There was the year I was going to make Stollen for Christmas. I start Christmas Eve, making the dough while staying at my parent's house, the coldest, draftiest house in the world. It. would. not. rise. I had to resort to setting the oven to 150, let the door open a few inches, and then placing the dough inside. It finally rose.
But it been 2 hours by this point, and it just was not a happy dough. Then, when forming the dough, I was supposed to form 2 braids and pinch them together. Somehow, one braid was enormous, and the other was tiny. When I set the small one on top of the large, it looked like an airplane propeller made out of braided dough.
Okay, it is finally done, and although rather propeller like, it smelled good. I turned my head for a second, and the cat decides to check it out. So, little kitty nibble marks on one of the propeller blades. Chase her away, slice away kitty nibble marks, and decide to place it in the oven overnight, with some saran wrap on it.
In the morning, my father decides to turn on the oven first thing (why? - to this day no one knows), and only the smell of saran wrap starting to meld onto it warns us. But it is on the other propeller, so it is balanced. We sliced off that.
And after all of that: it was meh. Not horrible, not great, and certainly not worth the work that went into it.