Brisket Reconsidered

I’m so glad this holiday season is over.  Because if I hear one more boast about brisket, I think I’m going to spray paint someone’s Dutch oven.  When did brisket emerge as the national dish of December? And where was I when this was happening? Clearly not in the supermarket purchasing Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix.

I realized that I was living on the fringe of a cult when I innocently asked a few friends, “How was your holiday? Did your family join you?” And to a person, the response was consistent –“Yes they did, and I made a brisket!”  The pride factor was palpable.

Another aspect of this mania that I found utterly baffling was that each woman who rhapsodized about this fatty chunk of beef claimed to have the absolutely best brisket recipe ever, a family treasure handed down from Great-Aunt Selma, whose secret ingredient was whispered in the greatest confidence – grape jelly!  Or was it Coca-Cola?  (Some weird stuff goes into brisket.)

And men were no better.  Discussions about their floundering golf games were temporarily replaced by passionate praise of their wives’ briskets.  While it’s flattering to be extolled by one’s husband, I would prefer to be praised for, let’s say, my looks, and\or my intelligence, and the fact that I am very adept at fixing paper jams on his printer.

Perhaps I couldn’t share the culinary enthusiasm of my friends because my personal relationship with brisket did not have a good beginning.  Let’s just say that brisket and I got off on the wrong hoof.

My mother had many excellent qualities, but cooking wasn’t one of them.  Frequently, on Friday nights, or some other occasion that was supposed to be celebratory, she would set before the family a platter containing some gray-brown meat that reminded me of a cooked loafer.  With ketchup.  I told her I couldn’t possibly eat this because it was ugly.  She told me to go to my room.  I reminded her that I didn’t have a room.  We lived in a small apartment.

But that was a long time ago, and childhood trauma notwithstanding, perhaps it was time to discover for myself what all the fuss was about.

Since I had banished brisket from my life, I had never considered its source.  In my mind, if my thoughts ever even turned in that direction, I had lumped it together with the rest of those fatty, ethnic cuts of beef that had to be cooked to death before it was edible.  All of which, to my aesthetic sensibility, were equally as ugly.

shutterstock_149642585So I decided to investigate.  I began with one of those diagrams you sometimes see in meat markets, the one where the cow is divided into sections so it no longer looks a like an animal, but resembles a map of a small country. I find the drawing a bit disturbing, but educational.    Upon completion of my research, this is what I learned:

  • Brisket (lower chest) is not flanken (short ribs) and flanken is not brisket. And neither of them, strictly speaking, are pot roast (chuck, upper chest).  Roast beef is another matter all together, coming from the end of the cow we would prefer not to think about.
  • Brisket is very talented. Brisket in brine turns into corned beef, while corned beef cured morphs into pastrami.  And I have never regarded corned beef or pastrami as unappealing.  So brisket is the ugly duckling, capable of becoming the Miss America of the kosher deli.
  • This may come as a shock to some, but Jews do not own brisket. In fact, it may be the most multi-cultural item on the planet.  It is an inexpensive cut of beef, which lends itself to the culinary preferences of many different regions and nationalities.
  • The French cook it with bacon and cognac; Texans like it barbecued with Tex-Mex spices.
  • Each Eastern European country has its own version.
  • Asians love it. There are Thai briskets and Korean briskets.  The Chinese like it with ginger, especially in restaurants on Sundays and Christmas.

So maybe there was something to all this passion.  Perhaps brisket is the antidote for a bad day.   If you’re willing to put in the time, the result will be a succulent comfort food, right up there with meat loaf and mashed potatoes, replete with delicious gravy and a little horse radish sauce on the side.

I am now converted.  New Year’s resolution (just one):  I will cook a brisket.  Of course, mine will be the best recipe ever, giving my husband bragging rights at the next gathering of his friends.

And since it has such an international appeal, I say the next time world leaders sit down for a summit meeting, someone should serve a brisket.  This formerly ugly meat could very well be our best hope for world peace!

Posted in Cooking, Dining, Holidays | 5 Comments


So here we are, once again on the threshold of a new year.   How many times in the next 24 hours will you say or think: Where did the time go? So I won’t bother to repeat it here.  (But where did it go?)

