On New Year’s Eve, I wanted pie. Not that the New Year triggered it. I suppose it would be just as precise to say that on any given day I want pie. On New Year’s Eve I did something about it.

Look at that photo up there. Gorgeous.  Retro. Perfect. That is the official photo that accompanied the Cranberry-Cherry Lattice Pie I have been wanting for weeks now. New Years Eve was the night.

I had stockpiled the ingredients the week before. The pie was pending an energy surge and/or the demolition of the last vestiges of ice cream in the freezer. Those stars realigned on Saturday night.

I grabbed all the ingredients and quickly realized that the necessary whole-berry cranberry sauce.  As always, I went to the most likely suspect.

“Honey, did you eat the cranberry sauce?”
“I took it to my mother’s when I went there for dinner the other night.”

I won’t bore you with the subsequent line of questioning, but suffice it to say that two questions remained: What do I do for cranberries because this pie will be made and Why on earth would anyone bring a can of cranberries over to someone’s house for dinner?

There were long moments spent with the refrigerator door open, staring at the Williams-Sonoma cranberry relish. Dare I?

Yes. Relish. Just what everyone wants in a pie.

There would be no lattice. Screw you, recipe. I don’t have time to learn to knit or crochet or do whatever I need to do to make a lattice crust. I remembered some article possibly titled “Pie Crusts for the Lazy and Untalented” to use cookie cutters and place the little shapes half-assedly haphazardly over the filling.

Tapioca looks lumpy no matter how hard I shake it.

Since there is already orange in the relish (Relish Pie! It can’t be said enough!) I don’t want to add the full teaspoon of lemon juice. Maybe 1/3 of one. I am not cracking open one of my precious lemons for such a scant amount. My bottle of lemon juice needs to be chewed open. I don’t bother to rinse the cap once it’s off, perpetuating the problem.

About 12 minutes after putting it in the oven, I realize I have kept up my perfect score of always forgetting to dot the fruit with butter. I had even taken the butter out of the fridge and gotten it ready so I wouldn’t forget. Now my pie will not be as buttery as it could have been. But it will be relishy.

Despite the odds, it smells heavenly and it is a beautiful glossy red…one that I’d love to create a lipstick out of.  The tapioca still dots some of the landscape, but I’m pretending I can’t see it.

Verdict: Gone in 24 hours. Either it’s really good or I’m preg…never mind.