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.