Do you still consider making New Year’s resolutions? If you don’t write them down, do you even think about them? I have long ago given up making promises to myself that I will never keep.  If I want to feel bad about myself for being a weakling, I already have sufficient items from prior years to draw upon.

So this year, instead of trying to reconfigure bad habits, I’ve decided to embrace them.  Below is a partial list of personal reforms that will NOT happen in 2015 .

  • Spend more time at the gym.
  • Eat more vegetables.
  • Give up Cool Whip.
  • Lose weight.
  • Shop less.
  • Get more sleep.
  • Organize my drawers and keep them organized.
  • Stop wasting time watching Law and Order reruns.
  • Improve at golf.
  • Learn French.
  • Cook at home more often.
  • Always hang up my clothes before I go to bed.
  • Read James Joyce.
  • Wear a bikini.
  • Complete a London Times crossword puzzle.
  • Solve even one clue of a London Times crossword puzzle.
  • Have a neat desk.
  • Never write another essay about my husband.

So what are you doing tonight? Staying at home? Perhaps a movie? Dinner with friends? A fancy party? Will you even try to stay awake until midnight? Whatever your preference, I want to wish everyone a happy, healthy New Year.

And thank you for your encouragement and  readership.  My husband also thanks you.  The time I spend writing is time spent not shopping.


Posted in Blogging, Holidays, Rituals | Leave a comment

Eat My Face

Last evening, while engaging in the usual pre-sleep beauty ritual, I dipped my fingers into the jar of night face moisturizer only to discover that I was about to use the last dollop.  While this is not quite as tragic as being unable to zip the cocktail dress you were planning to wear to the holiday party, or as inconvenient as a colonoscopy, it was still cause for consternation.

You noticed I specified night moisturizer.  Needless to say, my vanity tray also holds a day moisturizer, under-and-over eye creams, and a lip smoother.  Last time I looked, I think my ears were still sufficiently hydrated.

Having a Dorian Gray moment right before one goes to bed is not helpful in ensuring a peaceful rest. The jar of nocturnal face magic would have to be replaced, the sooner the better.

If you’re not concerned about fine lines and wrinkles (then you’re either not a woman, or still too young for a bra), this may sound trivial.   But trust me.  Being in the market for a new moisturizer is no fun.

First of all, I’m dealing with an industry that makes me feel bad about myself, and then wants my money.  Secondly, the range of choices is so vast, that I can liken it only to selecting wallpaper, which, until recently, I regarded as the worst domestic decision any woman would ever have to make.

As I saw it, I had two options. ( Three, if I added “Save Your Money; Use Vaseline.”  But I’ve been too brainwashed for that.)  I could simply replace the same product I’d been using.  Or, I could gullibly fall for the claims of something new and different.  And perhaps more expensive.  I chose Door #2.

I astutely observed the advertisements and tried to digest the promises.  Did I want to nourish and replenish? Reduce brown spots? Challenge skin fatigue? Eliminate dark circles? Glow? Look five years younger in four weeks? Make that three weeks, and I’m yours!

I ruled out all of the jars that state they are anti-aging, since this is not my personal political inclination.  I am definitely not anti-aging, and don’t know why any thinking person would be.  Considering the alternative, I’ll take as many birthdays as I can get.

So I wandered around the cosmetic counters, dodging the perfume spritzers, and reading labels.  Many of the ingredients were familiar to me – retinol, lanolin, placenta from Tibetan yaks, artichokes.  Artichokes? Wait a moment.  Was this Saks, or my local supermarket?

artichokeIt seems that while I was not paying attention, the new, secret beautifying agents in these creams and lotions was – food!

Product after product bragged that they alone had harnessed the age-defying properties of wheat germ, lemon-grass, or the acai berry.  Avocados, in addition to making guacamole, firmed and tighten.

Soy milk nourished.  Honey smoothed.  Vanilla extract and almonds penetrated the deep layers of your skin, so you not only became enriched and enhanced, but also smelled like trail mix.

Well, I thought.  Why was I wasting my time? I might as well go home, make a big salad, and smear it all over my face!

I think it was the artichoke that got to me most.  I could handle the thought of spreading something smooth and creamy on my skin, like honey or avocado, but an artichoke? Rough and pointy was not exactly the image I was going for.

