Apparently, a preposition is a bad word to end a sentence with. I don’t know if that’s a grammatical rule you’re obligated to adhere to. There seem to be so many examples in literature which this rule doesn’t apply in. Or to. I suspect this is the kind of “rule” like the “rule” of never using the split infinitive in English because it’s not permitted in Latin, a language that’s impossible to use it in.

“Where’s your IUD?” Dr. El-Taj asked.

“Somewhere in Florida,” I answered.

I think I left it behind a Burger King dumpster off U.S. 1, somewhere between Miami and Marathon Key.

I barely remember first hearing about 9/11. But I can tell you exactly the weather, what I wore, and where I sat when I received what I thought was an accidental email from the University of Washington Office of Admissions.

The year my kids were two and seven, my husband, Michael, suggested that I complete the last two years of my bachelor’s degree.

“You’re kidding.” I was holding a lamb chop, chasing the two-year-old across the kitchen floor. Lamb chops were Sara’s favorite, so I broiled a couple for breakfast, my new strategy to tackle her recent hunger strike.

When making a curry dish, I usually start with red curry paste and a can of coconut milk and build the flavors from there. The other day at Trader Joe’s, I saw a mob gathered around a display of yellow curry simmer sauce. People were grabbing jars like they were puppies during a pandemic. So, I said to myself, don’t be such a snob, just try it.

Here’s the recipe I came up with. I think you’ll like this dish; it’s as tasty as its name is alliterative.