|That whoopie pie from Starbucks from It’s All Fare.|
I have to tell you: I’m not a big fan of that name. WHOOPIE PIES. I always blush a little when I order one from Starbucks. I feel like “whoopie” refers to, you know, lovemaking. Ugh. I had to write that really small. So embarrassing. It doesn’t help that you have to yell your order into the big plastic menu in the drive-thru.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll have a couple of those LOVEMAKING PIES, please.” That’s what I feel like I’m yelling out when I order some from the drive-thru. “Yeah, I’ll go ahead and take that dessert meant for LOVERS. TWO LOVERS’ PIES, PLEASE.”
(“Lover” has got to be one of the worst words ever. Lover and flange are both just vile. And phalanges.)
The word also conjures up memories of my elementary cheerleading days when I yelled through my buck teeth, “We’re #1! Can’t be #2! ‘Cause we’re gonna beat the WHOOPIE outta you!”
Uh-huh. We told that team. Told that team to keep a close eye on their whoopie before we knocked it straight out of them. STRAIGHT out of them. They’d look for their whoopie and guess what? THEY’D NEVER FIND IT. Their whoopie’s straight up GONE, homie. GONE.
And, of course, there are thoughts of Ms. Goldberg, as well.
But, anyway, if the red velvet whoopie pies from Starbucks hadn’t been so dadblasted good, I would have never tried to make them for my 4-year-old son’s Valentine’s Party at his preschool. The idea of making something red that was also, um, delicious was a really, really, really good one.
Or so I thought.
I had big visions for these red velvet whoopie pies. I would make them for Christmas (with green cream cheese!) and Valentine’s Day. I’d use green food coloring and make them green for St. Patrick’s Day (don’t even get my husband started about that “it’s not really a holiday” holiday). For Columbus Day? Well, nothing. I wouldn’t make any dadgum whoopie pies for Columbus Day. (Okay, I would. I’d make them just plain chocolate to stand for the land he found and the inside would be blue to represent the waters on which he sailed. Huh? Huh? Great idea, right?)
“I’m making red velvet whoopie pies, everybody!” I called out as I happily stirred, heated up the oven, measured whatever it was I measured to make those pies and whistled. (I have no idea how to whistle. Isn’t that shameful?)
“What’s a whoopie pie?” my husband asked.
“A whoopie pie! You know those pies they sold at Starbucks for a while? They’re like little cupcake tops on each side with a cream cheese filling in the middle.”
“Oh,” he said, as he walked off unimpressed.
“What’s a whoopie pie?”, my 8-year-old asked as he came into the kitchen.
“The pies we used to eat at Starbucks, remember?”
“Mommy? What’s a whoopie pie?”, my 4-year-old said like the other two.
“Starbucks. Remember those little pies from Starbucks?”
It didn’t matter that they had never heard of them. They were turning out to be super cute and I knew they would be happy with the results. Basically, the pan had a bunch of little cake-like cookies that I had to make into little sandwiches with a cream cheese filling. I doubled the recipe because I had plans to send some with my husband to work, some with my preschooler for his Valentine’s party and some for other places, too. So, basically, I was running a little sweatshop in my kitchen, except I was the only worker.
The next morning came.
“Try a bite of one of these whoopie pies that I made for your preschool party,” I said with one of those super annoying smiles that is trying its best to manipulate the person into seeing things my way.
He chomps and chews and says, “Yuck, Mom. These are gross.”
“Gross? GROSS?! They aren’t gross! What are you even talking about? They’re really good! GROSS? GROSS?!”
“They’re gross, Mom.”
I sent those suckers to his Valentine’s Party anyway.
(They weren’t gross, y’all. That dude needs his taste buds checked.)
And I sent some with my husband to his work, too.
Mmmmmhmmm. Sure did.
(I felt like my mom back in elementary school. She was always making stuff and sending it with us to school. She used to cut off roses from our rose bush, wrap the stem in foil and have us take the roses to our teachers until I shut that show down.)
