When my daughter was tiny, I looked for any excuse to get out of the house, so my days wouldn’t be an endless cycle of yesterday’s pajamas and sour milk.
She was happiest in the morning (anyone with a small child knows that peace and quiet doesn’t come between 4 and 6 pm), so once my husband left for work, I’d get us dressed and head out to my favorite café. It was a serene space with pale, unfinished wood, communal tables, and the aroma of baking bread.
I’d order a huge bowlful of café au lait, and a softboiled egg (served with some of that wonderful French country bread), and I’d eat and read the paper while my daughter napped in her carseat and I got to pretend to be a civilized human being for a few minutes. The real treat wa...