.” Applejack led the way to the farmhouse. They scraped their hooves off on the mat, and as Applejack pulled the door open with her teeth, Twilight smelled a wonderful yeasty aroma drifting out from the kitchen.

“Behold!” Applejack said, pointing to a drying rack that had been rolled up next to the oven. On it were two metal trays full of cupcakes.

Twilight sniffed the air. “Let me guess,” she said. “Apple?”

Applejack harrumphed. “Apples are too good for them cupcake-eaters. No, Twilight. They need something loud and attention-seeking enough to shout over all that sugar and butter. They’re gettin’… cherries!” Applejack rose up, lifting her front legs above her head, and began to laugh with a wild gleam in her eyes.

“Can… can you not do the evil laugh?” Twilight asked. “It’s giving me Nightmare Moon flashbacks, and—”

Applejack yanked a cupcake from one of the racks and stuffed it into Twilight’s open mouth.

“Mmmph…” Twilight’s eyes widened. She started to chew, and her eyes widened further. Finally, she swallowed, licked her lips, and swallowed again.

“Applejack,” she said. “This is good!”

Applejack narrowed her eyes.

“What’s wrong? It’s really good! I mean, it would be good, if I were the kind of mare who enjoyed such low-brow fare.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Applejack asked.

“Eh-heh. It’s just that, you know, it’s not… your thing.”

Applejack walked slowly towards Twilight. “First. That there cupcake, while good for a cupcake, is the single worst culinary abomination I have ever baked in my life.” She kept walking until her nose was up against Twilight’s, and kept on walking. “Second, what do you mean, ‘not my thing’? COOKING IS MY THING!”

“I thought honesty was your thing?...”

“Food is honesty. Food is about taking some smug, self-satisfied pony and confronting her with the flavors of real life. The honest, simple taste of field-grown apples and carrots and lettuce, not smothered in screaming spices, but blended and contrasted to make ponies taste the variety and richness of life. It’s not about pandering to one solitary taste receptor, giving the same simple sugary sweetness over and over again!”

“Applejack…”

“I study food, Twilight. I study it like you study magic. I know how hot how fast each part of my oven gets and how the air moves in it. I can take any food known to Ponyville and tell you the plusses and minuses of frying, baking, roasting, broiling, grilling, poaching, boiling, braising, steaming, or stewing it, in or on clay, metal, glass, wood or stone. I know all the multitudes of textures, moistures, an’ consistencies possible to fruits, grains, and vegetables an’ how to make them all happen.”

“Uh, Applejack?”

“An’ if you think the reason I haven’t baked over-flavored nutrient-free mass-produced concoctions of sugar, flour, butter, and bad decisions is because I couldn’t—”

“Applejack? Can’t... breathe...”

Applejack stepped back, letting Twilight rebound from the wall she’d been pinned against and begin gasping for air. “Sorry, Twilight.”

“But, Applejack,” Twilight said when she’d finished coughing. “Who’s going to give sophisticated eaters the solid, healthy fare that they need?”

Applejack snorted. “Somepony dumber than me.”

---

In another week, the Apples had set up shop in a store on Main Street. Big Mac and Apple Bloom were halfway through moving Granny Smith and their other belongings into the flat above the store when Twilight stopped by to see Applejack. There was a sign in the plate-glass window saying “GRAND OPENING THIS MANEDAY!” A bell on the door rang when Twilight stepped inside, and Applejack walked slowly out from behind the counter’s still-empty display case to greet her. She walked with a funny three-one, three-one gait, and wobbled slightly.

“So,” Applejack asked. “What’d Spike say?”

“Spike?”

“You took a bag of them cupcakes home to get his opinion on them, remember?”

“Oh. Right. He, um, liked them a lot.”

Applejack leaned against a table, four chairs stacked upside-down on top of it, and closed her eyes.

“Applejack!” Twilight said. “Are you ill?”

“Never been sick a day in my life,” Applejack said. Then she stumbled and fell.

Twilight ran to her and helped her back to her hooves.

“...though, I admit, there was times I was powerful dizzy and vomitous for a week or two.”

“Well, I’ve got news that will put a spring back in your step. You can re-open the farm! I’ve solved your problems!”

Applejack blinked at Twilight. “Your hair is doing that frizzy thing again.”

“Applejack, how many times have I told you that extruded hair is dead and can in no way respond to a pony’s cognitive state? Now, remember when you said that nopony would notice if I poured rat poison into Pinkie’s ingredients?”

Applejack took a step back. “Twilight,” she said, one hoof still hanging in the air before her. “What have you done?”

“Oh, Applejack! Don’t be silly. You know I wouldn’t poison Pinkie’s cupcakes!”

“Of course,” Applejack said, sounding groggy, but reassured. “I know you’d never do a thing like that, Twi. Least, not when you’re in your right mind.” She leaned forward and peered closely at Twilight.

“I just cast a spell on all of Pinkie’s cupcakes that would put anyone who ate one into a deep sleep for ten years, so that during that time we can establish a strong cultural, physical, and economic infrastructure to support healthy food full of subtle gustatory sensations and contrasts, and rebuild Equestrian cuisine around a core of culinary excellence!”

