A Wicked Good Whoopie Pie

Not having grown up on the east coast, whoopie pies were obviously not a part of my childhood; neither were Scooter Pies, Little Debbies, or Moon Pies, for that matter. And I've always felt a bit jipped — or shafted, one might say — on account of this absence. Instead, we westerners wallowed in the world of Hostess, and I don't think I am going too far out on a limb here when I say that they are just not the same.

Whoopie pies conjure images of being 10, wearing converse sneakers, riding your banana-seat bike, and watching Ed Sullivan — or whatever they used to watch back in the olden-days. Little Debbies and Scooter Pies conjure images of my husband going from New Jersey to the Lower East Side to see his grandma when he was little. Apparently he and his sister would eat these to their heart's content while sitting in her apartment. And on visits to his other grandma, he would be given a dollar to run to the corner deli for a Yoo-Hoo. Some people are so lucky.

Anyway, what I'm getting at here is nostalgia; a harkening back to simpler times, if you will. I don't necessarily mean Ed Sullivan and the 1950s — I'm referring more to just being a kid and all of the simple pleasures that are wrapped up in that. This is the beauty of the Whoopie Pie.

Several weeks ago I was thumbing through one of my Cook's Illustrated magazines when I found a black and white photo of a whoopie pie. It was then that I discovered that whoopie pies are nearly as much a part of Maine's food history as the lobster roll. Knowing full well that we were off to Maine soon, I vowed (much in the manner of the Lobstah Roll) to eat as many as I could — or to at least try one.

Whoopie pies originated in Pennsylvania's Amish country and then quickly moved up to Maine, where they have happily resided ever since. Their name supposedly comes from all the Amish men shouting 'Whoopie!' when they opened their lunches and discovered that their lovely wives had tucked one inside.

On Saturday after I had just gotten Emilia down for her nap and Michael was busy tapping away on his laptop, I heard a whole lot of rustling on the front porch. I looked out the window just in time to see our ancient mailman walking back up to his mail truck — he had just dropped off two cases of whoopie pies! (Yes, two is a lot, thank you very much. But, in my defense, one went to our friends who took Governor for us while we were out of town.) Anyway, I immediately ran for the scissors and opened the box. As I was pulling one out Michael looks over and says, 'What is that? Some kind of Devil Dog?' I'm not sure which relative he used to visit for one of those...

A whoopie pie (now really, why is it called a pie when it is clearly a cake?) is comprised of two round cookie-sized cakes that sandwich a layer of marshmallow fluff (basically vegetable shortening and confectioners sugar, but we'll call it fluff). It is kind-of like an enormous soft Oreo cookie. And in case you were wondering, they are good. But I'm not 10 anymore, and I gave up my banana-seat bike ages ago. And that leaves me wondering what in sam-hell I'm going to do with a case-full of whoopie pies. I'm just glad I had the presence of mind to not order a case of Moxie to go with it.

The two whoopie pies that we've dabbled in are Labadie's and Wicked Whoopies. Labadie's (from whence the two cases came) can be found at http://www.whoopiepies.com/ or http://www.labadiesbakery.com/, and they are, in my humble opinion, far superior to the Wicked Whoopies (http://www.wickedwhoopies.com/), if for no other reason than their ingredient list is not a mile and a half long (not to mention, they have a much thinner layer of 'fluff'). Labadie's claims to be 'the original (not a copy)' — making whoopies since 1925. You will pay an arm and a leg for shipping, so consider yourself warned. However, they are packed very well and they arrive on your doorstep about 20 seconds after you order them. So that's nice.