Oh how I wish I could paint you a picture! Imagine a dog running around a gas station, my Dad hooting and hollering and trying to scoop freshly born puppies up off the asphalt and reel the momma dog in as it splattered blood all over the gas pumps and a shocked looking attendant and onlookers. Dad loved to tell this story, and him chasing Leesha the dog around the gas station while she was in the middle of giving birth (and mostly oblivious to it) was the shocking climax. Lets jump back a bit.

It was the early 90s, during the summer. My aunt and uncle had left for a cross-Canada-and-USA tour with their four kids and had left their dog Leesha, who was pregnant, with an unknown number of puppies, with us. Our mom was at summer school, because it was just Dad and us kids. He'd borrowed a camper from someone in Hazelton, and managed to install it on our severely under-powered but reliable 1980s propane truck that we'd come to call the rotten banana. I remember we were in love with the camper and the idea of camper-camping - going from a ratty tent to a CAMPER was like going from a Super-8 to the Hilton. We begged dad to magically make the camper ours, but he was firm - it was only a borrow.

Dad loaded up the crew-cab truck and camper and we slowly made our way on the 1,200km trek from Hazelton to Vancouver and Victoria. There was Dad, us four kids, and Leesha the dog, all jammed into the truck. The truck interior was anything but luxurious - it was a farm truck and was equipped with two bench seats and not a lot of space in between. We'd been driving for a day and the cab of the truck became cramped, especially with our +1, Leesha the pregnant dog. Dad decided as I recall to free up some space by moving Leesha into the camper. We were all restless and stir crazy from being pent-up, and when we finally pulled into a gas station toward the end of the day, we all piled out.

We'd stopped somewhere with rolling brown hills, so I am thinking Williams Lake or 100 Mile House are prime suspects. I remember the gas station had a few pumps, and we'd parked off to the side on the space of asphalt between the pumps and the highway. We were happy to be out, and must have looked like the brady bunch as we rolled out of the truck. and Leesha just couldn't wait - as soon as Dad popped the camper door to check on her, she bounded out before he could stop her. She was so happy to be out, she darted from Dad then quickly to each of us kids to say a quick greeting, her tail and rear end wagging furiously. It was around then that we noticed the blood splatters, as they sprayed on us and dripped on the dirty asphalt. 

Dad tried to call her and get her back into the camper to have her babies, but she was having none of it. She was too fast for him to catch. She wasn't done greeting people yet! There were so many people to greet! I was sort of frozen between terror, embarrassment, curiosity, and concern. Dad, seemingly immune to embarrassment, chased after her trying to get her to come while quickly issuing apologies to the shocked, frozen onlookers that Leesha was greeting one by one.

"Leesha, come here!" Dad would say, chasing her. Leesha would run up to someone, tail wagging like crazy, greet them for half a second, spray them and everything around with some blood, and then rush off full bound to the next person or vehicle or garbage can.
"Sorry! She's having puppies! Sorry! Leesha, come here!" Dad exclaimed, just as a fresh puppy flopped out of Leesha and onto the asphalt. This slowed Dad down as he carefully scooped up the slippery puppy and continued trying to corral her and get her back into the camper.

Dad's favourite part was the gas attendant. He was a teenager who'd likely never seen the miracle of birth before (this was before the internet), and couldn't quite believe his eyes and had no idea what to do. He was just agape standing between the two pumps. It's always good for a laugh imagining the poor guy in shock. I don't remember if Dad pressed him into action or not, or if it was me, or if dad scooped the puppies and corralled Leesha all on his own. 

Dad did get Leesha back into the camper, where she gave birth to the rest of her puppies. Instinct kicked in and she knew what to do. I remember how amazed Sophia (who was quite little) was watching this happen. Worried about the brand new puppies, Dad moved them and their mum into the passenger side footwell of the truck. Whoever got to ride shotgun had to hold their legs up over the pile of dog and puppies. I recall she had a large litter - they barely fit (One did pass away from suffocation in the pile on our return trip). 

Looking back I still wonder at all Dad did to keep us fed, dressed, safe, sound, and cared for - and he always made room for another - even a mom and puppies! 

