Leap Year, that weird calendar oddity that only comes every four years, has inspired a slew of stories and superstitions. The most famous — February 29th is the day women can ask men to marry them — was conjured up in Ireland sometime back in the 5th century.
Legend has it that an Irish nun known as Saint Brigid of Kildare bitterly complained to Saint Patrick that too many women were waiting too long for men to propose marriage. The country’s patron saint agreed to give women one day in the calendar — conveniently one that falls only every four years — when they could ask their longtime suitors to wed. If the man said ‘no’ tradition demanded that he buy his spurned girlfriend a silk gown. I wonder how many rejected women felt they’d won the better end of that deal.
For a woman to propose on any other day among the 365/366 in the Gregorian calendar was and, to a certain extent, still is considered a major no-no. Astoundingly, society clings to the notion that a marriage proposal is a male responsibility. The idea is so culturally pervasive that a woman dropping down on one knee to propose is still a rarity. The image of a ‘desperate woman’ prevails.
So what do you think? Does it really matter who proposes to whom — or why, or how? And a shoutout to all the modern women out there: Would you or have you popped the question? We’d love to hear your stories!
Here are a few famous women who have done the proposing:
Actress Kristen Bell to Dax Shepard
Pop star Britney Spears to Kevin Federline on a flight back from Ireland (where else?)
Singer/songwriter Pink to Carey Hart
Fashion designer Diane Von Furstenberg to Barry Diller
TV’s Judge Judy to Jerry Sheindlin
Elizabeth Taylor, married seven times, but only asked one man, Michael Wilding, to marry her
At first blush, writing about romance may seem as easy as, well … falling in love. It isn’t, even for the hopeless romantics among us. At The Story Project we have the lucky advantage of penning the stories our clients tell us. It’s not up to us to devise romantic plot twists, adorable “meet cutes,” or emotional grand declarations. That’s best left to the Hollywood RomCom writers.
Our job is the not-so-small matter of coaxing couples to talk (yes, it’s mostly the men that duck for cover). And then there’s the challenge of writing a story — from first glance to “I do” — that captures the essence of their romance.
As a Valentine’s Day gift to the wanna-be romance novelists among you, or just those of you inspired enough to compose a truly personal card this year, here are some of our best tips for writing about love:
— Steer clear of clichés. “It was Kismet” or “we fit together like pieces of a puzzle” are as old as the hills (excuse the cliché) and read that way.
— Write in your own voice. Any attempt to parrot Jane Austen’s genius, or for that matter, Danielle Steele’s sauciness, reads like what it is: a stale imitation.
— The “meet cute,” Hollywood’s name for a charming, sometimes ironic way for a couple to meet, is one of the most used tropes in film. It’s also one of the most difficult to write. Skip it. A first encounter doesn’t have to be adorable or embarrassing to grab your readers’ attention. Sometimes reality works fine. I once asked a colleague how she met her husband. “We met in the office,” she said shrugging at the dullness of it. “We hated each other. It took two postings and three countries before we fell in love.” You gotta ask: how did that happen? There’s usually a good story behind every match, even if it’s not the made-in-Hollywood variety. Ask around if you need some inspiration.
— Search for words that really express the sentiment you’re trying to convey. Her “twinkling” blue eyes and his “amazing” physique are not exactly descriptive. Then again there’s this: “The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor.” Terminal velocity? Ugh, but the author made a gazillion bucks from it. See 50 Shades of Grey.
— Trust yourself. Consider what you really want to say and be brave. Putting it out there takes courage, but then again, so does falling in love.
you need more inspiration, keep an eye out for The Story Project’s upcoming
Short-Take telling a clients’ love story, True North: A Love Story in
Five Maps, posting on our website (with permission)
this coming week.
A moment of silence please for those among us who will sit
down this holiday season to awkward conversations, prickly interrogations and
unwelcome political jousting. Do we really need another round of Uncle Harry’s
latest conspiracy theory gleaned from Facebook? And how many times in one year
can Aunt Tilly ask when she’ll dance at your daughter’s wedding?
Despite the plethora of suggestions out there to guide us
through the political and social minefield that is 2019, The Story Project is
offering it’s own List. We begin by suggesting that everyone at the table or
around the fireplace turn inward. Make the season a true family event. Here are
five questions to help get you started:
• To Your Grandparents: How did you meet each other? Was it a long courtship? Did your parents pray for a wedding or beg you to break up?
• To Your Parents: What was the best-ever family vacation? What was the worst? How did you celebrate the holidays when you were young?
• To Your Siblings: What’s your favorite Christmas/Hanukkah/ holiday memory? And your funniest?
• To Your Kids: What traditions, favorite dishes included, do you most want our family to continue and to pass down to your children?