So I left the store in utter confusion, wondering about the world we live in, and was Ghanian Shea butter more effective than that which came from a neighboring country?   And what, exactly, was an Olay from which the Oil was derived?

And did I really believe that a famous model turned actress looked as good today as she did 25 years ago simply because she used a particular French face product  spelled with an apostrophe?

The beauty industry has been so successful at preying on the insecurities of women, particularly women of a certain age, that even the most skeptical of us are willing to let go of our disbelief and credit cards for the promise of a more youthful glow and the final solution to sagging.

So I shall have to return to the marketplace to search out the perfect night cream.  But for tonight, I might have to apply my day cream before bed, and hope that it doesn’t further disturb my sleep cycle.

Or, I can look through my pantry.  Perhaps the Fountain of Youth is hidden in the corn flakes.

Posted in Beauty, Shopping | 2 Comments

Roberta’s Rules of Order

On the whole, I think women are fabulous.  But also a little crazy.  I can say this because as part of the sisterhood, I have license to go where no man should dare to tread.

As a group, we are certainly better educated and more independent than the majority of our foremothers.  But occasionally there is a circumstance that makes me question whether or not we have received our money’s worth from higher education.

Case in point.  It was a cloudy, lazy Saturday afternoon, and my husband and I had spent the day at home catching up on neglected chores.  In the midst of changing light bulbs and discarding leaky hoses, I suddenly remembered that we meant to choose a house gift for friends we were visiting that evening.

Since it was already late in the day, I began thinking out loud about where we could go expediently to acquire something nice.

“Well, there’s always Neiman Marcus,” I said, envisioning their pricey, but elegant gift department.

“Okay,” he said.  “Let’s go,”

Taking a quick survey of my sweatpants and sneakers, I responded that I couldn’t possibly go to Neiman Marcus looking like this.  I would have to shower, change my clothes, fix my hair, and apply makeup.  I estimated that all of that would take too much time.  So I suggested another store.

“And will you need a makeover to go to that store?” he inquired, not unreasonably.

“No,” I said without missing a beat.  “I’m fine.”

He didn’t have to respond with words.  I could tell from all that head shaking and his mocking grin that he thought I had gone too long without eating.  Better to believe that what I had just said was caused by low blood sugar, rather than conclude his usually clever wife was losing her mind.

Apparently, my husband didn’t share the feeling that a trip to Neiman’s required a wardrobe shift, although he was hardly in his Sunday best.  And his sneakers were, in fact, not as nice as mine.

1950s-women-2-shoppingHow could I explain that these are the rules, that you could wear your sweaty gym clothes to go to Target or Home Depot, but not to Bergdorf’s? And that these rules have probably been present since birth, maybe even since the womb.

In the late 60’s and early 70’s I lived on Manhattan’s upper west side, a part of town that, at the time, was home to drug dealers and working girls, as well as  former members of the Woodstock generation who were now getting married and raising  families.  The average street uniform was jeans, T- shirts, or long flowing skirts and cowboy boots.

This was all fine west of Central Park.  But we were careful to shed the tie-dye when we rode the cross town bus.  Then, we wore our “outfits,” which were the passports we felt were required to enter the rarified world of Bloomingdale’s.   Or Saks.  As if matching shoes and handbags would raise our esteem in the eyes of the salespeople.

Unfortunately, retail intimidation is not something we tend to outgrow.   In fact, I’m not sure it doesn’t get more ingrained over time.

Entering a fancy department store or boutique seems to require the confidence that only proper attire can provide.  “Hey,” my carefully selected outfit cries out, “I can shop here.  I’m cool.”   I’m qualified to peruse the racks of clothing with price tags that could otherwise provide a week’s worth of food to a starving village.  I have the American Express Black Card.  (Not really, but they don’t know that.)

I don’t know if men in similar circumstances are governed by the same set of standards.  Perhaps some are.  But I would bet not nearly as many or as often as women.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not suggesting that we should all head for the nearest therapist.   In fact, I’m not suggesting that we change a thing.  Only that we take a step back and laugh at ourselves a little, and go right on doing what we do.

How humiliating it would be to enter a fine establishment and not have an eager salesgirl approach with a bottle of store-label water.  That’s why we follow the rules.

Posted in Fashion, Shopping | 8 Comments

As Long As You’re Up…….

grantsAt times I feel like I’ve been transported back to the 60’s and am trapped in that old ad for Grant’s Scotch.

