Sure, kid. My hut's made of gingerbread, you bet. Bite any wall you want.

This spoon? It's a donut. I stir hot, steaming concoctions with a donut.

You delightful sprog. You genius. You mouth on legs, you've figured it out. The furniture is chocolate and these eyes of mine that burn with resentment that any candy-smeared child can find me in the woods... why, these eyes are gumdrops.