The sun was hot that summer, the kind of heat that made your skin feel sticky like warm honey. I remember because that morning, I had already spilled the rice twice and burned the fish once. My name is Le, and I was the youngest apprentice in the kitchen of Lord Fei’s great house. Everyone said I was clumsy. Maybe they were right.
That day, I was sent into the forest to collect smooth river stones for the soup pots. It was said that certain rocks, when boiled just right, made the broth sweeter. I didn’t really understand how, but Master Han, our cook, swore by it.
I walked until I found the riverbed, sat on a mossy boulder, and sighed. I was tired of feeling like I always messed things up. I threw a pebble into the stream and muttered, “Why can’t I do anything right?”
To my surprise, a voice answered. “Because you try too hard.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. There, sitting beside me, was an old man with a big hat and a beard that reached his chest. He looked like a pile of leaves and wisdom all wrapped in one.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m just someone who talks to rocks,” he smiled. “And they talk back.”
I blinked. “Rocks can’t talk.”
“They can,” he said, patting a stone gently. “But only if you stop talking long enough to listen.”
We sat quietly. The river bubbled. The wind moved through the trees. A bird called from the canopy.
“You work in the kitchen,” the old man said after a while. “You stir, chop, lift, watch, taste—all with rushing thoughts. But the best chefs move like water: soft, smooth, without force.”
I frowned. “But I want to be good! I keep trying and trying!”
He nodded. “A river doesn’t try to reach the sea—it flows. A fire doesn’t try to warm—it burns. And a good cook doesn’t try to control the meal… he lets it become.”
I didn’t understand fully, but something about his words felt true.
He picked up a flat stone and handed it to me. “This one is ready. Not because I made it ready—but because it already is.”
I walked back slowly, holding the stone. I didn’t rush. When I got to the kitchen, I didn’t try to impress anyone. I simply helped: stirring gently, chopping with ease, letting the fish cook without poking at it every minute.
Master Han paused beside me. “Hmm,” he said, tasting the soup. “Better. You’re learning.”
Something began to shift in me after that. I listened more. I did less. I let things unfold, like soup becoming soup all on its own.
And sometimes, when no one was looking, I whispered to the stones.
They never spoke loud. But I listened anyway.
I didn’t become perfect. I still dropped bowls now and again. But I found a stillness in cooking—a quiet path, like the river’s own way.
And now, whenever someone asks how I became Master Le, I smile and say, “I just learned to stop stirring the soup too much.”
Because sometimes, doing less… is the secret recipe.
The sun was hot that summer, the kind of heat that made your skin feel sticky like warm honey. I remember because that morning, I had already spilled the rice twice and burned the fish once. My name is Le, and I was the youngest apprentice in the kitchen of Lord Fei’s great house. Everyone said I was clumsy. Maybe they were right.
That day, I was sent into the forest to collect smooth river stones for the soup pots. It was said that certain rocks, when boiled just right, made the broth sweeter. I didn’t really understand how, but Master Han, our cook, swore by it.
I walked until I found the riverbed, sat on a mossy boulder, and sighed. I was tired of feeling like I always messed things up. I threw a pebble into the stream and muttered, “Why can’t I do anything right?”
To my surprise, a voice answered. “Because you try too hard.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. There, sitting beside me, was an old man with a big hat and a beard that reached his chest. He looked like a pile of leaves and wisdom all wrapped in one.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m just someone who talks to rocks,” he smiled. “And they talk back.”
I blinked. “Rocks can’t talk.”
“They can,” he said, patting a stone gently. “But only if you stop talking long enough to listen.”
We sat quietly. The river bubbled. The wind moved through the trees. A bird called from the canopy.
“You work in the kitchen,” the old man said after a while. “You stir, chop, lift, watch, taste—all with rushing thoughts. But the best chefs move like water: soft, smooth, without force.”
I frowned. “But I want to be good! I keep trying and trying!”
He nodded. “A river doesn’t try to reach the sea—it flows. A fire doesn’t try to warm—it burns. And a good cook doesn’t try to control the meal… he lets it become.”
I didn’t understand fully, but something about his words felt true.
He picked up a flat stone and handed it to me. “This one is ready. Not because I made it ready—but because it already is.”
I walked back slowly, holding the stone. I didn’t rush. When I got to the kitchen, I didn’t try to impress anyone. I simply helped: stirring gently, chopping with ease, letting the fish cook without poking at it every minute.
Master Han paused beside me. “Hmm,” he said, tasting the soup. “Better. You’re learning.”
Something began to shift in me after that. I listened more. I did less. I let things unfold, like soup becoming soup all on its own.
And sometimes, when no one was looking, I whispered to the stones.
They never spoke loud. But I listened anyway.
I didn’t become perfect. I still dropped bowls now and again. But I found a stillness in cooking—a quiet path, like the river’s own way.
And now, whenever someone asks how I became Master Le, I smile and say, “I just learned to stop stirring the soup too much.”
Because sometimes, doing less… is the secret recipe.
