Amy Hauslohner at Roanoke. She inherited the organizational gene but not, unfortunately, the culinary gene, which went to her younger brother, who can toss a few random ingredients in a bowl, sprinkle liberally with cocoa, and bake to perfection while he plays his Gameboy and listens to the latest hit from Dead Raging Green Puss on his headphones, leaving lucky newspaper office workers begging for more when these calorie-laden works of art are dumped on an unsuspecting world. In order to better burn cookies, the blonde one makes a daring night raid on Food Fillintheblank for eggs, finally leaving the driveway once the boy cookie wonder points out the need to release the emergency brake and only stalling out twice according to his reckoning in the mandatory tell-all follow up to the mission.
Life is stressful.
Sometimes I can barely get through styling my hair and doing my nails in the morning, much less think about emergency brakes. The stamping of feet and comparison of cookie dough to certain history teachers coming from the haunts of the Head Pastry Chef keep Management well out of visual range and completely unaware of the scope of the situation. Nothing could prepare anybody for the scope of the disaster area the next morning. The Mansion's main pastry preparation zone looks like a bag of flour was torpedoed by the last space shuttle of the century during landing maneuvers. Thank goodness the Twin County Drug Task Force doesn't do spot visual inspections at randomly selected homes.