The kitchen was hot, and my hands were shaking. I had spent weeks trying to make the perfect duck stew for the Duke. It was supposed to be thick, rich, and full of flavor. But every time I touched the ladle, something felt wrong. I was trying too hard to follow every rule from the cooking scrolls, measuring every pinch and stir. The more I tried, the worse it became.
I was Cook Wang, known to many as the best chef in the region. People came from far and wide just to watch me slice vegetables. But I didn’t feel great—I felt stuck, nervous, like I was always chasing perfection that kept slipping away.
That’s when he came—an old man with a quiet smile. He didn’t look like anyone special, just a traveler with dusty shoes and eyes that seemed to see everything. He sat in the corner of the kitchen, not saying a word. Just watching.
I snapped at one of the younger cooks. “The fire is too strong! You're ruining the broth!” I shouted.
The old man chuckled softly and said, “Have you ever seen how water moves around stones?”
“What?” I asked, wiping sweat from my brow.
“It flows,” he said simply. “It doesn’t push. It finds the easiest path—effortless.”
I didn’t understand. “This stew needs to be perfect, or I’ll be sent back to the countryside!”
He looked at me kindly. “Then maybe… stop trying to control every drop. Let the ingredients speak.”
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about his words. I had heard stories of the old master chef from Zhuangzi's scroll—the one who carved meat without ever needing to sharpen his knife, who danced through the kitchen as if guided by something greater, not by thought, but by trust in the Way.
So the next morning, I did something strange. I let go. I stopped counting spoonfuls and measuring every second. I moved by feeling. When I stirred, I stirred slowly, only when the pot called for it. When I sliced, I followed the shape of the vegetable, not the recipe in my mind.
And the stew... changed. It was gentle. Warm. Just enough. Not too much. Somehow, it was better than any I had made.
The Duke tasted it and smiled. “What have you done, Cook Wang? This is... peace in a bowl.”
But I just whispered, “I disappeared.”
Because that’s how it felt. I was no longer “Wang the Great Cook.” I just became part of the kitchen, part of the stew, part of something bigger. Like the Tao.
Now, I cook simply. Quietly. I don’t shout. I don’t force flavor. I let it unfold on its own, trusting that the Way knows more than I do.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush or control, I remember the words of the old traveler.
Let go.
Let it flow.
And cook with your heart.
That’s the secret recipe.
The kitchen was hot, and my hands were shaking. I had spent weeks trying to make the perfect duck stew for the Duke. It was supposed to be thick, rich, and full of flavor. But every time I touched the ladle, something felt wrong. I was trying too hard to follow every rule from the cooking scrolls, measuring every pinch and stir. The more I tried, the worse it became.
I was Cook Wang, known to many as the best chef in the region. People came from far and wide just to watch me slice vegetables. But I didn’t feel great—I felt stuck, nervous, like I was always chasing perfection that kept slipping away.
That’s when he came—an old man with a quiet smile. He didn’t look like anyone special, just a traveler with dusty shoes and eyes that seemed to see everything. He sat in the corner of the kitchen, not saying a word. Just watching.
I snapped at one of the younger cooks. “The fire is too strong! You're ruining the broth!” I shouted.
The old man chuckled softly and said, “Have you ever seen how water moves around stones?”
“What?” I asked, wiping sweat from my brow.
“It flows,” he said simply. “It doesn’t push. It finds the easiest path—effortless.”
I didn’t understand. “This stew needs to be perfect, or I’ll be sent back to the countryside!”
He looked at me kindly. “Then maybe… stop trying to control every drop. Let the ingredients speak.”
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about his words. I had heard stories of the old master chef from Zhuangzi's scroll—the one who carved meat without ever needing to sharpen his knife, who danced through the kitchen as if guided by something greater, not by thought, but by trust in the Way.
So the next morning, I did something strange. I let go. I stopped counting spoonfuls and measuring every second. I moved by feeling. When I stirred, I stirred slowly, only when the pot called for it. When I sliced, I followed the shape of the vegetable, not the recipe in my mind.
And the stew... changed. It was gentle. Warm. Just enough. Not too much. Somehow, it was better than any I had made.
The Duke tasted it and smiled. “What have you done, Cook Wang? This is... peace in a bowl.”
But I just whispered, “I disappeared.”
Because that’s how it felt. I was no longer “Wang the Great Cook.” I just became part of the kitchen, part of the stew, part of something bigger. Like the Tao.
Now, I cook simply. Quietly. I don’t shout. I don’t force flavor. I let it unfold on its own, trusting that the Way knows more than I do.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush or control, I remember the words of the old traveler.
Let go.
Let it flow.
And cook with your heart.
That’s the secret recipe.
