It was raining the way it used to—fat drops, slow rhythm, the kind that makes the roof sound closer than it is.
I was cleaning the drawer where I keep the zester, the broken measuring cup, that jar of peach jam from ’02 that I can’t throw away.
And under all of it, I found the cookie scoop.
The one we used for Mae’s school bake sale back when she still needed help tying her apron.
That’s what started it.
Martha’s whoopie pies.
Not because I was craving them.
Because the scoop made my hands remember.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness doesn’t call them nostalgic—but they are. Soft domed cookies, rich with cocoa and buttermilk, sandwiched around a pale vanilla buttercream that feels like a time capsule from church bake sales and plastic wrap.
The recipe’s clean. Controlled.
Cream the butter and sugar like you mean it. Fold in the flour slow. Don’t overmix. Scoop with precision.
She even says “12 per tray.” Like chaos isn’t an option.
The filling? Straightforward. Butter, sugar, milk, vanilla. Whipped into something you want to stick your whole face into.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have buttermilk. Used yogurt and a splash of vinegar. It worked.
My cocoa wasn’t fancy. Dutch-process? Maybe. Or just old.
And I only had salted butter, which I used anyway. (Her Highness would’ve gasped.)
I didn’t sift anything. Just stirred slow. Listened to the rain. Let it clump a little.
For the frosting—I eyeballed. I think I added too much milk. Didn’t care.
It still tasted like 2009. That year Mae ate one before school and got powdered sugar on her spelling test. She was so proud of that smudge.
The Way It Happened In My Kitchen
I beat the butter with sugar while the kettle groaned.
Mae texted me in the middle of it: “Do whoopie pies need to be cold to be good?”
I didn’t answer right away. I just smiled.
The egg slipped in with a slurp. The cocoa smelled like childhood and something more burnt than sweet.
The flour puffed up like it always does—one wrong move and you’re in a chocolate cloud.
I portioned the batter onto the tray, but not perfectly. One was smaller. One was massive. Real life math.
While they baked, I made the filling.
Got distracted. Used the broken measuring cup.
The butter slipped. I licked a little off my thumb.
Tasted like vanilla and that Christmas before everything changed. The one with too much pie and not enough conversation.
A Few Things I Learned
Cocoa and memory mix faster than butter and sugar.
The smell of baking softens the air, even if nothing else is soft that day.
They don’t have to match to belong together.
What I Did With the Extras
I froze a few, told myself I’d save them for Mae. Ate one cold that night. Better, somehow. Firmer. Like it meant it.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. Not because I need more.
Because sometimes my hands know before my head does.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The rain stopped before I finished.
Or maybe it didn’t.
Hard to hear when your heart’s chewing on the past.
This reminded me of that molasses cake I made last fall when the power went out. different sweetness. same warmth.
FAQs
yep. that’s what i did. added a splash of vinegar and called it a day. no one noticed. not even mae.
they do. especially if you wrap them. but i ate one straight from the freezer at midnight and it still made me emotional.
depends how generous your hand is. mine was in a mood. i added more sugar than needed and didn’t regret a grain.
absolutely not. let one be bigger. let them lean. it’s a whoopie pie, not a wedding cake.
yes, but good luck not eating half while “testing” them. i tried. i failed.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart’s Mac and Cheese
- Martha Stewart’S String Bean Casserole
- Martha Stewart’S Yorkshire Pudding
Martha Stewart Chocolate Whoopie Pies
Description
Soft, smudged, and sweet in that way memory is—bit too much, never quite enough.
Ingredients
Buttercream:
Instructions
- Mix the dry ingredients in one bowl — flour, salt, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder. no sifting. just trust.
- In another bowl, beat the butter and sugar until they stop looking tired. it takes a minute. maybe two.
- Add the egg and mix like you mean it.
- Pour in the buttermilk (or your yogurt + vinegar combo if you’re winging it like I did).
- Fold in the dry mix bit by bit. go slow. pretend you’re convincing it to stay.
- Scoop the batter onto baking trays lined with parchment. they don’t have to be perfect. mine weren’t.
- Bake at 400°F (200°C) for about 11 minutes. they should look set but still soft in the belly.
- Cool completely on a rack or just the counter. i used the back porch—it was cold enough.
- Make the buttercream with soft butter, powdered sugar, vanilla, and a splash of milk. no rules here. taste as you go.
- Frost one cookie and sandwich with another. repeat until you run out or get tired.