Remember that ad?   Don’t try to tell me you weren’t born yet.  (Well some of you weren’t born yet, but very few.)

I’m not sure how many bottles of whiskey they sold, but the slogan As Long As You’re Up, Get Me a Grant’s had a major impact on popular culture.  It went viral before there was such a thing as “viral.”  It was a subject of a famous New Yorker cartoon and found a home in the Yale Book of Quotations, in the company of such other blockbusters as I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.

The Grant ads were staged to ooze upper-class sophistication.  Each one featured a photograph of either an affluent-looking, elegant, well dressed, not-so-young man or woman.

The ultra-thin, perfectly coiffed, attractive woman was dressed in a simple, but clearly expensive, gown, and was sitting in a chair which looked like it was recently bought at auction from Sotheby’s.

The handsome, graying-at-the-temples-with-just-the-right-amount-of-gray, man was in a tuxedo, also sitting.   Each body was turned slightly as if addressing an invisible off-stage partner.

Although the ad for Grant’s Scotch faded from usage a long time ago, I’m happy to say that the slogan, at least the first half of it, is alive and well and living in our house.  With some slight revisions.

The man (my husband) is not wearing a tuxedo, but is instead dressed in golf shorts.  His graying temples can no longer be distinguished from the rest of his hair color, and the chair he sits in was purchased for comfort rather than its antique value.

The woman (me) does not wear a gown, but is attired in jeans and a tee shirt, and is not now, and never has been, as thin as the woman in the ad.

However, the operative words remain unchanged: As long as you’re up….

Perhaps built into every long-term relationship there emerges a “requestor” and a “requestee.”    These roles are not so easily predictable, because in my experience, they’re not always gender-dependent.   Not counting extenuating circumstances, like a broken leg, for instance, women are just as capable as men when it comes to asking for little favors, and men can be just as compliant as women in granting them.

In my relationship, however, I have become the “requestee.”  Possibly it’s my inability to sit in one place for extended periods of time that has cast me in this role.  So as I am frequently up and about during the course of an hour-long TV show, it does not seem unreasonable that a voice from the other room calls out As long as you’re up, get me a glass of club soda.  Although he swears he has no recollection of ever seeing that ad, the words seemed to flow from him as easily as scotch over ice.

It’s not always club soda.  Sometimes it’s a piece of chocolate.  Or it could be ice cream.  Or a sweater because he’s chilly.  Really, it’s all okay.  I’m happy to do it.  As long as I’m up.

Occasionally, however, a request with a slightly different tone of voice finds its way into our marital discourse.  This request is preceded by if you’re getting up…, or, when you go upstairs…, and usually occurs when I’ve been in a holding pattern in my chair for longer than usual.  These, of course, are not-so-subtle indications that my darling is desirous of something, and would prefer not to get it for himself.   This causes me to look at him through narrowed eyes, but more often than not, I will grant him his favor.

Have my hyperactive tendencies created a monster, or at the very least, a spoiled spouse? Not really.   Because at the end of the day, I know there is a balance.  I bring him a pillow, and he brings me a……. Remind me, what is it that he brings me?

Oh yes, the favors do go both ways.  He graciously, plays golf with me on Sundays, which cannot be much fun for him, and doesn’t make me watch football, which is never any fun for me.

Most importantly, he is someone that I can rely on, someone who is always there for me, someone who loves me unconditionally.  So I will happily continue to bestow him favors.  As long as I’m up!

Posted in Relationships, Spouse | 4 Comments

The Meaning of Life (Time Warranty)

Come on, admit it.   We are all subject to occasional morbid thoughts, especially at that point in life when the number representing our chronological age exceeds the highway speed limit.  Don’t tell me that you never think about the Grim Reaper, the Dark Angel, or any of the other euphemisms you can name to avoid the “D” word.

I confess to having morbid thoughts on three different occasions during the past month.

Maybe it was prophetic, but what most recently got me thinking about time and mortality was the need for a new watch.     An awkward movement of my left elbow while leaning in to apply mascara had landed my old, faithful, expensive timepiece on the unforgiving tile floor of the bathroom.    Its poor little face was smashed to smithereens, and even with my untrained eye, I knew it was broken beyond repair.

