Love song to my breakfast

Tom and I just got back from a late breakfast at a local diner. Local, as in Springfield. As in, nothing vegan, gluten-free, organic or all-natural (probably). The art on the walls is not for sale for much more than it's worth; it's a poster of Marilyn Monroe, a collection of baseball caps, melted Coca-cola bottles and the like. Tom looked wonderful in his gray Harley cap with his gray eyes, framed from behind by an old, red gas pump which stood beside our table.  This place was my idea. I know I'm not supposed to eat like this: 75 cent coffee, Cinnamon Roll French Toast (filling the oblong plate and cradling a giant pat of melting butter. 2.95.). I know I need to vote with my wallet and make responsible decisions for the good of everyone; but I sure love these places sometimes. Part of my vote (about 13.20, today, not counting the tip) goes to the "little guy" that doesn't share my clean, green, humanitarian, cruelty-free, healthful values, but shares my love of seeing two little girls splitting a 4 dollar pancake so big it reaches both sides of the table; my pride in thriftiness; my silly nostalgia. The wait staff was friendly, calling me Honey and asking me about the baby. Tom's home fries were perfect, as was my meal. The 75 cent decaf coffee was palatable and bottomless, with no waiting. I watched the fried chicken and waffles go by on my left side as the downtown Springfield traffic went by on my right side and I was peaceful and happy, imaging the day we'd sit there with Calvin and his glass of milk, watching him making steady but laughable progress through his chocolate chip or blueberry pancake as we sip from a never-ending stream of hot coffee. I am very romantic about family, and America, and breakfast. To me family is the ultimate comfort; America is home; and breakfast, in this context, is the most luxurious event imaginable: tasty, plentiful, unhurried and effortless.
I know Tom liked his chicken fried steak. I don't know if he fantasized about one breakfast for weeks, as I did. Maybe his thoughts were occupied instead with visions of the dinner he made last night: salmon, shrimp, mushrooms, tomatoes, spinach, lemon and rice. He came home with cold, brown-paper packages and instructions about candle light. He has romantic ideas about home and men in the kitchen and a pregnant wife. I have romantic ideas about him.
All this is to say that I am truly blessed, and Happy Valentines Day.