Life in a Nut's Shell

Thanks to the plays I've been writing this year, I've been happily immersed in my city's history. I'm neither a professional nor an expert historian, but I'm finding it fascinating. The city isn't very old, only a hundred and thirty years or so, but still has a lot of interesting history packed into it. A building is just a building, but when I find myself going past a vintage house or commercial building, I wonder if any of the people whom I've read about ever went in it or past it. And of course, there are so many other people who led ordinary lives and never made it into any of the books. I wonder about them, too.
Most of this research is in aid of finding out as much as possible about the Deane House, which is one hundred years old this year. This is the place where most of the Pegasus Performances murder mystery plays are staged, so we are celebrating the House's creation (and its survival from the mania that led Calgary to destroy so many of its historical buildings during the seventies). It's not the oldest place in Calgary, nor the largest or most elaborate, but it has a simple elegance and a reassuring solidity.
Superintendent Richard Burton Deane of the NWMP ordered it built as his personal residence on the grounds of Fort Calgary and was quite pleased with it when it was finished in 1906. Unfortunately, his first wife Martha never got to live in it -- she died just a few days before it was completed. This summer, we staged a play called Building Suspense, set in 1906, with characters like Dirty Dirk Dagnabbit and Daffodil (Daffy) Budd. An article about it appeared in the Calgary Herald in August, and I was thrilled to see myself quoted. Not quite what I said, but at least I didn't sound like an idiot.
When the Fort Calgary grounds were sold to the short-lived Grand Trunk Pacific Railway in 1914, the house was moved from its original setting and became the residence for the station agent. Right now we are staging a play called On Track for Murder, which mostly centers around a controversy between corsets and the newly-patented brassiere. Doing research for these plays is always absorbing and I find I learn so much more than I expected.
After the GTPR was absorbed into the CPRail, the house was sold, and became a boarding house. It was also moved across the Elbow River on log piles in 1929, a spectacular engineering feat for its time, so much so that it was written up in an issue of Popular Mechanics. We already did the play for that incarnation of the house, set in 1949. One of those performances was filmed by City TV earlier this year.
Up next are a play set in the seventies, when the house was an artists' co-operative, one set when it was being renovated, and another when it became what it is today, a restaurant.
You're probably wondering about the ghosts. According to some, the Deane House is one of the most haunted places in Calgary. However, there was an exorcism in the eighties, so theoretically, if there were any ghosts, they should be gone by now. Personally, no, I've not seen any.
Dunno what we're going to do next year. This delving into history has been an inspirational goldmine, even though getting the right costumes can sometimes be tricky. Not to worry, though, I'm sure we'll think of something.

A restaurant review, that is.
Calgary has three Moroccan restaurants (although one of them is on hiatus right now). Tonight we went to the Casbah, located on what used to be known as Electric Avenue. The avenue (11th) seems to have gone upscale, with more restaurants than bars now. The Casbah is below street level, and kind of looks like a hole-in-the-wall, but it's quite spacious inside. It's decorated with plenty of brass and ceramic items and painted in pleasing reds.
We opted for the "Diffa", a feast of 5 courses, and mint tea. Pampering comes first -- by having one's hands washed with rosewater. Tradition says that you should eat with your fingers: one finger is bad manners, two fingers is arrogant, three fingers is just right, and four or five fingers is a sign of gluttony (or possibly just klutziness).
First came the tomato Harira soup, which we drank out of the bowls. Moroccan food doesn't just have an aroma; it has a perfume. It's a beautiful blend of foods and spices. Salads were next, an arrangement of three marinades: beets, carrots and corn (interesting how corn has slipped into some non-North American cultures' cuisines). Then we had the Bastella, a phyllo-wrapped mixture of chicken and fruit; more fruit in it than at other restaurants, which made it quite juicy. A fluffy couscous with meats and vegetables and a chicken tagine were served together. We actually managed to eat all of that with our fingers too, with a minimum of couscous ending up on the table (I must be getting better at it). We were pleasantly full by then, but a just-right serving of baklava and ice cream finished off the meal. The whole thing took 2 1/2 hours, which is a lovely, relaxing way to spend an evening.
Oh and I should mention that the service was great, too.