The next day I called upon my friend, the consummate shopper (every woman knows one), who of course directed me to the absolute best place to purchase a new watch.  As I perused the jewelry case, looking for watches whose numbers could be seen without the aid of reading glasses, I was approached by a salesman who offered to help.  He removed several models from the case and laid them before me on the requisite piece of black velvet cloth.

watchesHe pointed out the virtues of each model, stopping at one that he declared to be a little more expensive, but came with a life-time warranty.   His comment was the catalyst for Morbid Thought #1.  Whose life-time, I mused, mine or the watch’s?    At that precise moment, I happened to glance at another customer who was at least thirty years my junior.  Pointing in her direction, I asked the salesman:

“See that woman over there? If she buys this watch, does she also get a life-time warranty?”

“She certainly does,” he replied as if talking to someone recently declared incompetent.

“Then I should get a discount, shouldn’t I.”

“A discount?” he repeated, with an unnecessarily steep rising inflection.

“Of course,” I answered in my best isn’t-it-obvious tone of voice.  “She is clearly a good deal younger than I.  Therefore, her life-time warranty will be in effect much longer than mine, so why should I be charged the same?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.  I left him to ponder my logic, and decided not to purchase a new watch that day.

Morbid Thought #2, by sheer coincidence, also occurred during a shopping trip, interrupting an otherwise very pleasant afternoon.  This time, I was accompanying my husband, who was on a quest to find the perfect sweater.   We were in the men’s department of a fine store, and since I knew what he liked, we separated to cover more territory in less time.   I wasn’t successful, but when I rejoined him, he had found two potential candidates.

Both sweaters were the same style, both flattering colors, both a fine wool.  One, however, was significantly more expensive than the other, and therein was the dilemma. Rationalizing the possible expenditure of some extra dollars, he stated that the sweater that cost more would probably last longer.

That’s when it happened.  I thought, but didn’t dare utter, at our age, can you be sure you’ll get your money’s worth?

He must have read my mind, because in the next instant we were walking to the check-out counter with the black cashmere V-neck sporting the lower price tag.

Morbid Thought #3, which was, in reality, a morbid utterance, snuck up on me during the performance of a very ordinary domestic task – replacing a missing button on my husband’s shirt.  My hand stopped in mid-air as I thought of other small, maternal-like functions I had assumed over the years, such as re-threading the draw string which, for some reason he was forever dislodging from his sweat pants.

“Honey,” I called to him.  He responded on my third attempt to get his attention.

“Yes,?” he said, as he raised his head from his iPhone.

“I was just thinking,” I said, as I lifted the shirt towards him, “In the event that I should pass on (euphemism) before you, would you like me to teach you how to do this?”

He laughed heartily, though I’m not sure at what.

I’m pleased to say that I haven’t had another morbid thought in at least a week.  Maybe this is predictive of a trend.  I hope so.   I am, in fact, feeling so optimistic that I went watch shopping again, but to an all together different store.

The friendly salesman spread out the black velvet cloth, upon which he placed three different models, all fashionable, all with numbers that could be easily read without intense magnification.

“And this one,” he said, lifting one of the watches off the cloth, “costs just a little more than the other two, but comes with a twenty-five year warranty.”

“Great,” I said.  “I’ll take it.”

Posted in Aging, Death, Shopping | 6 Comments

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up (or, My Love Affair with Olivia Benson)

I consider myself to be a peaceable person.   On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 representing the highest tolerance for any situation that portends violence, I would rate myself a minus 5.

I’m against the death penalty.   I bring a scarf to the movies so I can pull it over my eyes if the background music suggests that something ominous is pending.

I contribute to the ASPCA.  I don’t even kill the insects that find their way into my home, but instead, try to shoo them outside.  Except for mosquitoes.  But I consider that self defense.

So I am at a complete loss to explain my fatal attraction to police dramas.

This is not a recent infatuation.  It started when I was quite young, about the time I was first introduced to the phenomenon called television!  One little friend was lucky enough to be the first kid on the block to own a TV.  After school each day, five or six innocents would gather around the small box in his living room to watch cartoons, The Small Fry Club, and of course, Howdy Doody.

