I loved living abroad. I had a great time experiencing a new culture and all that, and enjoyed the different food, too. (Reindeer, in particular, is FANTASTIC.) But of everything I missed, I missed the food I can get here in the States. We have the best food culture in the world. And one thing we do damn well is breakfast. Getting breakfast in Europe pales in comparison to breakfast in the US.
One of the most satisfying moments I had living abroad: I was in bumfuck nowhere in northern Sweden. I'm talking, in a little tiny village with a permanent population of around 20. It was Easter, and I went with Elin (who I had only met a few months earlier) and her parents. Her dad grew up there, and since then almost everyone has left, but many still go back during special occasions (especially Easter and Midsummer). While there, we were all hanging out on a frozen lake with a little fire going, and Elin's mom cooked pancakes, right there. Not those flimsy European crepes (oh, I'm sorry, pancakes), I mean REAL, delicious, hearty, thick pancakes, American-style. In the middle of absolute nowhere, miles and miles away from the nearest town. Months after I'd had true breakfast food, the stuff I grew up with and loved, the stuff I had missed.
Then I hopped on the snowmobile and went flying along the vast expanse of the snow-covered frozen lake.