The smell of sweet rice filled the kitchen, teasing my nose and making my stomach grumble. I was only ten, but I had already cracked more eggs than I could count. My name is Li Wei, and my grandfather was the most famous chef in our village. People traveled for days just to taste his tofu soup. Everyone said he had a secret recipe. I wanted to learn it more than anything.
One summer morning, as I followed him into the kitchen, I whispered, “Grandfather, will you teach me your secret recipe today?”
He smiled gently, the corners of his eyes wrinkling like old scrolls. “Ah, Li Wei,” he said, “today we will cook, and perhaps you will learn.”
I grabbed the wooden spoon and stood straight, ready to measure, stir, and impress him. But to my surprise, Grandfather didn’t hand me a list of ingredients. Instead, he told me, “Feel the rice. Listen to the water. Let the steam guide your nose.”
I blinked. “But how will I know the right amount?”
Grandfather chuckled. “The Tao—The Way—cooks with no recipe.”
I didn’t understand. I wanted clear steps, firm rules. Cooking without instructions felt like climbing a cliff with no rope.
As the fire crackled and the pot bubbled, I watched him float between tasks like a leaf on a river. He never measured, never rushed. If something spilled, he let it be. If a dish seemed to take longer, he didn’t poke it along. I grew frustrated.
“But we need to do something!” I cried after a piece of fish slid out of the pan.
Grandfather only smiled. “Do you know the story from Laozi, the wise old man who wrote the Tao Te Ching? He said, ‘The sage treats everyone as straw dogs,’ meaning he lets go of control. He accepts all things as they are—with care, but without force.”
I frowned. “Straw dogs?”
“They were once used for rituals, but after, they returned to the earth. We shouldn’t cling. When we force too much, things break.”
I folded my arms. “But shouldn’t we care if the soup is perfect?”
Grandfather set down his knife. “The Tao doesn’t try to be great. That’s why it is. We cook—not to chase perfection—but to be present. Like a river flowing through the valley.”
Later that evening, we sat on the porch and ate the tofu soup. It was warm. It was simple. It tasted like peace.
“You didn’t tell me the secret recipe,” I mumbled, wiping my mouth.
He smiled that same soft smile. “Because, my Xiao Wei, the secret is that there is no secret. Just be still inside. Let your hands follow. The Tao will do the rest.”
I looked out at the sky, golden with sunset. That day, I didn’t just learn how to cook. I learned how to let go.
And while I’m still young, I now know this: sometimes doing less is more, and the best things come when I don’t try so hard.
I still have much to learn, but the Tao is patient. It doesn’t rush—so neither do I.
The smell of sweet rice filled the kitchen, teasing my nose and making my stomach grumble. I was only ten, but I had already cracked more eggs than I could count. My name is Li Wei, and my grandfather was the most famous chef in our village. People traveled for days just to taste his tofu soup. Everyone said he had a secret recipe. I wanted to learn it more than anything.
One summer morning, as I followed him into the kitchen, I whispered, “Grandfather, will you teach me your secret recipe today?”
He smiled gently, the corners of his eyes wrinkling like old scrolls. “Ah, Li Wei,” he said, “today we will cook, and perhaps you will learn.”
I grabbed the wooden spoon and stood straight, ready to measure, stir, and impress him. But to my surprise, Grandfather didn’t hand me a list of ingredients. Instead, he told me, “Feel the rice. Listen to the water. Let the steam guide your nose.”
I blinked. “But how will I know the right amount?”
Grandfather chuckled. “The Tao—The Way—cooks with no recipe.”
I didn’t understand. I wanted clear steps, firm rules. Cooking without instructions felt like climbing a cliff with no rope.
As the fire crackled and the pot bubbled, I watched him float between tasks like a leaf on a river. He never measured, never rushed. If something spilled, he let it be. If a dish seemed to take longer, he didn’t poke it along. I grew frustrated.
“But we need to do something!” I cried after a piece of fish slid out of the pan.
Grandfather only smiled. “Do you know the story from Laozi, the wise old man who wrote the Tao Te Ching? He said, ‘The sage treats everyone as straw dogs,’ meaning he lets go of control. He accepts all things as they are—with care, but without force.”
I frowned. “Straw dogs?”
“They were once used for rituals, but after, they returned to the earth. We shouldn’t cling. When we force too much, things break.”
I folded my arms. “But shouldn’t we care if the soup is perfect?”
Grandfather set down his knife. “The Tao doesn’t try to be great. That’s why it is. We cook—not to chase perfection—but to be present. Like a river flowing through the valley.”
Later that evening, we sat on the porch and ate the tofu soup. It was warm. It was simple. It tasted like peace.
“You didn’t tell me the secret recipe,” I mumbled, wiping my mouth.
He smiled that same soft smile. “Because, my Xiao Wei, the secret is that there is no secret. Just be still inside. Let your hands follow. The Tao will do the rest.”
I looked out at the sky, golden with sunset. That day, I didn’t just learn how to cook. I learned how to let go.
And while I’m still young, I now know this: sometimes doing less is more, and the best things come when I don’t try so hard.
I still have much to learn, but the Tao is patient. It doesn’t rush—so neither do I.
