In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “No Apologies.”Northern New Englanders will know what I mean. I have searched for the ultimate whoopie pie, a frothy confection of pure, unabashed white sugar sandwiched by a soft, moist, chocolate-y cake which makes a “pie” to die for, or at least to end up on life support after my late night cholesterol-o-rama. This is my guilty pleasure, and I do not, cannot, will not apologize for it. My search has continued for many years, and there has always been something missing.
Then one day this past summer, my trusty husband found The Best Whoopie Pie Ever, just a few miles from our humble home on the edge of a little wood. It is sinfully non-politically correct, it probably depletes the ozone layer and contributes to world hunger. I can feel it adding the baddest cholesterol to my arteries, but I don’t care. I can’t even remember what the “good” cholesterol is, anyway (HDL? LDL? M-O-U-S-E? Probably that last one, there.)
It’s heaven in a big, non-biodegradable container. The folks in the store know me, and laugh at the slim, 50-something lady hauling it out of their store. I need two hands to carry it, seriously. It is the most wonderful comfort food in the universe that I’ve found, and it’s sitting on the counter top in our little, sunny kitchen, right this very moment.
Beats money in the bank, any day of the week. You can’t buy comfort like this stuff of pure heaven. Thanks, good karma, for sending the marvelous super-whoopie our way. I eat, and I am happy.