We lived in Pot Hardy, I was a teenager and out for a long jog. I got to the bottom of a long hill and came across an accident scene. A small crowd of people was gathered around a large sized fluffy rez mutt dog who had been run over. The driver who ran him over was there and distraught (and very sorry), as well as witnesses and the family of the dog who'd rushed over from the neighbouring reserve. I jogged up, very worried, and like everyone there, was paralyzed for a moment with indecision on what to do. I then said "I will run home and get my DAD. He will KNOW what to do." A look of relief swept over everyone's face as I ran back home as fast as I could to get the one person I could think of who would know how to handle this crisis.

At home, dad immediately started our old pickup (a mid-80s dodge converted to propane) and raced to the accident scene. The driver was offering to go home and get his rifle and put the dog down. Everyone was in tears or close to it. Dad ran up, took off his jacket, and started telling people what to do. He asked who the owners were, and if they had a warm place in their house where the dog could be brought to die peacefully. The big fluffy dog had been run clean over - twice - according to the driver, as it wasn't just the front tires but the back ones too that ran him over. The vehicle was one of those long 1970s looking muscle cars long past its prime. We learned that this big dog - barely grasping at life - was called Hamburger. The owners said they did indeed have somewhere in their home where the dog could rest in peace.

Dad enlisted help and he very gently slid his jacket under the dog. He then had three other adults help lift Hamburger gently into the back of our truck, the jacket acting as a makeshift stretcher. Family members and bystanders piled into the back as we slowly drove Hamburger home. Once there, we gently moved him from the back of the truck into the furnace room of the house. Dad checked in with the family, and satisfied that Hamburger had been delivered into a loving warm place to breathe his last breaths, we went home.

A period of time later, I don't know how long, I was working outside in downtown Port Hardy. I saw a bit of commotion in the bushes, and out popped a couple of dogs. "HAMBURGER?!?!" I exclaimed with great surprise. One of the dogs was fluffy and large, and looked exactly like the twice-run-over definitely near death dog Dad had gently taken home. Hamburger perked up immediately, smiled with a big lolling tongue, and ran over to me, tail wagging. He wiggled up beside my leg. "Hamburger, I can't believe you're alive!" I said, and reaching down, I could feel where his ribs and bones had broken and somehow healed. There he was, smiling happily away and wagging his tail, against all odds, definitely ALIVE. I couldn't believe it, and neither could Dad. It was amazing.

I told this story to my sons a while ago, and forgot about it, until my youngest reminded me a few days ago. Another story about Dad being a hero, for father's day. XOXO. -jwb

How Dad was like Calvin's Dad

Dad told me that engines turn over. So there I was, looking over the engine, while dad tried unsuccessfully to start it. "It's not turning over" I said, expecting the engine to physically roll or twist around in the engine bay. "Yes it is. It is turning over" "No, it's not" I argued. He then invited me to look closer and the engine would turn over. It never did any acrobatics, and it was years until I finally understood what "turning over" actually meant! For years I thought the engine secretly "turned over" when the hood was closed and I wasn't looking. Sometimes dad just liked to play around with me that way, just like Calvin's dad in the comics :) 

Other times he wouldn't know the answer and he'd make things up. Like the years he told me any berry he didn't know was poisonous. I was about 4 or 5 years old, and I was playing on the church sidewalk, throwing red mountain ash berries for fun. I remember him coming out and telling me "stop playing with those, they are poisonous!" He said the same thing about most berries we'd come across when we lived up north. It turns out that mountain ash berries are indigenous to BC and not only aren't poisonous, but were harvested and used as food in the old days. I thought they were poisonous until I moved back up to Hazelton in 2006 and we had ash tree in our front yard - the birds would come eat the fermented berries every fall and then promptly fly into our living room window. Thank goodness for Google and YouTube - I've since learned that almost all berries up here are NOT poison (they just taste bad), and I've also properly learned how gas engines work!

I also can't count how many times dad told me to go work on things I didn't like doing as part of character building, or how he'd refuse to give me answers right away, instead encouraging me to figure things out on my own.

