Wil is away in the States this week, so I'm on my own to see to it my belly gets filled. When I finish this post, I'll be boiling a pot of water so I can cook me up a big ol' helping of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. (Pasta, butter and milk. And cheese powder. Nothing but the finest of ingredients for me while hubby is away.)

Wil, on the other hand, will most likely be dining in style in Ohio, where he's spending a week at a conference for work. I am not with him because it wasn't realistic for me to make the journey on a week when I'm basically tied to my office with work obligations and, besides, Uncle Sam wasn't going to be paying for my plane tickets. I'll admit it. I'm jealous. I'm jealous that he gets to see family (a leggy 2-year-old among them), friends and the familiar sights, sounds and smells of home. But for the sake of this post, I'll push aside the jealousy I have of many aspects of Wil's current American adventure and focus on something that truly matters: Restaurants.

It's funny. When people here ask me about what I miss most about the States, restaurants often are one of the first things that pop into my mind. (Remember: I'm focusing strictly on truly important things tonight.) Sliding into a canvass-covered booth at Bob Evan's on a Saturday morning, perusing a sticky plastic menu that offers me plates of waffles loaded with strawberries, omelettes oozing with cheese beside piles of hashbrowns, and large stacks of pancakes trembling with maple syrup. Oh God. Don't even get me started on the bottomless cup of coffee. Or how about a lunchtime burrito or Mexican pizza at Talita's, a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I used to go to with my coworkers, where everything you ordered looked the same - brown and gooey - but slid deliciously down with Dr Pepper, sipped by straw out of a massive plastic cup.

Or, Sunday nights, walking to Aladdin's and picking up some sort of Mediterranean pizza thingy with cashew nuts and hummus and caramelized onion. Or, on a different Sunday, sweet and sour chicken from the little Chinese take-away that always gave me enough chicken to have seconds for Monday lunch although the rice tended to be a bit chunky the second go-around. After work, driving through the Taco Bell drive-through, spending my $3 on three taco supremes, consumed happily on my couch while Monica, Rachel and Phoebe flickered before me in fabulous New York color. Sitting on a stool at the counter at Johnny Rockets, attempting to ignore the dancing waiters while dipping my thick fries in my smiley face ketchup and savoring the sweetness of a vanilla coke. Getting out of the car at 2am at Steak n' Shake, going inside and slurping a chocolate milkshake out of a metal canister and shovelling in fork fulls of very skinny fries limp with orange cheese sauce. Dear me. Salad with ranch dressing and fried chicken fingers at Max and Erma's. Pasta with roasted vegetables at Gibby's. Greek gyros wrapped in foil at the Gyro Shoppe. My American, American, food, beautiful, fattening, yummy, piled high, served with a smile and a 'Can I getcha anything else?'

When Wil called me Sunday night, he was able to impart the knowledge that yes, he had indeed been to Bob Evan's, and yes, his breakfast was all he had been looking forward to. Our tummies tell us when we're home, even if that home is comprised in part by a chain restaurant that has managed to grease its ways into our hearts. I'm already compiling a list in my head of all the restaurants here that I'll miss once I'm back on American soil, but that's a list I needn't finish just yet. Tonight, I'll think back only on the meals upon meals that are beyond my reach, meals cooked by Ohio hands for American dollars.