The whoopie pie provokes arguments. Maine claims it as their official state treat. Pennsylvania Dutch bakers insist they invented it, that Amish farmwives tucked these chocolate sandwiches into lunch pails for fieldworkers who supposedly shouted "Whoopie!" upon discovery. I don't much care who wins that debate. What matters is that someone, somewhere, had the good sense to sandwich marshmallow cream between two rounds of the most tender chocolate cake you've ever called a cookie.

This is not a cookie in the traditional sense. The rounds bake up soft, almost springy, with a texture closer to devil's food cake than anything that belongs in a cookie jar. The cocoa blooms in hot coffee, releasing its full depth. Buttermilk keeps everything tender and slightly tangy. When you press two rounds together with that billowing marshmallow filling between them, you create something greater than the sum of its parts.

I've watched generations of New England bakers turn these out for church suppers, bake sales, and family reunions. The best ones are generous. Don't skimp on the filling. A proper whoopie pie should leave evidence on your fingers. That's the whole point. This is honest American baking at its finest: unpretentious, satisfying, and worthy of the enthusiasm its name suggests.