A few things to remember:
• Avoid yes or no answers by asking open-ended questions. For example, you met Grandpa in New York? How did that come about?
• A good interviewer gives the subject space and time to answer. Sit back, relax and let the stories wash over you.
• It’s about fun and tapping into family memories. If you ask heartfelt questions and listen deeply, you never know where the conversation will lead.
The Story Project team wishes you a holiday season full of
memories and wonderful stories to tell.
At this time of
year, the question of stuffing can get territorial. There are those who want to
try something new every year—cranberries, giblets, walnuts, wild rice, apricots!
— and those who, having found their perfection, never want to mess with it from
year to year. I fall into the latter camp—with tweaking.
I don’t remember if our mother
always made her Italian style stuffing for Thanksgiving; I think there were
more conventional early years of plain sage and onions. But for me, her
chestnut and sausage version was the apotheosis of flavor and texture, and so
it has remained. We forget how a little thing like stuffing can represent a
radical departure in a family. Our traditions are wrapped up in family lore and
the stories we tell around the dining room table and changing that by even a
teaspoon can stir the pot.
As eldest sister, I have a long history of watching Mom. Looking back, I’m amazed at all we took for granted: her talent, her wit, her Italian persona. Mom was not Italian, but had lived with a family in Perugia for two years. This came about because Mom, a bit passive and accommodating as I saw her in the context of her marriage, always wanted to be an artist. But her parents insisted she go to a liberal arts college where she would become “well-rounded.” She would have more to say as an artist, they insisted. She paid them back by majoring in history of art, learning Italian, and going to Italy right after WWII. The experience shaped more than just her stuffing making. Peeling chestnuts late at night, she might tell you about the count who asked her to marry him in the most backward, passionless way, or her artist lover, as if you were her girlfriend as much as her daughter.
Nowadays you can find plain cooked
chestnuts already peeled in jars or sealed packets, but in the 50s and 60s and
70s, adding chestnuts to stuffing was a labor of love involving raw nuts. First
you had to slice an X on the bottom of each nut with a sharp paring knife so
that steam could escape. We were the kind of family that never had a sharp
knife. It was a chore that seemed interminable.
Next, you roasted them in the oven.
Here, Mom had an advantage: a Garland restaurant stove, bought at auction by
our architect father to accommodate six kids. Once they were done to perfection
(always dicey to get that part just right), came the hardest part of this long
job—peeling. I don’t know if you’ve ever
bought a bag of hot chestnuts from a street vendor in a New York City park (I
hear those days are long gone), but they don’t peel easily. They’re like little
brains, with lots of convolutions and a thin inner skin. I remember late nights
of peeling and talking, and the distinctive velvety texture of the inner
shells. My mother must have been exhausted by Thanksgiving morning.
She would have ordered a 24-lb turkey,
and we ate earlier in those days, so she would get up at 4AM to stuff it, sew
it shut, and slide it into the oven in time for midday dinner. We’d wake to the
smell of roasting turkey and aromatic stuffing as it slowly filled the house,
building anticipation—of cousins and aunts and uncles and lovely Grandma
coming, of delicious food. It was a mouth-watering smell full of the promise of
warmth, laughter and feasting.
While you’re prepping Thanksgiving dinner, during the meal, and in the
drowsy groaning aftermath, ask your older relatives for stories. Get details;
Life is such a little arc, as my mother would say. Too soon, the stories
will be gone forever.
The proportions are flexible; how big is your bird?
1 pound or so of Italian sausage (must contain fennel seed),
removed from casings if necessary
2 large onions, chopped
Sage and rosemary and thyme as you like, but I find any
stuffing is best with a little more seasoning than you’d think, since the
flavors meld together in cooking, and could become indistinct. I use fresh
garden herbs, usually still in the garden at Thanksgiving.
2 cups peeled, cooked chestnuts (Yipes! Don’t use marron
glacés, they’re sweetened for desserts!)
Mom baked bread
throughout our childhood, having been introduced to good bread in Italy. We
never had Wonder Bread and found it horrifying — no bite. These days, one
sister bakes beautiful artisan loaves, but I, having discovered I have celiac,
use homemade gluten free cornbread. No one complains.
Fry the sausage
in a large pan, breaking it up with a spatula. Do not drain. Add chopped
onions, and when the onion is soft, the bread and herbs. You might add up to a
stick of butter to moisten, but remember, the best stuffing is that cooked
inside the turkey cavity, where the juices moisten it. If you have leftovers
that don’t fit, add a little giblet stock to moisten, and cook covered.
Contributing writer Megan Johnson is a retired
English teacher who holds a master’s degree in creative writing.