Dana Burland

In my little town on a little street there’s a little Kenyan restaurant. It started with two tables in the back corner of a coffee shop and week-by-week grew table-by-table until like an African stampede in slow motion (shout out to Planet Earth) it eventually took over the store space all together. Try the chicken wings in their homemade pili pili sauce or the sweet potato peanut soup that my brother begs me to ship home to Michigan and you’ll see why. Sure, you can still stop by to grab coffee on a Saturday morning, but you’ll do it under the watch of a safari’s worth of paper-mached and beautifully painted African animal heads mounted on the wall. I’ve been oogling over these animal heads, with little price tags beneath them, for months. For a while I’d lock eyes with the blue angry elephant in the window when I’d run by and sigh—he’s pretty, I want him. A month or two later I’d pass my obsession onto the kangaroo with a friendly smirk and peppy ears—he’s cute, I need him! Let’s ...

I come from generations of foodies. My auntie Rae makes a brisket that will knock your yarmulke off and my papa had a backyard garden that yielded crisp cucumbers and plump raspberries. My immediate family cooks often, as well, though not many meals are duplications of family recipes. The one outstanding exception is my grandma Jenny’s apple pie. Since us kids are all plane rides, train trips, and automobile excursions away from home, little is predictable about the holidays—with the exception of that apple pie. When we all come in, all hands are on deck for this creation. My dad and brother peel and core the apples, paying special attention to remove every ounce of skin; I slice them thin, small, and uniform; my mom rolls out the crust and constructs the pie; and my sister and brother-in-law usually arrive just in time to eat.

I can’t take the heat. My body just doesn’t dig what the warm fronts have been throwing at eastern Pennsylvania these days. I took to the treadmill twice this week and barely squeaked out a few miles. My legs just don’t dig the treadmill these days either. This morning I woke up early to run and barely got a treadmill run’s worth of miles in before some no-need-to-detail heat-induced stomach sitchus took over. I’ll admit it, my mileage has dropped down (way down) the last few weeks, and while I feel it in my legs, that’s the body part that seems least affected. Summer running tears my stomach to shreds. Maybe it’s dehydration; maybe it’s my Michigan-born blood; maybe it’s the half box of Entenmann’s cookies I ate while watching the NBA Finals last night. All I know is my relationship with running isn’t a happy one right now. I planned on scaling back my mileage ‘cause of the stupid, good for nothin’, cooks me alive, heat; but not by this much. I’m toying with the idea of doing tw...

My great grandpa Sam's mining helmet I spent this past weekend at home—my parent’s home to be exact. And though my childhood bedroom no longer exists and my ‘NSYNC CDs have been long packed away, it always feels like home nonetheless. My great grand-uncle Not too far from said packed away ‘NSYNC CDs was this miner’s helmet; tucked into its new home on a basement bookshelf. Its real home was on my great grandfather’s head in the dirty and dusty coalmines in southwest Illinois. I spent a lot of time this past weekend focused on the idea of home. Huddled over notes from my aunt and a big box of photos from my mom I built out the rest of my mom’s family tree . I tracked the travels and saw what home looked like for many of my relatives—like living next door to a slaughterhouse in Detroit, in a little brick house next to a railroad track in Illinois or in all corners of Poland. Through photos of women with pin-curled hair and slim men in pressed black pants, I met many of...

This weekend it was 90 degrees outside, so me and my semi-sunburnt skin spent more time indoors than out. Most Sundays I cook for hours, preparing for the week (like my mom!) but today I had other stuff to do and just wasn’t feelin’ it. Good thing, because I’ve got two jars of this chili leftover from last week. Yes. Chili. In the summer. Since this version is meatless, it’s filling but isn’t heavy; and since it’s a crockpot recipe, it’s stupid easy and doesn’t require any stand-over-the-stove-in-a-non-air-conditioned-apartment time. Sweet Potato and Black Bean Chili (adapted from here ) 2 sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into ½ inch cubes ½ a large onion, chopped 1 T olive oil 1 T chili powder 3 cloves garlic minced ¼ t cayenne pepper 2 15-oz cans of black beans, rinsed and drained 1 28-oz can diced tomatoes, undrained ¼ c brewed coffee 2 T honey ½ t salt Directions 1. Cook chopped onion in a lightly oiled pan for 5-10 minutes. 2. Add everything to the crockpot. ...

