The river steamed gently as the sun rose behind the hills. I stood behind my clay stove, poking at the morning fire. I wasn’t much of a cook then, just a helper in a tiny teahouse outside the town of Lu. My name is Ping, and back then, I thought cooking was just about making food. I didn’t know it could teach me how to live.
The old cook, Master Han, was quiet most days. He had been working in that kitchen since before I was born. Every morning, he moved like the wind—slow, smooth, calm. Whether stirring soup or slicing herbs, he never rushed, never paused. I once asked if he was following a secret recipe.
“There is no secret,” he said with a smile. “Only the Way.”
I didn’t understand. I wanted things to be perfect. I chopped too fast, burned my fingers, and spilled broth almost every day. The more I tried to control everything, the worse it got. Master Han never scolded me. He just watched, stirring his pot with a wooden spoon that looked older than the house.
One morning, I came in angry. My brother had taken my sandals again. I was tired, cold, and annoyed. I slammed the pots, dumped rice into the water, and nearly knocked over the kettle.
“Too much fire in the heart,” Master Han said calmly. “It will burn the food—and your peace.”
I frowned. “I’m just tired. And nothing ever turns out right.”
He handed me a mushroom. “Try cutting this.”
I grabbed my knife and chopped quickly. The pieces came out uneven and half of it was wasted.
“Again,” he said.
I sighed and picked up another mushroom. This time, I slowed down. I watched how the knife moved. I didn't push; I let the shape of the mushroom guide me. Slice by slice, it became easier.
Something inside me began to settle.
“Do you feel that?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. “It feels... calm.”
“That is the Tao,” he said. “When you stop pushing and simply follow the way of things, everything flows. Even cooking.”
I didn’t fully understand back then, but I started paying attention. I noticed how boiling water danced before it settled, how vegetables softened with time, not pressure. I learned that some days, the tea was sweeter when I didn't stir it so much, and that burnt rice could still taste good if I didn’t panic.
Over time, I cooked better—not because I worked harder, but because I stopped rushing. I stopped trying to force everything. I let the soup simmer, the fire glow, and my heart rest.
Years later, when Master Han passed on, the teahouse became mine. People say the food here tastes like peace.
But I tell them it’s not the recipe that matters. It’s the Way. The Tao is in everything, even the smallest dish. You just have to let it unfold.
I still burn the rice sometimes. But now, I just laugh, breathe, and start again. After all, freedom doesn’t mean getting it right. It means cooking with your heart, not your worry.
And that is my secret recipe.
The river steamed gently as the sun rose behind the hills. I stood behind my clay stove, poking at the morning fire. I wasn’t much of a cook then, just a helper in a tiny teahouse outside the town of Lu. My name is Ping, and back then, I thought cooking was just about making food. I didn’t know it could teach me how to live.
The old cook, Master Han, was quiet most days. He had been working in that kitchen since before I was born. Every morning, he moved like the wind—slow, smooth, calm. Whether stirring soup or slicing herbs, he never rushed, never paused. I once asked if he was following a secret recipe.
“There is no secret,” he said with a smile. “Only the Way.”
I didn’t understand. I wanted things to be perfect. I chopped too fast, burned my fingers, and spilled broth almost every day. The more I tried to control everything, the worse it got. Master Han never scolded me. He just watched, stirring his pot with a wooden spoon that looked older than the house.
One morning, I came in angry. My brother had taken my sandals again. I was tired, cold, and annoyed. I slammed the pots, dumped rice into the water, and nearly knocked over the kettle.
“Too much fire in the heart,” Master Han said calmly. “It will burn the food—and your peace.”
I frowned. “I’m just tired. And nothing ever turns out right.”
He handed me a mushroom. “Try cutting this.”
I grabbed my knife and chopped quickly. The pieces came out uneven and half of it was wasted.
“Again,” he said.
I sighed and picked up another mushroom. This time, I slowed down. I watched how the knife moved. I didn't push; I let the shape of the mushroom guide me. Slice by slice, it became easier.
Something inside me began to settle.
“Do you feel that?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. “It feels... calm.”
“That is the Tao,” he said. “When you stop pushing and simply follow the way of things, everything flows. Even cooking.”
I didn’t fully understand back then, but I started paying attention. I noticed how boiling water danced before it settled, how vegetables softened with time, not pressure. I learned that some days, the tea was sweeter when I didn't stir it so much, and that burnt rice could still taste good if I didn’t panic.
Over time, I cooked better—not because I worked harder, but because I stopped rushing. I stopped trying to force everything. I let the soup simmer, the fire glow, and my heart rest.
Years later, when Master Han passed on, the teahouse became mine. People say the food here tastes like peace.
But I tell them it’s not the recipe that matters. It’s the Way. The Tao is in everything, even the smallest dish. You just have to let it unfold.
I still burn the rice sometimes. But now, I just laugh, breathe, and start again. After all, freedom doesn’t mean getting it right. It means cooking with your heart, not your worry.
And that is my secret recipe.