Unschooling and late night jam sessions

We "unschool" our kids, and some of this goes back to my upbringing and how dad chose to educate us. As a pre-schooler I was encouraged to play outside, and most of my surviving memories are of creating and playing outside on my own. He would praise my creations, wether they be mud cakes or a string hooked up to a branch that I used to open an imaginary door. When it was time for me to go to Kindergarten, dad was worried. I have these memories of living at the family cabin near Comox for the summer. I had a lot of freedom for a pre-schooler, and would spend many hours at the beach playing imaginary games. One night, I have this clear memory of sitting on the love seat with dad, and him making very serious tones. He was worried, because I would be going to school. He was suddenly concerned because I didn't know the alphabet or my numbers. I remember sitting and playing as close attention as I could (not very successful), because Dad was very serious. I remember him working on a lined note pad, desperately wanting me to understand, worried that he was sending me in to school woefully under-prepared. It was a late-night-pre-kindergarten jam sesh.

My childhood was punctuated with these jam sessions. I remember him drawing out fractions in the dust of our driveway at the end of another summer. I remember him reading to me in butchered french one night when I was in grade 3, hoping it would help get me caught up. Later in elementary and high school, I would manage to rope him into some major project I thought up. One year he called in an electrician friend to help us figure out why my model nuclear power plant wasn't generating current (we never figured it out). Another year he helped me build an only modestly successful working model of a hydro dam. Although there were many partially complete projects and some failures, the memories of having him by my side those times are still solidly with me.

He carried on some of this tradition when we lived in Vancouver, and Noah pressed him into pumpkin carving. He also dutifully completed our paper maché volcano project and facilitated a number of "explosions" at the request of his grandkids!

I'll finish up my thoughts for now with what I said over three years ago when he died:

"My heart is broken. My Dad Roderick McKye Iain Beaton - Daddeo to my kids - died last night. Creative spirit. Problem solver. Visionary. Hard, hard worker. Leader. Playful spirit. Lover of outdoors. Teacher. Storyteller. Loving father. Generous. Care-giver. If you see any of these in me, I received this gifts from my father. I miss you so much."

We still miss him so, so much. XO.

-Jacob

Otherwise known as the time I got Dad drunk.

This story makes me laugh, and I laugh even more imaging re-telling it with Dad around. He'd emphasize certain points and add the blustered flair of fake-denial to other parts of it. The true story goes like this:

Dad was single-parenting in the basement in Brentwood Bay with three of his four kids. I, the eldest, was overseas in Europe and came home to finish my final year of highschool. When I came back, some Germans smuggled wine and beer through customs for me, and I not-so-subtly smuggled the beer and wine into the basement apartment. I thought I'd test the boundaries at home by cracking open a tall can (called a "tallie" here but a normal beer in Europe), putting my feet up, leaning back and taking a bite out of a stale pretzel I'd taken out of my suitcase. 

Let me step back for a minute and set the stage. Some of you knew Dad as the whiskey-drinking-poetic-kilt-guy. This was years before that. In fact, when I was raised by my parents, they were both teetotalers. They never drank alcohol (and yes, LOTS of tea), and I was told in no uncertain way that alcohol was evil and that if I drank all kinds of terrible things were bound to happen to me.

Living in Europe I was quickly cured of my Teetotal upbringing (and many other things thank god) and I came to appreciate and enjoy a great brew, excellent food, and tasty wines. Coming back home there were a number of uncertainties - one was: "how would Dad react to me drinking alcohol?"

According to Dad, watching me walk in the door and promptly crack a beer, relax, and eat a pretzel was a bit of a shock. He wasn't sure what to make of it in that moment, other than I'd changed. I remember him sitting at the other end of the table and smiling. Or was it half smiling and half grimacing?

A few evenings later, it was late and just Dad and I were awake sitting at the table. He asked me "Do you think you could teach me how to drink?" He was serious. He got up, turned around toward the fridge, opened a bottom left cupboard, reached in, and pulled out a dusty bottle of some no-name spanish red wine with a red bull on it. He said "I got a couple bottles of this stuff that a co-worker gave to me at a secret santa last year. I didn't know what to do with it." I grinned, slapped him on the back, pointed at the bottle and said "I can DEFINITELY teach you how to drink that!"