Applejack keeled over in a faint.

“Applejack?” Twilight kneeled over her, turned her head, and put her ear next to Applejack’s mouth to listen.

She heard… snoring.

Twilight found an oven hoof-mitt and slid it under Applejack’s head to make her more comfortable. Then she began to search the kitchen, checking the icebox and opening drawers and cupboards.

Finally she looked in the large metal bin that held the kitchen’s trash. After turning the top layer of detritus over, she floated a crumpled pink paper bag out of the trash, with a few sugary crumbs still in it.

“Oh, dear,” she said.

She walked past the food-prep counter with its rows of hanging ladles and knife sharpeners, past the three washing sinks, and out the kitchen’s back door into the alley. Big Mac was slumped on the ground between the hitching poles of the Apples’ wagon, still in the traces, snoring soundly.

Twilight hurried back through the kitchen, through the empty dining area, and out the front door, onto the main street of Ponyville.

She stood there on the boardwalk, stretching her ears to catch the morning sounds of ponies on their way to work.

Far off down the street, a bird twittered.

Twilight galloped down the street towards her palace. All along the way, she passed ponies asleep in the middle of the street, in rocking chairs in front of their houses, or with their muzzles hanging out of windows.

“Spike!” she said as she burst through her front door. “Spike, send a message to the princess, quick! The real princess, I mean!”

Her voice echoed down the crystal halls and then died away.

“Spike?”

She found him snoring with that adorable baby-dragon buzz of his, in the kitchen, face-down in a pile of Pinkie’s cupcakes.

“Oh, Spike.”

Now she couldn’t send Celestia a message.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe, just maybe, Celestia wouldn’t miss Twilight’s weekly letters for ten years or so. She was a very busy pony, after all.

Twilight floated the pile of magically-booby-trapped cupcakes into the dustbin and washed the table clean around Spike, being careful not to wake him even though she knew it was theoretically impossible to do so. Spike, at least, wouldn’t be angry about sleeping for ten years.

She began to enumerate all the things she’d have to do to take care of her ponies for the next ten years. Some things would be simpler, now that they were all asleep. The library, for one. But she’d have to move them all to more comfortable locations so they wouldn’t wake up with permanently-sore necks and backs. How would she even figure out where they all went? She wasn’t Pinkie; she didn’t know everypony in town. What if she put the wrong two ponies together in the same bed?

The only responsible thing to do was to experiment with combining different ponies in bed together, and determine by observation of their movements which ones were most compatible. Fortunately, she’d already worked out a sleep-behavior coding protocol for just this situation. And Applejack wouldn’t be there to say no this time.

What about all of Fluttershy’s animals? If she couldn’t figure out a spell to take care of them, she’d have to set them all free. Fluttershy would be devastated.

She’d need to create a schedule for hoof-clipping, mane trimming, grass mowing—she supposed the sheep and cows would help—periodic building repair, weeding…

Her tail began to twitch with excitement. She needed to make a checklist!

She trotted to her new desk in her enormous new study, rolled the cover up, and had just decided on a #10 checklist with a square border and a beige background when she was interrupted by her stomach growling.

Then Twilight realized Spike’s slumber meant something much worse than not being able to send messages to Celestia: She would have to do her own cooking for the next ten years.

But this was not a problem. Recipes were, after all, checklists, written in books. Presumably Twilight would therefore be a perfect cook, unless the cookbook were defective. And she had an enormous selection of cookbooks! In the library, that is. It was ordinarily one of her most bothersome sections, since ponies sometimes checked out the books in it, but now it might finally be useful!

She bounded down into the library and horn-yanked the entire cookbook section, then trotted back to the kitchen with the books floating behind her in the air like foals trailing behind the Piebald Piper. She piled them up on the kitchen table and began searching for recipes for high-quality meals of the type that she would establish as Ponyville cuisine over the next ten years. Something healthy. Something yeasty. Something fluffy. Something...

She sighed, then went over and shut the lid of the dustbin, shutting in the smell of freshly-baked cupcakes.

Where was she? Oh, yes. Something healthy. Something…

Was there really no one else awake in Ponyville?

She went to the kitchen window, which had a view straight down Main Street from one floor up. As far as she could see, nothing moved except pendants flapping in the wind.

She climbed up the spiral crystal stairway in the north tower, reflecting again each time she slipped and nearly plunged off the edge that crystal was a terrible material to make stairs from. When she got to the top, she opened the trap door to the roof, and surveyed the town.

She had an excellent view from behind the crenellations. From this height, she could see every street and every building in Ponyville, just as she’d been able to from her bedroom window in Golden Oak Library. The roof was even better, because keeping a telescope there didn’t seem creepy. Not that it would be of much use now.

No, not a soul was stirring. Not in one street, not in one window.

She went back down, satisfied that she was completely alone, and returned to the kitchen to prepare her meal.

They were, she decided afterwards with some satisfaction, some of the best cupcakes she’d ever eaten.