Last Tuesday... Me: Are you at the airport? B: Yep Me: Will you want dinner when you land? B: I just finished a Coney at the airport, so I'll prob be a little hungry. We can decide when I get there. Me: BRING ME A CONEY!!! PLEASE!! B: Lol, wrap one up and bring it on the plane? Me: If you love me, you'll do it. :) B: Lady! -- 2.5 hours later -- (Yes, this was all posted on Facebook already, but I think anything Coney and B related deserve a second round in the spotlight.)

In the spirit of friendship, I'm steeling an idea my friend Kate had for her new(!) blog . Here's a photo worth 1,000 words, though I'll sum it up in less.  Round bellied man chatting with the nice photographer lady.  Me in a lightweight fleece pull-over in August (2007), and how it hasn't been cold enough to wear a lightweight fleece pull-over in two years.  That awesome red classic car to the top right--which is actually the reason why I was at this event (a classic car cruise, not a wanna-be pirate convention just to clarify) to begin with.  And last but not least, The two LIVE parrots on the pirate man's mountain bike chillin' next to the busiest road in metro-Detroit at the busiest time of year.  Here's to hoping your weekend is as wonderfully and hilariously unpredictable as this photo.

I’ve got a buddy who is a natural storyteller—a hilarious, brutally honest, I-can’t-believe-I’m-telling-you-this-but-I-am kinda girl. I’ve only begging her for two years to join the blogging world. She most certainly has the voice, the content and the cojones to do it, and thankfully, she finally has. My co-worker Kate is a spunky one. She started blogging as the Men’s Health Single Girl last December, and while she has plenty of scandalously wacky advice—i.e. how to fart in front of your girlfriend —she’s got stories, thoughts and ideas worth sharing on a more serious level. Last week she created a blog , bought a domain and freaked out just a little. A blank blogging canvas is confusing chaos to Kate, but a cup of tea on a rainy day to me. I worked with her on the look and feel of her site—hammering down the who-are-you-talking-to and what-do-you-want-to-say kind of stuff. In an afternoon, I had her banner image made and by the next day, the top navigation bar and side bar ...

Hello, freak June hail In my book, Sundays are for long, meditative activities—like brunch and walks with local pals (shout out to Elena), long runs where the only measurement of time comes from the beep per mile of my watch or afternoons in the kitchen where the only clock in sight stays on constant countdown mode ‘til tasty food is done. I couldn’t tell you exactly how much time I spent in the kitchen this past Sunday, but I geekily loved every minute of it. With a fridge full of fresh groceries, I went to town like a mad woman whipping up black bean sweet potato chili (recipe to come), peanut butter chocolate pretzels , laundry detergent  and peach iced tea. Yummmm peach iced teaaaa. A summer day—with unbearable humidity like this morning or freak hail/thunderstorms this afternoon—just isn’t complete without iced tea. I decided to go all Martha Stewart up in here and try to make a homemade version. The results were tre tasty, and (assuming you don’t accidently buy frig...

Oh, Tim Gunn will be there? Ok, that’s cool. I hope he tells me I’m totally making my coral dress work. Oh, Tim Gunn is actually here? Oh, cool, cool. So many randoms are going to hound him for a photo. Dumb randoms. I bet that lady with the leather shorts is going to hound him until he tells her she’s making it work. Wow, people are really pestering him for photos? I mean, that’s probably so annoying. Kate—lemme snap a photo of you, you look great. No, stand over here. No, right HERE. Good, my creeper tendencies should be satisfied now.  What a great party, so nice that a couple celebs came out to the bash. I just hope they get to enjoy it. Oh Tim Gunn is at the table next to us? Maybe we should ask him if he enjoyed it? Quick! Move in! Get a photo! Tim, hi, uhm, I’m a fan, can I have a photo real quick? Poor Tim. Honestly, I hope I'm not this creepy forever. God, he's so nice. I'm so strange.

There’s not a lot I remember about middle school—aside from male classmates ruthlessly teasing my Spanish teacher about her name (hi, Mrs. Horning)—but I do remember doing my hair every morning. Yes. Every morning. This astonishes current me. I’m pretty sure I wake up later now than I did in middle school and still in a sleepy fit have tried to add sliced strawberries to my coffee. I don’t know how I ever trusted my morning self to hold a flat iron centimeters from my face. My week in hair goes something like this: ponytail, messy bun, curly hair down that goes up before noon, ponytail. Muy fancy! I could try to be less lazy, but I can’t won’t ; so I’m settling for option #2: Do it up, but do it better.