Dana Burland

I can’t speak. I can hardly type. I’m too overcome with warm, creamy, gooey garlic pasta-ness wrapped around my belly like a hand knit blanket. I saw this recipe linked to in a food blog I regularly read and immediately took note. Creamy garlic pasta—what, pray tell, is not to love? Oh, by the way it’s a one pot, 10 minute meal. If you think you found something not to love, consider that ‘one pot’ tidbit you unfinding it. Sure, this isn’t the healthiest dinner you’ll make all week, but it’s friggin’ delightful. The pasta is infused with the garlic flavored chicken broth it hardly passes as spaghetti. The starch from the noodles helps the broth thick to a sauce as it boils. Topping pasta with sauce is so 2011. This is a perfect recipe when you want something comforting, quick and homemade—like after your first day of work. It’s not, however, a good meal if you planned on using the limited post-dinner daylight available for a bike ride. #concretepastabelly Creamy Garlic Holy Crap P...

I’m usually a breakfast minimalist—unless there’s good reason not to be. This morning was a prime example. My wine-soaked belly is growling for something good, and I know I need a good base of tasty fuel for a long day ahead. Last night we gave the apartment a test run and hosted our first game night with B’s childhood friends. By 1 am wine glasses were still full and late night snacks were brought out (thus starting what Andy called the wine and Cheez (It) portion of the night). All in all it was a success; and I’m not just saying that because I won Settlers of Catan or finally learned how to play Euchre. Later today, B and I plan to take the bikes out for a bit. We’ve got a race mid-September to prep for and a new (to me) trail system that I can’t wait to get lost on explore. A late night and long ride call for a big breakfast. There are thousands of pancake recipes around the web and I’ve tasted my way through plenty of the crappy varieties. This one is different. It’s no fr...

B and I had been dating for less than a year when I mentioned I might want to move back to Michigan. I tossed the idea to him it as a (much) distant future kind of goal; he read it as I was ready to get packing. A post-holiday pick-up from the airport proved we were both wrong on the timing. I’m not normally weepy, but fresh off the plane in B’s car, I broke down. I missed my family, Michigan State sweatshirts, Coney Dogs and more—I wanted to be closer to home. Once my crazy lady emotions simmered down, I tackled the subject again. It was a heavy topic to throw on a happy, rather bump-free relationship; but we’re both good communicators and calm by nature, so I felt comfortable broaching it. One of the most important (if not the most important) elements to this conversation was flexibility. Because I didn’t wait until my idea was a must-execute plan, there was plenty of room for compromise. We were both able to say ‘here’s what I’d like’, not ‘here’s what I’m doing’. B was relieve...

What do you get when you mix a back beat, a banjo and two black men? Gangstagrass. Some buddies and I caught them at Musikfest this past weekend and just about lost it with the brilliance of their act.   Here's a song off their new album, Rappalachia. I'd love to say I made any of that up, but I'm not nearly clever enough. Oh, you like them, you say? Here's more . 

Community can be a strange thing. It’s been 10 years since I hopped in the pool for my first swim practice and seven since I've lived in my hometown. My experience on my high school swim team wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies either (if your high school experience was, you’re lying), yet there’s still an emotional thread that’s kept me connected. My brother swam for four years after I graduated, and I’d occasionally—and oddly—encounter the dry, spectator side of swim meets. Most of my teammates weren’t just four-year friends; they were friendship bracelet weaving, monkey bar climbing, Ring Pop sharing connections from years of summer and club swim leagues. I met my high school coach, Rado—sans the ‘Mr.’ only for his swimmers, not for his students, mind you—when I was part of the eight and under team at our summer swim club. The female half of my homecoming group in 2003--all swimmers. Unfortunately, our community has come together for more sad than happy lately. Two ...

Next to Christmas, Musikfest is the biggest thing to happen in Bethlehem—it’s a pretty big deal around here. Loads of local and nationally known bands (500 says fest.org) set up at 15 different stages for a week; and folks crawl through the sticky August downtown streets like flies to poop taking it all in. Not to be a Grinch or anything, but I’m not a huge ‘fest fan. Maybe my attitude was tarnished when I lived on actual ‘fest grounds’ and heard every giggle, conversation and Celine Dion song from the flutist outside my window for days on end. This year I’ve wandered down to Main Street a few times (mostly because my buddies wanted to) Sunday morning I Musikfested solo, though. Main Street was quiet and all the pop up food tents were covered. I was on foot, desperately attempting to get some summer mileage in. I ran down to the Historic District, one of the ‘fest’s main hubs. Here, a few workers were awake, getting tents stocked for the day, setting up stages and folding...

Every time I go to the grocery store, I come home with rice and beans. It’s not that I particularly eat a lot of rice and beans, it’s just that I can never remember if I have enough on hand so I inevitably stock up on more. Thankfully rice is a good chameleon ingredient. It’s like that friend you can invite out to any gathering who mingles in a way that brings strangers amongst the group together. (For the record: I’m not that friend.) I’m more of a beans kinda gal (minus the gas)—hearty, trusty, a little wacky upon closer inspection, but versatile if given the chance to prove it. That wackiness made moving solo to Pennsylvania two years ago an exciting and feasible adventure; my heartiness made sailing on chaotic seas the past few weeks more manageable; and I’m trusting my versatility will make my transition back to life in Michigan a seamless one. For the next two weeks I’ll be eating my way through all the excess beans and rice that have taken root in my pantry. Thankfully it...