I got out a couple of tall water glasses, and we sat beside each other at the table pictured below. I cracked the bottle and showed him how to smell the wine, identify the "notes," (at this point Dad would interrupt and say something clever like 'I always wondered why people play mandolin better after drinking' or 'I never could hit those notes') swoosh the wine around in your mouth to aerate it, swallow and appreciate. It was a thick red spanish wine, not all that good but an easy drink. Dad did as instructed and declared that "it wasn't half bad" or something like that, and quickly downed his glass of wine, drinking it a bit like juice.

A while later, we'd nearly drank the bottle, and things got interesting. Dad started laughing extra loud, his face was flush red, and at one point he actually fell off the bench and onto the floor! The fun part though is that he sprang back up and said "I don't know why I did that!" I said "Dad, you are DRUNK!" and he replied "I am NOT DRUNK!" Smiled, sat down and drank some more. Offered for him to try some of my wine, and we did. He started giggling so much at one point he leaned forward onto the table, looked up at me, and said between breaths "I don't know why I can't stop laughing!" I said "Dad, you are drunk!" and he said "I am NOT drunk!" This went on for a while until I told him it was time for him to go to bed. We had a good time, the whole time Dad falling one way or the other, giggling and laughing, and denying that he was drunk. 

At the end of the night I, at 17, guided my 41-year-old plastered Dad to bed. It was great fun, and a good memory. From then on I could usually convince him to join me for a glass of wine (and later, scotch), but that was the first and last time I got Dad right proper drunk. 

PS: He also trusted me, and never expressed worry or concern about my drinking (I was, and never have been a big drinker). He was a good Dad, and I enjoyed my grade 12 year with him and my siblings and family in the basement in Brentwood Bay. After I graduated I got a job with the RCMP, and the first time I drank underage in a bar was with a bunch of cops!

As with other family fun days like Halloween and Christmas, Easter was a sacred family time for dad. 

I remember being about four years old and watching dad hand-make easter baskets out of coloured construction paper. He was carefully cutting it into strips and then weaving it and shaping it into baskets, secured with staples and tape. It seemed like everyone else had gone to bed but dad laboured away for hours, and allowed me to stay up late and "help." 

Each easter I remember dad was the 'bunny' and would hide our eggs around the house. As we often didn't have money when I was smaller, it was often one chocolate treasure hidden with our name tags on it. He'd always try and one-up his hiding spots, and it was always a thrill trying to find our chocolate. Sometimes they'd be in really odd-ball locations and he'd giggle watching us search.

The day before easter dad would prepare, and I understand this was a Beaton tradition. He'd bake bread, make eggs or baskets or whatever needed to be made. As a small child, on easter mornings depending on where we lived, dad would wake us up early and go for a sun rising church ceremony on a hillside or at the local church. We'd then hunt for chocolate. Later in our childhoods we'd relax at home, and start with a hunt and then have a big Beaton breakfast. Sometimes dad would go to church and make it optional for those of us who were interested. 

Waking us up in the morning Dad was always cheerful and would say "HE IS RISEN!" with a big smile. We'd shyly respond "he has risen" and sometimes he would say it again with even more gusto to see if he could get us excited.

This easter I was appreciating dad again, as I remembered watching him work hard to make sure our easters were memorable. 

-jb

A Man's A Man For A' That

1795 Robert Burns

Is there for honest Poverty 

That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; 

A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,) 

That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

Dad performs For A' That for Noah and Ezra in Feb 2014

THOSE THAT KNEW DAD would know that Halloween was one of his favourite times of year. Dad was creative, outgoing, generous, social, and he loved performing. Halloween was a perfect storm for many of the things Dad was good at and loved to do.

Dad would make our costumes, and get excited in the days before as he would hear about great costumes and try re-create them with us kids. He made me into the "headless horseman" with some thrift store supplies when I was eight, and I remember winning 3rd place at a Halloween party (I won a ball). I've re-created that costume a few times since. One Halloween, in a rush, he grabbed a blue plastic disposable plate and stapled it (with paper staples) to the face of a small blue windbreaker, cut some eye holes in the plate, put it on my littlest sister and called her "the blue ghost." She played the part and was a hit that Halloween. For the record we never, ever bought a costume. Ever. Always homemade.

