Brownies and a Vaccum Cleaner Dilemma

We girls were at Grandma's house for the day, which was a special treat. I was, at the time, a whole decade old, and considered myself in the same category as Methuselah.
Now, a visit to Grandma invariably meant sweetmeats galore. Today was different in the sense that I, the Ancient One, was given the task of baker. I wanted chocolate.
Grandma had brownie mix in the cupboard. "Rachel's Super-Duper Brownie Delights, comin' right up!"
Brownie mix, ha! I was an expert in the field of the culinary arts. Why, I could make the best peanut butter-and-cream-cheese sandwiches under the sun! Brownie's were no problemo; this was going to be a cinch. By this time, one of my faithful admirers (a. k. a. my two year old sister Tessah) had come to observe. Well, why shouldn't she want to want to apprentice herself to so great a cook? I removed the plastic bag of brownie mix from its box. 'Hmmm.. .how to get this thing open...?'
No scissors were nearby, but I figured it would be just as easy to tear it open with my bare hands, like a bag of potato chips. "POOF!" Blink, blink. 'What on earth?'
'Why, the kitchen has been hit by a dust storm!' I looked at my hands. They were holding an empty plastic bag.
I looked at the counter, the floor, and me, and realized we were wearing the contents of the bag. I spun around and beheld Tessah. Blinking at me in a state of stupefaction, she was covered from head to toe in brownie mix. She bore remarkable resemblance to an antique doll that had been collecting years of attic dust
. 'Oh no!' what was I too do?
Should I laugh, or burst into tears. I decided tears might not be the best things to produce, because then the brownie mix would turn into brownie goo.
Then, I uttered the word; the one word I knew would bring aid to this tragic situation. "GRANDMA!"
In came the beckoned one. She looked at me; she looked at the kitchen, and she looked at the dusty doll. "What..." her voice trailed off. Instead of finishing her question, she went to the closet and brought out the needed antidote: the vacuum cleaner.
It was one of those gargantuan things that you can ride on, with the long, nasty hose that always twists the wrong way and tangles you in itself. Grandma switched the power button, and started on the floor. Almost instantaneously, the vacuum began coughing and spluttering.
'Why,' I thought,' it must be one of those raris avis (or, rather raris stultus) that dislike chocolate!' Grandma now vacuumed the countertop. The vacuum resisted yet more with discontented grumblings. 'No, no,' I continued, 'with all of the dust and nasty stuff it inhales all the time, it must surely enjoy something sweet for a change...'
Grandma now began on the powdered doll (and gradually recognized her granddaughter beneath the coating).
I continued to cogitate as the vacuum put up an even louder fuss. Now I laughed.
'Of course! It's indigestion! Anyone who eats a whole bag of brownie mix deserves to be sick!' Satisfied with this conclusion, I now suffered Grandma to use the disagreeable cleaner on me. The ailing vacuum was then returned to the closet. I sighed a long sigh. 'All that delicious brownie mix.. .gone. Squandered on an ungrateful machine.' A ravenous craving for chocolate took hold of me. I needed some, NOW!
This longing drove me to march to the cupboard and withdraw the remaining box of brownie mix. I was going to make those brownies, or die trying!
This time I used the scissors.