Baked Apple Pie Fries

Juneteenth. I took the day off work and took the kids to the festival at Piedmont Park — music, food vendors, art, the kind of joyful community gathering that Atlanta does better than anywhere. Marcus was reluctant (he's twelve and reluctant about everything except debate) but he loosened up when he found the book vendor and spent an hour browsing titles about Black history and psychology. Jasmine ate her weight in funnel cake and danced to every song. I watched them and felt something I haven't felt in two months: lightness. Not happiness exactly. Lighter. The grief was still there — it's always there, a passenger in every room — but the sunshine and the music and my children's faces gave it less space.

Vanessa came with us. She and Brian the podiatrist are still dating. He's growing on me. He's quiet and kind and he looks at Vanessa the way Curtis used to look at Mama — like she's the most interesting person in any room. Imani and Jasmine held hands and skipped through the festival like the world was made for skipping, which at nine it basically is.

Set the Table on Saturday: we made peach cobbler. I chose it deliberately. This was the recipe — Mama's recipe, THE recipe, the one that tastes like home and heartbreak — and I stood in the church kitchen with seven girls and I taught them every step. I didn't cry. I thought I would. I had a whole speech prepared about Brenda, about legacy, about why this cobbler matters. But when the moment came, I just taught. Slice the peaches. Sugar and cinnamon. The crust — butter, flour, pinch of salt, cold hands. Layer it. Bake it. Wait.

When it came out of the oven, Destiny said, "This is the one, isn't it. Your mama's." I said, "This is the one." She said, "It smells like Sunday." I said, "It's supposed to." The girls ate it and they didn't know Brenda and they'll never know Brenda but they ate her cobbler in a church kitchen and they will remember the taste and someday they will make it for someone they love and the line will extend, beyond my mother, beyond me, into kitchens I'll never see, and that is how a woman lives forever. Through peaches and crust and the hands of girls she never met.

After that Saturday in the church kitchen — after watching seven girls roll dough with cold hands and breathe in the smell of warm peaches — I’ve been thinking about simple fruit desserts that kids can make themselves. These Baked Apple Pie Fries have the same spirit as Mama’s cobbler: fruit, crust, sugar and cinnamon, warm from the oven. They’re the kind of recipe you can teach in one afternoon and a child will remember with her hands.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 package (14 oz) refrigerated pie crusts (2 crusts)
1 can (21 oz) apple pie filling
1 egg, beaten
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
Pinch of salt
Caramel sauce, for dipping

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat oven to 400°F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Prepare the filling. Chop the apple pie filling into small, even pieces so it’s easy to spread onto the dough.
Roll and cut. Unroll the pie crusts on a lightly floured surface. Cut each crust into strips about 3 inches long and 1 inch wide.
Fill and fold. Place a small spoonful of chopped apple filling on one strip, then top with a second strip. Press edges firmly with a fork to seal, like a tiny hand pie.
Egg wash. Brush the top of each fry lightly with beaten egg.
Season. Mix sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt in a small bowl. Sprinkle generously over each fry.
Bake. Arrange fries on the prepared baking sheet and bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until golden brown and crisp.
Serve. Let cool for a few minutes, then serve warm with caramel sauce for dipping.

Nutrition (per serving)

Baked Apple Pie Fries — When the Cobbler Comes Out Right