Eggnog Cranberry Pie

Daylight saving ended. The dark at five PM. The kitchen the brightest room. Sunday farmers market. Tomatoes, shiso, kabocha when in season, mushrooms in fall. The shopping list is short and exact.

Miya, 9, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told. I drank miso from Fumiko's chipped bowl. The chip fits my lip. The lip fits the chip. The bowl is the small daily ritual.

Mushroom rice Saturday. Shiitake and maitake folded into the rice during cooking. Dashi, soy, mirin. The earthy autumn dish.

Barbara called Sunday. We talked for twenty minutes. She told me about the play she is directing. I told her about the kitchen.

I made dashi at five. The day began.

I wrote at the kitchen table from six to eight. The newsletter was forming. The opening sentence was the hard sentence — they always are. I rewrote it five times. The fifth time was the right time.

Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.

I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.

Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. Wiped the counters. Reorganized the drawer where the chopsticks live. Sharpened the knife. The reset was the reset.

I read for an hour Sunday night. A book of essays by a Korean-American writer about food and grief. I underlined a paragraph that said exactly what I had been trying to say in the newsletter for months.

Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.

The cat was the cat. Mochi at fifteen sleeps most of the day. She still eats with enthusiasm. She still sits at the kitchen window watching the back garden.

Miya's old room is now my office. The desk is by the window. The shiso outside. The newsletter in progress. The afternoons are quiet.

A reader sent me a handwritten card this week. Her grandmother had cooked Japanese food in 1970s Boise. She had felt alone in it. The newsletter, she wrote, made her feel less alone. I taped the card to the wall above my desk.

The rain in long sheets Tuesday afternoon. I made tea. I watched it from the porch. The cottonwoods on the next block were silver in the wet.

I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.

A panic flicker Tuesday evening, brief, manageable. I breathed. I drank water. I went outside and walked around the block. The flicker passed. The body did its work.

I made onigiri for tomorrow's lunch. Three triangles. Salted plum in the center. Wrapped in nori. The cling wrap. The drawer where I keep them. The system.

Coffee with a friend Saturday morning. We talked about books, about kids, about the way our forties became our fifties. The talking is the thing.

The neighbor's dog barked at nothing for twenty minutes Sunday afternoon. The neighbor apologized. I told him I had been writing through it and the white noise was helpful. He laughed.

Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.

Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.

The honeycrisps came home from the Hood River stand and sat in the fruit bowl all week, and I kept thinking I’d do something with them — but what I actually made, on the Sunday afternoon after I wiped the counters and reorganized the chopstick drawer, was this pie. Cranberry and eggnog felt right for the season: tart and rich at once, the kind of thing you make when the dark comes at five and you need the kitchen to stay lit a little longer. Miya used to eat it cold the next morning, standing at the counter in her socks. I still make it the same way.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 9-inch unbaked pie shell
1 1/2 cups fresh or frozen cranberries
1/2 cup granulated sugar, divided
1 1/2 cups eggnog
3 large eggs
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Pinch of salt

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat your oven to 375°F. Place the unbaked pie shell in a 9-inch pie dish and crimp the edges.
Prepare the cranberries. Toss the cranberries with 1/4 cup of the sugar in a small bowl. Scatter them evenly across the bottom of the pie shell.
Make the custard. In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggnog, eggs, flour, remaining 1/4 cup sugar, vanilla extract, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt until smooth and fully combined.
Fill the pie. Pour the eggnog custard over the cranberries in the shell. The cranberries will float up slightly — that’s expected.
Bake. Place the pie on the center rack and bake for 40–45 minutes, until the custard is just set at the center with only a slight wobble. The top will be lightly golden.
Cool before slicing. Let the pie cool on a wire rack for at least 45 minutes before cutting. Serve at room temperature or chilled. Store covered in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Nutrition (per serving)

Eggnog Cranberry Pie — The Kitchen After the Clocks Fall Back