Even after your beloved wife has tired of your endless complaining and bought you a kitchen timer; even after you have magnificently remembered to set that timer, twice, for the two different time-periods involved; even after you have heard the second and final beeping of the timer even over the hum of the vacuum cleaner; it is still possible, when you're really really good at this, legitimately to burn the bread.
The best method is to be caught in the kitchen, after you've turned off the timer but before you've taken the bread out of the oven, by something ultimately distracting. I suppose conversation might do it, or the offer of something delightful, tho' in either case I am hopeful that I'd say "Sure, but just let me get the bread first." In this particular instance, it was the chime of the doorbell: which has that extra urgency, that don't-neglect-me-for-I-won't-delay quality that has me flitting fleetly thither every time.
And at the door was a nice UPS man, and after a little back-and-forth (he hadn't wanted to carry the parcel to the door without knowing I was there to receive it) he went away with my incompetent scrawl on his device and he left me with a big box which asserts that it has alcohol within.
Now that, people, is a fine example of distraction. By the time I'd read the label to figure out who it was from, I had entirely forgotten my more immediate errand: so I came back in here, and wrote a paragraph, and didn't remember the bread until a smell of it wafted in my direction.
It's, um. A little dark. Hey-ho.