Hazelnut Truffles

Wigilia. Second married Christmas. The mushroom soup. The twelve dishes. Tom's prayer. The extra place. Everything the same. Everything different because I'm different — older, more patient, more aware of how quickly the years move and how slowly some things take.

Megan wore the locket. The one with our wedding photo and the empty second slot. She doesn't talk about the empty slot. She doesn't need to. It speaks for itself — a space waiting to be filled, a photo waiting to be taken, a person waiting to exist. We're waiting together. That's the hard part and the beautiful part and they're the same part.

Linda made her chicken and Colleen made the trifle and Patrick brought Jameson and Tom sat in his chair and the table was full and the house was warm and Christmas was Christmas. Not better or worse than last year. Just different. Just another year of the same love expressed through the same food at the same table. The repetition is the meaning. The showing-up is the sermon.

Christmas morning: pancakes. Coffee. The tree. Megan in my old brewery t-shirt. Gifts exchanged — she gave me a leather apron for cooking. I gave her a weekend trip to Chicago in February, because winter needs something to look forward to and Chicago is the closest thing to adventure that doesn't require a passport.

Made the Wigilia feast with less anxiety this year. The cooking is becoming easier — not because the recipes are simpler but because I've done them enough times that my body remembers even when my brain doesn't. Muscle memory. Kitchen memory. The memory that lives in hands and not in heads. Babcia's memory, passed to me through recipe cards and repetition and the stubborn act of showing up every year and making the soup.

The leather apron she gave me is hanging on the kitchen hook now, and I keep thinking about what it means — that she sees me as someone who cooks, who shows up, who keeps the traditions going with his hands. After Wigilia, after the twelve dishes and the extra place and all that quiet weight the season carries, I wanted to make something small and sweet and entirely without anxiety. These hazelnut truffles are exactly that: a little handmade thing you roll between your palms, dust in cocoa, and set on a plate for the people you love. Babcia would have approved. The repetition is the point.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 2 hrs (includes chilling) | Servings: 24 truffles

Ingredients

8 oz dark chocolate (70% cacao), finely chopped
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1/3 cup hazelnut butter (or Nutella)
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/2 cup finely chopped toasted hazelnuts
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

Instructions

Make the ganache. Place chopped chocolate in a heatproof bowl. In a small saucepan over medium heat, bring the heavy cream just to a simmer. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate and let sit undisturbed for 2 minutes.
Stir and finish. Whisk the chocolate and cream together until smooth. Add the butter, hazelnut butter, vanilla, and salt. Continue whisking until fully combined and glossy.
Chill. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate until the ganache is firm enough to scoop, at least 90 minutes or up to overnight.
Prepare coatings. Spread the chopped toasted hazelnuts in one shallow bowl and the cocoa powder in another. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Roll the truffles. Using a small cookie scoop or tablespoon, portion the chilled ganache. Working quickly, roll each portion between your palms into a rough ball — they don’t need to be perfect.
Coat and set. Roll each truffle in either the chopped hazelnuts or the cocoa powder to coat, then place on the prepared baking sheet. Refrigerate for 15 minutes to firm up before serving.
Store. Keep truffles in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 10 days. Bring to room temperature for 10 minutes before serving for the best texture.

Nutrition (per serving)

Hazelnut Truffles — The Sweet Ending to Twelve Dishes and a Full Table