Prompt: difficult rice

Step 1: Rinse your rice under cold water until the water runs clear.

Sweetie Belle put the box down on the counter, got up onto the hoofstool in front of the sink, and turned on the faucet. There was a gurgle, then a groan from somewhere deep inside the house’s walls, and then water glugged out of the tap, cool and clear as spring. Dad kept saying he was going to fix that one of these days. Maybe she could help him. A cutie mark in plumbing would be a very practical one.

Once the water was running, she hopped down off her stool to fetch a colander from the cabinet, edging around the stripe sketched on the linoneum by the beam of sunlight filtering through the window. The summer sun was about to set. Sweetie was starving. Rarity’d said she’d be back before dinner, but Rarity said a lot of things, usually in a scolding, “I’m-your-big-sister-and-I-always-know-what’s-best” tone of voice. Well, Sweetie would show her. She was smart enough to cook dinner for herself. She was brave enough to do it alone.

Colander in hoof, Sweetie Belle returned to the sink, placing it under the running water and pouring two measured scoops of rice under the frothing stream. She spilled a few grains, but that was okay. She’d sweep up after dinner. She cleaned up after herself very well, like any young lady should. Take that, Rarity. She’d probably gotten caught up in some stupid dress-making project again.

Step 2: Pour your clean rice into a pot and fill the pot with water, using two cups of water for each cup of rice.

Sweetie knew where the pots were kept. She’d seen them in the cabinet where she’d gotten the colander from. Leaving the water running, cloudy rivulets poking through the colander’s tiny holes, she went back to the correct cabinet and plucked the medium-sized pot out from the middle of the neatly organized stack — gently, slowly, so she didn’t dislodge any dishes she didn’t need right now. Rarity would be furious if she left a mess behind her. Plus, a falling pot would make too much noise.

Back to the sink, where the water was running clear through the rice in the colander. Sweetie shook the rice around a bit to make sure it all got soaked, then poured every last grain into the pot she’d brought with her. She used the same measuring cup she’d used for the rice to measure out water, filling and dumping and refilling four times. Waste not, want not, as Rarity liked to say. She was always late. It was always somehow Sweetie Belle’s fault too.

I didn’t know you could burn juice, Sweetie Belle. What am I going to do with you, Sweetie Belle? I have to take care of you, Sweetie Belle, because you’re my responsibility now. As if any of that was something she could control. She was only eight years old. She didn’t even have her cutie mark yet. But at the very least, she could cook rice by herself. It was only rice. It would only be one meal she’d have to prepare alone.

Step 3: Add a pinch of salt and a tablespoon of oil, then cover the pot and bring it to a boil. Don’t leave the kitchen.

Of course the recipe would say that. How much salt was a pinch? Why couldn’t ponies just give clear directions? Rarity was annoying and bossy a lot of the time, but at least she was good at that. She’d told Sweetie Belle very specifically that she’d be back before dinner, and that under no circumstances was Sweetie to leave the house or talk to strangers or let anycreature else inside before she returned. She’d given her a special word to remember too, one which only the two of them knew. She’d hugged her, squeezing tight, shaking a bit like she meant never to let go.

A pinch of salt. Pinches were little bits of pain, annoying but harmless. It probably just meant a little bit of salt, then. Sweetie clambered up onto the cabinet so she could reach the spice rack, pulled out the salt shaker, and shook it three times over the pot of rice. Then she shook it a fourth time. That was probably too much. But that was the stupid recipe’s fault, not hers. She was only eight years. She was following instructions. Maybe she’d get a cutie mark for obeying her sister’s commands.

The teaspoon of oil was easier, in any case, and so was nudging the hoofstool over, sliding the filled pot onto the stove burner and clicking the dial over to its highest setting. Once she’d put the pot’s lid on and the coils of the stove burner started to glow orange, there was nothing else to do but wait. She was good at waiting too. She’d been doing it all day, ever since Rarity had hugged her tight and trotted out the back door and said she’d be back by dinner. The sun was low on the horizon, seemingly minutes from setting. It’d been like that for days now, streaming unnaturally through an inch-wide gap in the boards nailed over the kitchen window.

