Baker's dozing

My father is in a hospital in Florida out of his mind on pain-killers while awaiting surgery and there's not a blessed thing I can do except wait for the phone to ring, but when it rings, it's one of our church members calling with the news that a sweet old lady in our congregation is not expected to live through the night and could the pastor please come? So the resident pastor, up to his elbows in bread dough for tomorrow's market, mutters a few hurried instructions and goes out the door.

Which is how I end up in charge of baking the bread tonight. "These are the easiest loaves to deal with," he says. "You can't go wrong." But the brain cells that were alert and active in my 8 a.m. freshman comp class are now running on auto-pilot and wondering: did he say 300 degrees for 45 minutes or 450 degrees for 30 minutes? The recipe is in his head, which is on its way to the hospital. My head, on the other hand, is full of fatigue.

I figure I can bake two batches before midnight and then I'll call it quits. That's not nearly enough to satisfy tomorrow's customers, but I need to teach a class at 9 a.m. so that will have to do. Besides, the resident baker may be home by then and he doesn't mind staying up all night baking bread. I'll wake up to the delicious aroma of freshly-baked bread and for a few moments I won't have to think about the fact that my father is in a hospital in Florida out of his mind of pain-killers while awaiting surgery and there's not a blessed thing I can do about it.