I used to think that people were either really into Valentine's Day or really against it, but now I know that you can just be happy to eat chocolate and drink wine with someone you like a lot (although let's be honest, I think that's what life should look like every day of the year).

To celebrate Valentine's Day without being too cheesy, I decided to make some chocolate truffles (sounds impressive, super easy--exactly what I'm looking for in a recipe) and put them in cute little handmade bags for a festive truffle trade! It's like a cookie swap, but a little more lovey-dovey.

Chocolate Truffles

Ingredients:

• About 12 ounces of semisweet chocolate chips
• One cup of heavy cream
• 4 tablespoons of butter
• Toppings: cocoa powder (sweetened), powdered sugar, melted white chocolate

For the package:

• Tulle
• Tissue paper
• Ribbon

Instructions: 

1. Place the chocolate chips in a large bowl.
2. In a saucepan, heat the cream and butter over medium heat and stir until it begins to boil gently.
3. Remove from heat and pour the cream mixture over the chocolate chips. Stir until completely melted and smooth. Cover and place in the refrigerator until it hardens (overnight is fine).
4. Remove the truffle mixture and use a spoon or melon baller to scoop out bite-size truffles. If you want, you can use your palms to roll each one into a smoother ball, or you can just leave them uneven.
5. Cover with powdered sugar, cocoa powder, or a drizzle of white chocolate. Keep any extras in the refrigerator.
6. You can pack them up in cute little bags by using some tissue paper and tulle--I cut two pieces and crossed them before putting the truffles in the center. Then I bunched it all up and tied everything with a red ribbon.

I love chocolate and red wine--it's such a classic pairing. I'm really into Matanzas Creek's Sonoma Coast Merlot these days. If you make some truffles this Valentine's Day, let me know!

This is a sponsored conversation written by me on behalf of Matanzas Creek. The opinions and text are all mine.

Twelve months ago (tomorrow), Rob and I did our best to "puppy-proof" our apartment and on February second I got in the car to bring our puppy home from his foster family. It was a warm afternoon and I listened to Taylor Swift's "Fearless" album the whole way, which always brings me back to springtime in college. I carried him to the car and immediately he crawled onto my lap before heading back to the passenger seat and falling asleep.

What else can I say? Probably a lot.

I think he might be my best friend. I certainly spend more time with him than anyone else. We have our routine down, and these past few weeks of being out of town has brought me quite a bit of anxiety--I joke that I miss him more than Rob because I can always call or text Rob, but I just have to sit around and wonder if Ender is thinking about me, too. I know he isn't though, because he gets to go to daycare while Rob is at work and play with other dogs until he passes out.

This dog means the world to me, but there have been struggles. I knew it would be hard work, but there were a few things that sort of blindsided me in unusual ways. When we first got him, he would do puppy stuff and I would think that maybe he was a bad dog. I was constantly frustrated by him, but if Rob got frustrated by him, I would get defensive or insecure--somehow I translated his frustration with Ender into frustration with me. I have always been thankful to have a super solid relationship with my husband, but we actually had to find even better ways to get on the same team when it came to the dog. It was the first time we added a sometimes unpredictable element to our relationship, and I know a dog is not a child but I think Ender has been great training wheels for the day we decide to become parents.

Also, he's just really damn cute.

So for the sake of consistency, and to celebrate the fact that he's been part of our little family for a year, here's a list of things about Ender:

• Still only weighs 50 pounds.
• Is now one year and almost three months old.
• Has really sensitive skin, specifically his ears. He is always itchy and we're in the process of trying to figure out if he has a food allergy or not.
• Loves to cuddle on the couch with us (or whoever might be sitting on our couch).
• Runs with me a couple times a week and loves it.
• Now sits in this old chair we brought into our living room and would rather be there than anywhere else in the apartment. See here, here, and here.
• Makes me smile every single day, no matter what.

In the past four months, I've spent something like thirty-six hours in the waiting room of the surgery wing at Roanoke Memorial Hospital. Halfway through, I thought maybe I would learn something from people watching--I remembered being in ninth grade and my English composition teacher used to sometimes take us to Mill Mountain Coffee & Tea downtown and tell us to sit down, watch someone, and write about it.

The exercise was good, but I don't know if I ever learned anything about the people. I'd sip my coffee and look around, jot down a few notes, and we'd have to go back in time for our next class.

But spend twelve hours sitting next to a stranger who also has a loved one under the knife, and you learn things.

There was the overweight twelve year-old who wanted new boots for Christmas, hated the seaweed snacks her sister brought in an attempt to be healthier, and cried when she got frustrated. She seemed younger than she was and was hilarious despite some very deep insecurities. 

There was the pastor who dropped everything to be with one of his parishioners as she waited to hear about her husband's surgery that was unexpectedly moved up a day. He complimented me on my ring, saying that it reminded him of the one he gave his wife when he proposed. 

There was the mom whose kids were at home and whose husband got an infection after his appendectomy, and she was livid that he was going to be kept overnight for observation. I think she was just disappointed and worried but she acted angry, and called what seemed like everyone she knew to let them know that apparently there's a new privacy regulation in place that prevents families from visiting their people in the recovery room.

There was a lady who overheard me talking about Ender and couldn't wait to tell me stories about her own pup. We probably spent an hour talking about how much we love our dogs.

Yesterday I sat on my computer and worked most of the day, but I ended up drinking too much coffee and when my mom's surgery took an hour longer than the doctor estimated earlier that morning, I started to panic. I tried to keep myself busy with my laptop, but every time someone walked through the hallway into the waiting room, my eyes automatically darted up in hopes of finding the surgeon. Every time, I made eye contact with the woman across from me, who was also there alone. She smiled every time and yet I didn't really think about her until later, when she was sitting near the parking lot and struck up a conversation.

"Are you finally going home?" she asked.

"Not yet! I'm spending the night, I just need to move my car. Are you heading home?"

She wasn't leaving yet, but once her husband who had spine surgery was put in a room, she was going to spend some time with him and then go home for the night. 

"Did you eat dinner?" she asked me, genuinely; and I realized that other than my mom's doctors and nurses, she was the first person I had talked to all day.

A few hours later I sat on the edge of my mom's bed and we dipped French fries in Ranch dressing, giggling over a successful surgery and feeling totally exhausted from waking up so early for such a long day. We held hands and took two slow laps around the unit and I realized that, even though these past few months have been so incredibly scary, I will look back on them one day with a smile. I'm so proud of my mom, and so grateful that I could be here with her every step of the way. I just wish I had taken the time to write down the things she said while coming off the anesthesia.

The waiting room can be scary. But we have to try to push through. 

“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.”

— Emily Dickinson