Step 4: Once your water is boiling, lower the heat to a simmer. Take the lid off the pot, lay a kitchen towel overtop of it, and replace the lid. Don’t answer the door.

On the house’s front stoop, something thumped. It was a strange sound, flattened and dull, like a recording that hadn’t come out quite right. Sweetie Belle didn’t leave the kitchen. She knew better than to leave a pot boiling on the stove. It might cause a fire. It might make Rarity mad.

Thump. It was louder that time. Closer. Sweetie Belle watched the pot. A watched pot never boils, Rarity liked to say. But she had to watch it. That was the responsib/le thing to do. She had to be patient and wait for the water to boil and wait for Rarity to come back, and then they could eat dinner and she’d be so proud of her smart, brave, responsible little sister.

THUMP THUMP THUMP. The whole house shuddered from the impacts, ladles and pasta spoons swinging from their hooks over by the sink. Sweetie Belle tried to ignore it. The pot was steaming, about ready to boil. She’d need to act quickly once it did. If she overcooked the rice, dinner would be ruined, and the gnawing hunger in her belly would only get worse than it already was. It’d been getting worse for hours, maybe even days. It was hard to tell time without working clocks to check and a sun that refused to move.

Step 5: Let the rice cook for twenty to twenty minutes if it’s white rice, or forty to forty-five minutes if it’s brown. Wait. Be patient. Rarity will be back soon.

With a soft hiss, the water began to boil. Slowly, carefully, so she didn’t burn herself or let anything slip out of her quivering hooves, Sweetie Belle pulled open the drawer next to the stove, extracted an oven mitt from inside, and used it to remove the pot’s lid. Steam billowed out of the pot, clouding her vision and condensing on her forehead where her mane hung low around her horn.

She’d need a haircut soon. Rarity had been doing it for her lately, ever since the sun had stopped setting and everypony had stopped going outside. But Rarity had gone outside, and she wasn’t back yet. She was just running late. She probably had a really big project to finish. And in the meantime, Sweetie Belle was hungry, so the next step of making dinner was getting a towel from the rack in the pantry and covering the pot with it.

Sweetie Belle got down from her stool again and headed for the pantry, flank pressed against the floor-level cabinets so no part of her was visible through the crack in the window’s boards. She had to be quiet. She couldn’t let anycreature know she was home alone. Rarity had told her that just before she left, while she was hugging her so tight she could barely breathe. She could hear her big sister’s voice even now, reminding her of the instructions she had to follow — echoing in her ears, reverberating in the hallway, seeping through the deadbolted front door like the soundtrack to a movie played through broken old speakers.

“Sweetie Belle? Sweetie, it’s Rarity. It’s your big sister. Please come let me in.”

Step 6: Keep an eye on the pot. Make sure the towel doesn’t sag down into the burner and catch fire. Keep waiting. That’s not Rarity out there.

Sweetie Belle pulled a clean towel off the top of the pile on the rack in the pantry. She almost dropped it, but she caught it before it touched the ground. It’d be a waste to dirty a towel without using it. Waste not, want not. When Sweetie exited the pantry, there was a thump at the front door again, and then a gurgling groan. She stared at the door’s knob, trembling in place, then forced her to turn away. The pot was still boiling. She had to be quiet and turn down the heat.

“I know you can hear me, Sweetie. I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something. Please open the door.”

Sweetie twisted the knob on the stove until the little arrow on it pointed at the number “5” instead of the number “10.” Then, hoof responsibly protected by the oven mitt, she draped the clean towel over the pot, arranged it so no dangling corner of fabric hung near the burner’s red-hot coil, and slotted the pot’s lid back into place. The voice at the door was still talking, toneless and shapeless, a memory misremembered of the orders Sweetie Belle knew she had to obey.

