Christmas may be over, but as you can see, I haven't put all the ornaments away yet.
I'm rationing myself one of these golf ball-size beauties per day. OK, I occasionally share. I divide the truffle (fork tines cracking through a chocolate shell and sinking satisfyingly into a gooey middle). And I give my husband the smaller half.
Chocolate is a fail-safe gift for this hostess. Still, I lightly gasped when I lifted the lid on these particularly gorgeous truffles, all studded and striped in raspberry-pink, winter-white and buttery-gold.
For the next 12 days it would be Christmas all over again with each surprising bite: salted caramel? raspberry? coconut? I'd look longingly at the box well before breakfast and modify the drinker's motto: It's 12 o'clock somewhere!The truffles came from the Sayville Chocolatier on Long Island's southern shore. It turns out that my truffles are not only a reminder of the wonderment of Christmas — but, as I listen to the wind howling through the concrete valleys of Manhattan Island, they remind me of the other island I used to call home.