I clearly recall the afternoon of my transition from animation to criminal addiction.  My aunt was visiting and I overheard her comment something to my mother which I thought related to my grandfather’s health.  My reaction quickly turned from grief to elation as soon as I realized that she, in fact, had not said that my beloved grandfather had gotten TB, but had bought a TV.

Now someone in my very own family had one! And thus began my almost daily visits to my grandparents to partake in the new American pastime.

Perhaps it’s genetic, because one of the programs they regularly watched was called Casey, Crime Photographer, starring an actor named Darren McGavin.   Each week, for thirty minutes, I watched Casey, camera and flashbulb always ready, solve crimes.  I was smitten. Buffalo Bob Smith was so over, unless one afternoon he took an axe to Flub-A-Dub!

(In actuality, “Casey” was so bad that it lasted only one season and I dare you to find a rerun, even on the most obscure cable station.  But what did I know? Television was brand new and I was only ten.)

One evening, as we were watching Casey solving the murder of the week, I announced with conviction that that was what I wanted to do when I grew up.  In response, my dear grandmother let out a shriek, which today I can only liken to Lenny Bruce’s description of his disapproving aunt sounding like a Jewish sea gull,  and gravely forbade me from even considering such a thing.  It was much too dangerous.  And, besides, I was a girl.

I don’t know if I consciously heeded her advice, but I never did become a detective.   Instead, I became a speech therapist, and consoled myself with solving lisps instead of crimes.  But my enthusiasm for car chases never waned.

If you were a fan of police procedurals, the following decades did not disappoint.  Dragnet (“just the facts, Ma’am), The Thin Man, The Untouchables, FBI, Baretta, 77 Sunset Strip, Hawaii 50.  There were endearing tough guys, like Colombo in his smarmy trench coat (wonder what he did on the weekends?), or Kojak on a perpetual sugar high from sucking his lollipop.

I love shows with the word “blue” in them — HIll Street Blues, NYPD Blue, and more recently, Blue Bloods.  Shows that rhyme, such as “Cold Case,”  and “Without A Trace.”  Gritty shows, like The Wire.  High brow PBS Masterpiece Theatre series with amazing British detectives, and versions of Sherlock Homes, both old and new. And, hey, Grandma, too bad you weren’t around in the ’80s to witness Cagney and Lacey. 

What happened next was truly amazing.  In 1990 the world was introduced to the first episode of the phenomenal Law and Order.  Over the next 9 years, I was a loyal fan.  But in 1999 I realized that all those hours of watching were just foreplay compared to the climatic occurrence of  the spin-off “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.” know I’m too old to have imaginary friends, but in my fantasy world Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler are real people.  I refer to them by their first names.  I am enmeshed in their fictional existences, and Olivia’s different hair styles.  I’ve almost forgiven Elliot for retiring two years ago.  The rest of the cast continues to change, but fifteen seasons later, thank goodness Olivia endures!

While all of the Law and Order series featured major roles for women, Olivia stands out.  She is my hero.  She is both strong and vulnerable, in a constant struggle to come to terms with her past.  She is toughness with a soft core.  She’s fiercely dedicated to her job, loyal to her partner, and very smart.   She’s fearless,  but cautious, charismatic, but modest.  She is empathetic towards the victims, and dedicated to bringing perpetrators to justice.  She is everything that I would have wanted to be if I had not listened to my grandmother.  Oh, and did I mention she was also a babe?

So please don’t call me on Wednesday nights from nine to ten.  For an hour, the outside world no longer exists for me as I escape into a new episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.  By the way, may I brag? Olivia has made captain.

SVU is the last of the Law and Order trilogy to remain  with original shows.  But we fans do not have to go hungry.  There’s a rerun on every minute of every day all over the dial.  L&O:Criminal Intent officially ended in 2011, but Vincent D’Onofrio’s tilted head can still be seen regularly if you are willing to flip through a hundred channels to find him.  For his loyal followers, a small price to pay.

Perhaps being a pacifist and loving police dramas is not as incongruous as it may seem.  In almost every episode, the bad guy is caught, wrongs are made right, justice prevails, and peace is restored.  Isn’t that a perfect world?

And speaking of perfect, want to know my idea of a perfect weekend?  Rain in the forecast, and on TV, a Law and Order marathon.  (CHUNG-CHUNG!)

Posted in Entertainment, Fantasy, Television | Leave a comment