Trick-or-treating was an excuse for Dad to go visit his friends and pay his respects around town. We'd all pile in our vehicle and Dad would take us to select homes around town - Ward Marshall's, Alice Maitland, other teachers, past students, and church friends. I think he enjoyed this part as much as the creative costume making. I recall a lot of laughing and joking as he would greet his friends, and often we'd be ushered in for a "quick visit." 

Dad was also a prankster and would tell stories of the pranks he would pull in his kid-days. As a dad, he mostly pranked our pets and he would delight at seeing their reactions to our costumes, the more scared our dog would be, the better! 

As we grew up Dad took a back seat as we started creating our own costumes. He'd take a lot of joy and pride in our creations. For some reason I remember Jonathan's the best - a "Cereal Killer" when we lived in Port Hardy, and a mega-death reaper (him on drywall stilts) in Brentwood Bay. 

The last Halloween I enjoyed with Dad was back in 2012. We'd just moved to Vancouver and Dad and Marny came to visit for a day on the Halloween weekend. Dad carved ALL our pumpkins under Noah's supervision, and he was a more than willing zombie victim and played with his grandkids.

Have any Dad halloween memories? Please do share. Love,

Jacob

It's been over a year since Dad died and we had his funeral and memorial song circle and hang out. I thought I'd remember more of the condolences, but after a year only a few memories and stories told remain. Here they are:

1. A long line of people shook my hand after the funeral, and I remember what a bright sweet energetic elderly lady said. She was dressed mostly in white, and seemed about half my size. She stepped up and grasped my hand warmly and gave me a huge smile. "This is the BEST FUNERAL I've EVER been to!" she exclaimed cheerily. "And your Eulogy was the BEST!" Then she leaned in, still holding my hand with both of hers, and said with a grin "... and trust me, I've been to a LOT of funerals! Yours was the best!" Her full on smile and cheer really made an impression amongst the somber handshakes and hugs and half-hugs. 
2. A nervous musician who came to the music circle afterwards. He approached me and said he didn't really know my dad well but he wanted to come because of something amazing my dad did. He said that he knew of someone suicidal in the music scene who had become a recluse. Dad wrote this person a positive personal post card every day for months until the person made contact and re-emerged. According to him, Dad had gone out of his way to save a stranger's life. It still brings me tears, and reminds me of the loving postcards I would occasionally get from him the last couple of years.
3. A teacher who told me that dad used to cook big pancake and waffle breakfasts for his students, using griddles that he's fixed or restored himself and with students. He said dad made a big impression on him as a teacher and that he'd never seen that before.
4. A musician who I met outside, who said he hardly knew dad, and got to know him just months before he died. He said Dad had heard he was having trouble with renovations, so he came by with tools and asked if he could take a look. He said he was at wits end, and two hired professionals had both tried but been unable to fix his basement wiring, leaving him with part done jobs and his electrical not working. Dad came in to his basement, after a few minutes of looking around said "I see exactly what happened here. I will fix it." Dad went by every day for a week until he got the job done - and apparently didn't ask for a dime to do it.

It is still hard to believe that he's gone and has left us. I wish I'd been able to record more of your stories to my memory that day, but it was quite overwhelming. For me I miss my Dad, a loving, wise man who helped me feel better about myself every time I talked to him or felt his hugs. He still inspires me when I think back to these stories of things he did to brighten up other people's lives.

-jb

Nov 16/ 87

A couple “simple” things happened today that precipitated this writing. We ran out of stamps and Sophia greeted me with a cheery “Hi dad.” This, the last child, 1 1/2 yrs old and so aware already is sure of her world and dad’s a part of it. The stamp that was missing was on a life ins cheque. Patricia dropped a note inside to High Bradford that I’d like to increase my insurance. After my talk with Cam Cavasso this summer, I can see the wisdom in his council. And I was thinking how little is written to my children. Sophia is 1 1/2 Rebekah is 6, Jonathan is 3 and Jacob is 8 (and doe II is about to whelp). 

