He lowers his arm, scowling at the offending packet of flour. A light dusting of powder accents his hair and dusts his upper half. He is, unfortunately, somewhat too tall for her to cover completely but he appreciates the attempt.

This is all turning out to be frightfully costly. If he has to go out and buy replacements for everything...

Another rattle draws his attention back to the malt balls. They seem to be egging each other to dive into the batter. "Oh no you don't!" he exclaims, trying to slap his hand down on them.

--All he succeeds in doing is knocking something off the shelf. The malt balls fling themselves off (perfect corkscrew into double somersault but who's checking?) and land right in the middle of the batter.