Apple crumble

Someone knocked at the door, so I dusted the flour from my hands as best I could, picked up the rolling pin, and headed, bent nearly double and cursing, down the hallway to open it. Outside was stood an arrogant woman badly disguised as an apple seller.
“Apples, sweetie, apples for sale,” she hissed, her hood stopping her from seeing that I’m over six foot tall, muscular, and male.
“I’ll take them all, sweetie,” I said. Her head snapped up and she swept her hood back. Blue eyes bored into me.
“Where’s Snow White?”
“Inside with a headache. Apples, please.” I held my hand out.
“You’re not a dwarf…”
“What gave me away?” I was tired of asking for the apples, so I pulled the basket off her arm.
“They’re not for you!” she screeched, swiping at my chest with a claw-like hand. “They’re for Snow White!”
“They’re for an apple crumble now.”
“You— wait, what’s that smell?”
I rubbed my head with my free hand, a little embarrassed.
“Er, roast… meat.”
“What kind of meat?”
“Uh, dwarf… it was an accident!”

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