So I dumped everything into the pan, tossed it in the machine, and hit go.
No, of course I didn't read the actual directions. I didn't need to think about how long it should knead, or rise, or bake. That's what the bread machine does.
Instead, Rob and I curled up on the couch and watched a movie. By 10 I was getting ready for bed and remembered that the bread should be done.
"I'll just go get it out of the machine and set it someplace safe to cool all night and the kids can have it slathered in butter and cinnamon-sugar in the morning. Super-mom!"
Imagine my surprise when I walked into the back room to find a solid curtain of smoke pouring through the cracks of the lid and spreading across the room! I unplugged it and popped the lid open and immediately regretted it as the curtain turned into a rolling ball of smoke that hit me straight in the face. Choking, I yelled for Rob to come open the door to the garage, and we left the smoking stinking mess on the garage floor to cool off.
My machine does a single loaf. Two to three loaves at once means my cup runneth over and while that may sound good it really means a charred stinking burnt mess filling the bottom of the bread machine while the baking pan remains a gloppy, goopy, smoked mess.
So, yes, in an effort to not waste two cups of leftover oatmeal, I ended up practically burning down the house or at least ruining the bread machine. The whole house smells like a campfire/ashtray combination this morning instead of cinnamon toast and awesome-ness. Fail.