Sophia loves to dance. Although you can’t “talk” yet, you will take a hand, and put it where you want it to be. “Pet doe” or “dance” or “draw with a pencil around my foot.” If you don’t get what you want from mom or dad you will try someone else. Rebekah is usually “tuned in” and will get you what you want. Jonathan is quite concerned that you don’t know how to hold a book the right way up yet, but you turn pages like a pro. 

Rebekah loves artistry. You have made me numerous papers cards and bookmarks with “I love you daddy” in your own hand. You spend time colouring in your Bible colour book and readily share space with Aliah and Janice when they come over. I appreciate your tenderness to your family and friends.

I call Jonathan “Mr. Justice.” You have an acute sense of fair/ unfair practices (especially against you). You are a bomb of happiness when everything is O.K. and people love you for it. You are showing the creativity of your big brother in drawing, constructing and generally making “things” for various applications out of wood, paper, etc. 

I enjoy watching my children “create” even if I’m often tired or grumpy when you seek my approval. 

Jacob started it all. Your creativity is infectious to your siblings and cousins. You’ve built forts, caravans all sorts of vehicles. Last weekend you showed me it wasn’t all play by helping me at Eric McCooey’s barn. Sometimes I worry that I’ve taught you to be “too serious” about life, but then I see the pleasure you bring to other people and I think “maybe it’s a good balance.”

Just discovered this today in a box of memories dad kept. I am publishing it because it is mostly a letter written very much to us kids. I transcribed this diary entry as exact as possible, I only added paragraph breaks and bolded our names to make it easier to read, otherwise it is exactly as Dad wrote it. -jb

First, start with a recipe that will loosely resemble your finished product. When we had a box of recipe cards, dad would look at the card and make something that loosely resembled what was on the card, or maybe not use the card at all. When the digital age struck, dad viewed the original and never actually followed recipe, as sacred and never to be touched. Instead there were notes throughout on how to modify the directions to get the results dad wanted. 

Whenever I asked for cooking directions, It was clear I was expected to know basic things about baking. lIt should be slightly softer than bread dough or add just enough water to the pastry so the dough sticks together, but is not sticky. Luckily, I learned these things from stealthily punching the bread down for him while it was rising and eating the bits of pastry when I thought no one was watching.

On week days it was cereal and milk before school, pancakes with some sort of preserved fruit from the summer was usually tossed in on the weekends and often Grain cake was the staple food in our house on Sundays. Mom or dad would whip up a batch with the grain of the week and we would eat it with peanut butter, berries and syrup. I’m not sure where the recipe I have came from, but I think it was originally sent to Rebekah

I use melted butter and sunflower oil and separate the eggs.  I turn the yolks into an emulsion by slowly adding the hot oil while I whip it, then I add the sugar slowly and keep blending until the mixture is stiff like whipped cream. I use 1/2 yogurt and 1/2 water because we never have milk in the house. I omit the flour completely and use wheat bran and germ instead. Because these other parts of the wheat seed are so fluffy, I increase that to a little less than 2 cups. I use 1/2 to 3/4 Cup brown sugar. 

Today I added 2 tsp cinnamon, 1/4 cup sunflower seeds, a dash of pumpkin seed and some raisins. I always use a 9” square pan instead of a 12” one. Make sure you set the oven to 200°c. That’s about 390°F. Enjoy!

I'd use olive oil instead of canola and egg whites instead of eggs and cut back the sugar to 1 cup substituting applesauce for sweetness.  It should be a thick dough but a little more fluid than scone dough.  xo  O.k. now get back to studying for the next hour. (-;

Ingredients

* 4 eggs

* 2 cups sugar

* 1 cup cornmeal

* 1 cup plain flour

* 1/2 cup canola oil (or any similar)

* 1 cup milk

* 1 tablespoon baking powder

Directions

   1. Pre-heat the oven at 200°C.

   2. Lightly oil (or butter) a non-stick 30 cm cake pan.

   3. Mix the eggs yolk with sugar and oil.

   4. Boil the milk and pour on the cornmeal, on a separated bowl,mixing well.

   5.Mix this to the eggs mixture.

   6. Sift the flour with the baking powder and add to the mixture.

   7. On a clean bowl whisk the eggs white and fold into the mixture.

   8. Pour this to the prepared pan and bake for 30 minutes or until the tester come out clean.