I waited with excitement. I couldn’t wait to hear how everyone loved the cute little red Valentine’s-themed whoopie pies. How cute of me, right? THEY WERE RED!! RED FOR VALENTINE’S! GET IT? The suspense was too much, so I picked up the phone and called my husband at work.
“Do they like them?”
(We always have this little discussion whenever I bring up a person’s name that could belong to two or more people we know. “Jennifer? Jennifer who?” is followed by him rattling off the last names of all the Jennifers we know. The thing is, HE KNOWS. If he doesn’t know, he could take a good wild guess and probably figure it out. He just likes for me to be super specific when I bring up people in conversations. As is my style, I’ll do this to the extreme degree when I know he knows without a doubt the person I have just brought up.)
“Your co-workers! You know who I am talking about.”
“Do they like what?”
“THE WHOOPIE PIES! THE WHOOPIE PIES THAT I STAYED UP UNTIL MIDNIGHT MAKING. The whoopie pies. Did they like them?”
“Oh, I haven’t passed them out yet.”
“It’s 12:30! What are you talking about? I worked hard on those things! I thought you’d put them out as soon as you got there. You’re not planning on passing them out, are you?”
“I would if I hadn’t found one of your hairs in it.”
“Oh, you did not.”
“I did, too.”
“Well, throw that one away! The rest of them don’t have them in there.”
(I know this is gross. My judgment was blurred from lack of sleep and energy from late night whoopie pie making.)
He didn’t. He threw all of the whoopie pies in the trash.
The little fartknocker.
Well, at least my 4-year-old’s class would enjoy the little pies. In my mind, it was much like a cupcake, but better and neater. Basically, a 4-year-old’s dream wrapped up in a baked good. This made no sense, but I knew they must have loved them because his teachers called out to me, “THANKS FOR THE WHOOPIE PIES! THEY WERE DELICIOUS!”
Teachers don’t lie, right?
“Well? Did you guys like the whoopie pies? Did you eat one?” I said with that annoying smile again when my preschooler and I got into the car.
“You didn’t eat one? Did anyone eat one?”
“Only two? The teachers?”
“No, Carly took a bite and I think Jackson ate one.”
“Well, if you had taken a bite, then the other kids would have taken a bite. You had to set the example! No one is going to eat them if the kid who brought them isn’t going to eat them. Don’t you want something different besides brownies and cookies all the time?”
“I like cookies.”
“That’s it? Only Carly and Jackson.”
“Yes. Can I go ride my bike now?”
Dagger in my stinkin’ heart.
Those were good whoopie pies. They were! Minus the one with hair in it. (I’m sorry! I’ll start wearing a hair net! I know you don’t eat the food I make, but I don’t want you to start thinking I make Spaghetti & Meatballs & A Rogue Hair. Since I’m off the subject here, I had a co-worker/friend that used to bring cookies to work with an occasional cat hair mixed in with the chocolate chips.)
The extra ones that I made sat in the refrigerator all week. This girl right here can only eat so many whoopie pies by herself before I have to start rolling myself from this place to that.
I’m only starting to get over this whole Whoopie Pie Incident (“WPI” is how I refer to it in my diary). Actually, my therapist said I should probably write it all out as a part of my healing (I don’t have a therapist), which is why you’ve got this mass of words on the subject. I have to tell you, my heart is already feeling lighter. So, light in fact, that I have a sudden urge to do some serious split leaps.
And I can tell you one thing, no one’s knockin’ the whoopie outta me! I will make those dadblasted whoopie pies again, dindangit!
(Will you eat one at least? Maybe try one, perhaps? How about eating just a crumb or two?)
(I *just* had this idea and I know you are probably not on board AT ALL, but…I’d totally make some and mail them to one the commenters on this post and YOU could give me the REAL scoop on whether or not they are good! I’ll even make them with NO HAIR! In fact, I’ll take a picture of myself making them with a hair net on! I could make them any color you wanted- red, purple, green, orange, chartreuse, fuschia, indigo, burnt sienna…or just plain chocolate. I know it’s probably a horrible idea. It’s late, though. Bad ideas come to me around this time of night. And also every moment of every day.)