Cote’s Ice Cream—Brunswick, Maine
A sea-flavored heady mix wafted through the forest as we made our way to the isolated beach called Morse Mountain. The two-mile jaunt through the woods—with mosquitos playfully nipping at our heels and turkeys carousing in the meadow—made the place feel like a secret all our own. An afternoon spent by the sea…the laughs and murmurs of three dear companions…even the perfect summer day must come to an end and slowly we made our way back to the sleepy port town I’ve come to know as the home of my beloved.
Our coach came to rest for a brief sojourn in the quaint village of Brunswick. With the mellifluous cajun strains of accordion and fiddle wafting across the town common, it was easy to imagine we had stepped into another time, another place. It was as if we had traipsed into the steamy bayous of Louisiana with alligators lolling in the sun and the inebriating smell of andouille sausage in the pan. But no, tinged with a raucous and infectious Acadian joie de vivre, we could only be in Maine.
We spied a rustic red shed and made our way across the green, lace-frocked girls frolicking to the rousing southern ditties. Greedily and longingly I supplicated to the busty farm girl tending the stand—may I have a honeycombed golden cone crowned with your local delicacy, whoopie-pie ice cream? I exchanged a few crumpled bills and coins for my prize, dripping sticky-sweet down my fingers in the glowing summer sun.
Criss-crossed with veins of marshmallow buttercream and studded with decadent chocolate cake, the perfectly velvety vanilla sweetcream was a flawless backdrop for a whoopie pie. I raised my voice to the heavens and howled not thrice, but four times! This whoopie pie moved me to utter 4 of the loveliest and most gut-wrenching whoops of my career as the world’s premier whoopie-pie reviewer. I hope that someday you too are moved to bellow to the sky in the ecstasy only a whoopie pie can bring.