The longer I live in Sweden the less I want to go “home,” even for a visit. Truthfully, the good ol’ U.S. of A. scarcely even feels like home to me anymore. The not-quite-four years that have passed since I made the move have turned the country into a place I hardly recognize, to judge from outward descriptions and appearances.

There are things I miss, though. First and foremost (taking people out of the equation, of course), I miss that most American of establishments, the café/diner. Every time we pass a road sign that says “Café Ahead,” I think, “Oh! Let’s go!” in the split-second before recollection deflates me. For me, the word “café” brings to mind burgers and fries, grilled cheese sandwiches and dill pickles, chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, fried eggs and greasy hashbrowns, and most of all, that best of all possible worlds: Breakfast All Day. That, of course, is not the kind of café menu one finds in Europe.

In the town where I lived before moving to Sweden, there is a fantastic little diner next to the railroad tracks called, appropriately, the Depot Grill. In addition to serving breakfast all day, the place is open twenty-four hours, which means that a plate of hot, buttery french toast is never far out of reach. Two adults and a small child could get full there on less than ten dollars, so we often treated ourselves to a meal there even when our budgets were strained. We ate their superb french toast so often that Lydia actually thought the name of the place was French Toast.

For a number of years I worked swing shift for the postal service and for a good portion of that time one or the other of my younger brothers lived with me. It often turned out that they would also be working swing shift, usually at the local “potato factory,” where frozen potatoes were processed and packaged. Plenty of times we could be found at the Depot Grill way past midnight, drinking coffee and winding down after a long day’s work.

Sweden doesn’t know what it’s missing in not having places like that, which, now that I think about it is lucky for Swedes. I do know what I’m missing, and boy, do I miss it.