The cooking fire crackled as steam rose from my clay pot. I had been stirring the same stew for hours, but the flavor still wasn’t right. My name is Mei, and I had just started working in the kitchen of Master Li, the most respected cook in the village. Everyone said his food brought harmony to the heart. But me? I couldn’t even boil rice without it turning to mush.
“Why won’t this taste like his?” I sighed, wiping sweat from my forehead.
Just then, Master Li walked through the bamboo curtain. He had a long white beard and eyes that smiled even when his mouth did not. He peered into my pot, tasted a spoonful, and didn’t say a word. Instead, he pointed to a large root on the cutting board. “What is that?” he asked.
“It’s just a curved root,” I replied. “It’s too twisted to cut. I used the straight ones instead.”
He gently placed the curved root in my hands. “This one holds the secret,” he said. “Cook with it.”
Confused, I sliced it and added it to the pot. I watched as the shapes curled and danced in the boiling stew. A sweet smell bloomed in the air, and a calm settled into my chest.
Still, I didn’t understand.
“Why this one?” I whispered.
Master Li sat on a wooden stool and motioned for me to sit beside him. “In the Tao Te Ching,” he said, “Master Laozi wrote, ‘The crooked tree lives its life. The straight tree is cut down.’ What seems useless may hold the greatest value.”
I looked down at the now empty plate beside the cutting board. The curved root, the one I'd almost thrown away, had made the dish taste whole—like something bigger than myself had guided it.
That night, people came again to eat. When they tasted my stew, their faces lit up. Some whispered, “It reminds me of my grandmother’s noodles,” and others nodded quietly.
After they left, Master Li handed me another root—this one even more gnarled than the last.
“You mean to say I should only use crooked ones?” I asked.
He chuckled. “No, Mei. I mean do not chase only what looks perfect. Flow with the crooked parts, the slow parts, even the mistakes. Learn to follow, not control. That is wu wei—effortless action.”
From then on, I cooked with a lighter heart. I moved like water pouring into a bowl, adjusting to every shape without forcing anything. Sometimes I burned the rice. Sometimes the fire went out. I didn’t fight it. I learned to laugh.
Now, when people ask for my recipe, I smile and say, “There is none. I just listen to the stew.”
I didn’t become a master that day. But I understood that freedom isn’t doing whatever you want. It’s being in harmony with what is.
And the crooked root? I keep one on my shelf—to remind me that something doesn’t need to be straight to be strong.
The cooking fire crackled as steam rose from my clay pot. I had been stirring the same stew for hours, but the flavor still wasn’t right. My name is Mei, and I had just started working in the kitchen of Master Li, the most respected cook in the village. Everyone said his food brought harmony to the heart. But me? I couldn’t even boil rice without it turning to mush.
“Why won’t this taste like his?” I sighed, wiping sweat from my forehead.
Just then, Master Li walked through the bamboo curtain. He had a long white beard and eyes that smiled even when his mouth did not. He peered into my pot, tasted a spoonful, and didn’t say a word. Instead, he pointed to a large root on the cutting board. “What is that?” he asked.
“It’s just a curved root,” I replied. “It’s too twisted to cut. I used the straight ones instead.”
He gently placed the curved root in my hands. “This one holds the secret,” he said. “Cook with it.”
Confused, I sliced it and added it to the pot. I watched as the shapes curled and danced in the boiling stew. A sweet smell bloomed in the air, and a calm settled into my chest.
Still, I didn’t understand.
“Why this one?” I whispered.
Master Li sat on a wooden stool and motioned for me to sit beside him. “In the Tao Te Ching,” he said, “Master Laozi wrote, ‘The crooked tree lives its life. The straight tree is cut down.’ What seems useless may hold the greatest value.”
I looked down at the now empty plate beside the cutting board. The curved root, the one I'd almost thrown away, had made the dish taste whole—like something bigger than myself had guided it.
That night, people came again to eat. When they tasted my stew, their faces lit up. Some whispered, “It reminds me of my grandmother’s noodles,” and others nodded quietly.
After they left, Master Li handed me another root—this one even more gnarled than the last.
“You mean to say I should only use crooked ones?” I asked.
He chuckled. “No, Mei. I mean do not chase only what looks perfect. Flow with the crooked parts, the slow parts, even the mistakes. Learn to follow, not control. That is wu wei—effortless action.”
From then on, I cooked with a lighter heart. I moved like water pouring into a bowl, adjusting to every shape without forcing anything. Sometimes I burned the rice. Sometimes the fire went out. I didn’t fight it. I learned to laugh.
Now, when people ask for my recipe, I smile and say, “There is none. I just listen to the stew.”
I didn’t become a master that day. But I understood that freedom isn’t doing whatever you want. It’s being in harmony with what is.
And the crooked root? I keep one on my shelf—to remind me that something doesn’t need to be straight to be strong.