Step 7: It’s not done yet. You have to keep waiting. You have to be smart and you have to be brave, because Rarity told you to be. That’s not Rarity out there.

“Are you angry with me, Sweetie Belle? I understand if you are. I left you alone so very long. But I’m back now. I’ll make you dinner. Just let me in. Unlock the door, Sweetie Belle.”

The pot was still steaming, but it wasn’t boiling anymore. That was good. Sweetie Belle was doing everything right. She was following the recipe on the rice box just like she was following her sister’s commands, because that was what responsible fillies did: they cooked by themselves, and they cleaned up afterwards, and they didn’t answer the door for anycreature except Rarity, who would say their special word so Sweetie would know it was her.

She’d asked Rarity before she left why they needed a special word, and Rarity hadn’t answered her. She’d asked where the rest of Rarity’s friends were, and where her own friends were, and why she couldn’t go with her big sister when the grocery store was just down the street, and Rarity hadn’t answered those questions either. She’d just made her promise to follow instructions, and Sweetie had promised, and she would always keep her promises no matter how hungry or scared she was.

Step 8: A watched pot never boils. It hasn’t been twenty to twenty-five minutes yet. Stay put. Don’t look out the window. She’ll be back soon.

“Sweetie Belle, come open the door this instant. You’re being a very bad filly. I’m going to tell our parents about this. They’re out here with me. Your friends are too. Let us all in.”

Sweetie Belle stood in the center of the kitchen, watching her pot of rice, waiting forever for each grain to properly cook. The stripe of light on the linoleum wavered, then blinked away for a moment. She had to wait. She had to follow directions. When Rarity had hugged her and left her alone, she’d been a bad filly who hadn’t obeyed instructions. She’d gone to the window. She’d looked outside. She’d seen the blood-red sun in the sky and the pale white shapes on the street, scattered and still like grains of rice spilled on a dirty kitchen floor.

“I just want to help, Sweetie Belle. I just want us to be together. You want that too, don’t you? We can be together. We can be a family, all of us, forever. You just have to be brave. You just have to open the door.”

She was a good filly now. She’d be a good filly forever. She’d do her chores and study hard in school and never do anything bad ever again if Rarity would just come home, if she would just say the special word so her smart, brave, responsible little sister could open the door and not be alone anymore.

Step 9: Don’t look. Don’t cry. Don’t look. Don’t look.

There was a thump at the door, then a SLAM, then the crackling, splintering sound of a metal bolt shearing through impact-weakened wood. The water was boiling again. She hadn’t turned down the heat enough. She’d ruined the rice, ruined everything, because she didn’t know how to cook and didn’t have her cutie mark and didn’t know how to do anything even if she was given specific instructions.

“Sweeeeeetie Beeeeeelle…”

Thump, thump, thump — in the foyer, down the hallway, closer and louder and wrong in every way. All she had to do was listen to her big sister, who had told her to stay inside and held her close and smeared wet, salty tears into the filly’s disobedient shoulder just before leaving her behind forever. Just say the special word, Rarity. Please say it. Please come fix everything.

But she wouldn’t say the word. There was nothing left to fix. On the stove, the rice boiled over, and frothing white bubbles hissed and popped as they trailed down the side of the pot and dripped onto the sizzling burner.

Step 10: Remove the pot lid. Remove the towel. Fluff the rice with a wooden spoon. Eat it.

The thumping stopped. Sweetie Belle turned off the stove. She stifled a sob, wiped her eyes, and turned around.

Rarity was standing in the kitchen with her, staring down at her, still as stone and ghostly pale. Her hooves were dirty and stained. Her eyes were half-lidded, pupils half-empty, faintly glowing red like a sun that would never set. She hadn’t said the special word. It didn’t know there was one.

“I’m sorry, Rarity,” Sweetie Belle whimpered. “I tried to make rice.”

“That’s okay, Sweetie Belle,” Rarity intoned. “We’re together now.”