The glorious smell of baked donuts wafts over you as you stand outside the small food cart parked near the end of Ponyville Main Street. It’s a run-down, whitewashed caravan that’s identified only by small red lettering painted on the side by some pony with 3rd grade artistry skills. DONUT PALACE III. It was the equivalent of one of those Mexican border pickup truck burrito vendors. It didn’t look very legit but you knew that meant it was good, that or they somehow made donuts with kangaroo meat. Your nose told you your gut was right.