Midnight Baking

Last night I came home late from work. My entrance woke my mother who had fallen asleep on the couch. Mother leapt off of the couch and started moving.

"What time is it?" She asked.

"Midnight." I said.

"What?"

"It's midnight." I repeated, watching her dash around to no specific destination.

"But what time is it?" She was frantic.

"Mom! It's midnight. Twelve o'clock in the morning."

She moved around. "What time is it?"

"It. is. midnight."

She flapped her hands and looked desperate, "But what does that mean?!"

I laughed (not kind, I know, but you try doing it differently). "You're the one that's freaking out. You tell me." Then I noticed that the oven was on, so I opened it. "It's your bread." I told my despairing mother.

Her eyes finally started to focus. "Oh. Bread. Ok." She then pushed some buttons and told me to put the now risen loaves back in the oven, and turned on the timer. I was a little wary leaving her alone in her sleepy state with the oven and the eight fluffy round loaves of bread. But I was tired, so I did anyway.

I finished getting ready for bed and thought I better just do a last check on the Sleeping Baking Beauty. I barely saved the loaves from burning. They are a dark brown instead of a burnt black. "Mom!" I chided her. "Your timer is going off!"

She raised her head from the couch and said, "Oh.... put the other loaves in. Timer."

I went over and stood next to her. "Mom, can I trust you to take out the bread? Because I'm going to bed now and you didn't do so well last time."

"No, I'm fine. I've had a nice nap. I'm awake now," she said but laid her head back down. So I set the oven timer and put an alarm on her phone, thinking that between the two she should wake up decently.

This morning I went into the kitchen and found two very burnt loaves of bread. Indeed.