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Somehow I have managed to make nearly 33.5 trips around the sun without ever hearing the words “Whoopie Pie” strung together. It sounded a little cheesy-naughty to me (thinking of “The Newlywed Game”) , until I learned that Whoopie Pies are a well-known treat in other parts of the country. They are a soft chocolate cookie with a creamy filling–a chocolate sugar sandwich, spun from Crisco and sugar and vanilla and sugar and milk and sugar, and a dash of sugar. With Crisco on top, lightly sprinkled with sugar.
I learned about Whoopie Pies from Edie in Maine, one of the moms on Tommy’s playgroup. Apparently, in Maine, Whoopie Pies are eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, taken to potlucks and picnics and campouts, served at birthdays, showers (both bridal and baby) and everywhere you might expect to find food. Colorado is clearly Whoopie-deprived and I vowed to change that! Edie kindly shared her recipe, which I tackled last night with all the skill and enthusiasm a mediocre cook could muster.
I decided to make a half-batch since it was truly an experiment. I learned a lot about baking last night–for instance, it doesn’t make sense to use a fork to scoop Crisco into multiple measuring cups. Make sure your measuring cups are clean before undertaking a massive baking project–otherwise, your brain will turn to dust as you attempt to divide fractions in your head (let’s see, what is 1/2 of 3/4?). A giant serving spoon is not the best tool for scraping the side of a bowl while using the electric mixer. Use the rubber spatula! Where is the rubber spatula? Oops, it’s in the dishwasher, which is running.
The #1 lesson of the night: don’t start the dishwasher right before you start baking something because half the utensils you will need will be inside, being power-scrubbed and heated to temperatures never seen this side of h-e-l-l.
The #2 lesson of the night: you will truly baffle your husband into speechlessness if you decide to spontaneously bake something called Whoopie Pies. From scratch. Meaning no Betty Crocker and her pearls, smiling skeptically at me from the box. No Pillsbury Dough Boy standing on my counter, giggling as I tickle him. Hee Hee!
I must have made extra-large Whoopie Pies, because they were supposed to bake for 6-8 minutes and it took mine 11 minutes for the toothpick to come out clean. Having never seen one in person, I had to guess at their size. If they are meant to be dainty, bite-sized treats, then I am in big trouble. Mine are the size of Big Macs, minus the two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions. Think “sesame seed buns”, all three of them.
After I cleaned up the baking mess, I sat down on the couch to finally sample my experiment. I was armed with a caffeine-free Coke to wash it down, just in case, but it was unnecessary. It was very good! Very very good! All this baking success (first Zippy eggs, now Whoopie Pies) could go to my head! Or to my thighs…….
I am Ryley’s kindergarten class mom. Right now I am in the midst of planning the class Halloween party. It is going well–I will not be baking anything. I am leaving that task up to the mom who volunteered to provide cupcakes for the party because it falls on the same day as her son’s birthday. I dodged that sprinkle-covered bullet!
Over the weekend I emailed Ryley’s teacher to give an update on where the preparations stand and to ask if dry ice in the punch would be a good idea. I was afraid of the mess and making a roomful of 5 and 6 year-olds crazy-scared of smoking, foggy fruit punch. I got her reply this morning. She seemed to think it would be fun. And she signed the email “Sally”. Her first name.
For some bizarre reason, I cannot bring myself to call my kids’ teachers or any of my former teachers by their first names. When I wrote Ryley’s teacher, I typed “Dear Mrs. Smith”. If I ran into one of my former teachers at the store, I would be incapable of calling them “Bill” or “Mary”. They are forever “Mr. Larsen” or “Ms. Felix”.
I have a separate problem with the kids’ doctor–he is known around our house as “Dr. Bones”, after Richard Scarry’s doctor character, a dog, who is found in many of his books and stories. Whenever the kids have an appointment for a checkup or an illness, we tell them they are going to see “Dr. Bones”. I feel guilty, because I think the kids actually believe that the pediatrician is named “Dr. Bones”. It is part of the language of our family, like a secret password or part of a private dictionary. In that way, I like our “Dr. Bones” tradition, but I do want my kids to realize that not every doctor on the planet is named “Dr. Bones”.
When we refer to our adult friends with our kids, we call them “Miss Jennifer” or “Mr. Bob”. All of my friends do the same thing with their kids. I believe it could be a regional way of addressing adults. To me, it sounds a bit Southern. As in “fetch Miss Jennifer some sweet tea, honey-pie!” It falls somewhere between the formal “Mrs. Jones” and the disrespectful “hey, lady!”
Back to the issue with addressing Ryley’s teacher–I have not replied to her email yet because my fingertips trembled as my brain told them to type “Sally”. It is very sad, actually. Here I am, still trying to be the teacher’s pet many, many years after leaving school. I will most likely manage to type “Sally” when I write her back with my pledge to track down dry ice and a punch bowl. But I will feel odd doing it and I will anticipate her reply to contain instructions to proceed to the principal’s office immediately.
The Promise:
and the Reality:
Believe it or not, the little white tray with the balls and squares contains baby food. Joel gobbled up his 1970’s avocado-green-kitchen-colored peas with gusto. The spongy pasta pockets were wolfed down as well.
But wow! How guilty I felt foisting that mess on him. When first confronted by the disparity between The Promise and The Reality, I was in denial: I must have microwaved wrong. I must have misread the directions. Peas can’t possibly be that color. That color doesn’t exist in the spectrum. It was a newly invented color, by God, for this tray of peas on this day. The color will then be retired for eternity.
Then I felt anger–how could Giant Baby Food Company produce peas this color and LIE about it with such a pretty representation of peas on the box? Those peas on the box practically snapped with green goodness, luring me into dropping the big bucks ($1.39 or so!) buying it. Giant Baby Food Company should be investigated by the FCC, the CIA, the FBI, the FDA, the GSA, the RNC, the DNC, CBS, CNN, ABC, and FNC. Throw the book at ’em!
The next step is naturally sadness…as I watched Joel dig in to his peas and pasta, I mourned for a time when Joel was content to nurse and would never chow down on something the color and consistency of pond scum. I mourned for a time in my life when the picture on the box meant something–when the macaroni and cheese was a brilliant, blazing orange, instead of a weak American cheese color. When advertising was not false. When I wasn’t willing to buy toddler food in a box.
Finally, acceptance. As I took Joel out of the highchair and wiped him off, he smiled at me. His tank was topped off for another few hours, enabling him to crawl and cruise around the house. It didn’t slow his magazine-tearing, dog-food sampling, lamp-tipping, and screeching by any discernible degree. He survived his first, and last, serving of peas and pasta.
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