It was late afternoon, and steam drifted through the kitchen like clouds rolling through the mountains. I wiped my hands on my apron and stared at the bowls in front of me. My name is Hao, and I worked in Master Lin’s kitchen—he was the most famous chef in the village. But today, I felt lost.
“Why do your dumplings always taste better than mine?” I asked Master Lin, as I dropped another lumpy ball into the steaming pot. “I follow every step!”
Master Lin chuckled. He was an old man with a long beard and eyes that smiled without moving. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he said as he sliced carrots into perfect little moons. “You follow the steps. But you do not follow the Tao.”
“The Tao?” I scratched my head. “Master, I’m trying to cook, not search for the meaning of the universe.”
Master Lin looked at me, still smiling. “But cooking is the universe, young Hao.”
I sighed. For weeks now, I had poured all my energy into learning the recipes. I added more spices when the food tasted plain. I mashed the dough harder when it didn’t roll right. But no matter what I did, something always felt... off.
That night, I stayed behind after dinner. While the others cleaned, I sat on a stool watching Master Lin stir a pot of soup. He didn’t rush. He didn’t squint or groan. Even his breath seemed to move with the rhythm of the spoon.
“How do you know when it’s done?” I asked softly.
He closed his eyes and sniffed the air. “The soup will tell me.”
Confused, I said nothing. The only sounds were crackling fire and bubbling broth.
Master Lin continued. “Taoism teaches Wu Wei—non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not forcing. Let the ingredients be what they are. Help them become their best—not what you want them to be.”
I blinked. “So... I shouldn’t try so hard?”
He nodded. “Be like water. Flow. Don’t push.”
The next day, I tried something different. I didn’t rush my chopping. I didn’t grow angry when the dough stuck to my fingers. I breathed gently and moved with the sounds and smells around me, like the river that flows without needing to try.
When I served the dumplings, Master Lin took a bite and smiled. “Ah. Now that tastes like freedom.”
I blinked. “Freedom?”
He patted my shoulder. “When you stop trying to control everything, you become free. And so does your cooking.”
At that moment, I didn’t feel proud or perfect. I felt... light, like a leaf floating in the breeze. I didn’t need to fight. I just needed to follow the Way.
I didn’t change overnight. But from that day on, I stopped forcing the food and started listening to it. And every time my hands touched flour and water, I remembered the Tao of cooking—a recipe not written in books, but in the quiet balance of being.
It was late afternoon, and steam drifted through the kitchen like clouds rolling through the mountains. I wiped my hands on my apron and stared at the bowls in front of me. My name is Hao, and I worked in Master Lin’s kitchen—he was the most famous chef in the village. But today, I felt lost.
“Why do your dumplings always taste better than mine?” I asked Master Lin, as I dropped another lumpy ball into the steaming pot. “I follow every step!”
Master Lin chuckled. He was an old man with a long beard and eyes that smiled without moving. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he said as he sliced carrots into perfect little moons. “You follow the steps. But you do not follow the Tao.”
“The Tao?” I scratched my head. “Master, I’m trying to cook, not search for the meaning of the universe.”
Master Lin looked at me, still smiling. “But cooking is the universe, young Hao.”
I sighed. For weeks now, I had poured all my energy into learning the recipes. I added more spices when the food tasted plain. I mashed the dough harder when it didn’t roll right. But no matter what I did, something always felt... off.
That night, I stayed behind after dinner. While the others cleaned, I sat on a stool watching Master Lin stir a pot of soup. He didn’t rush. He didn’t squint or groan. Even his breath seemed to move with the rhythm of the spoon.
“How do you know when it’s done?” I asked softly.
He closed his eyes and sniffed the air. “The soup will tell me.”
Confused, I said nothing. The only sounds were crackling fire and bubbling broth.
Master Lin continued. “Taoism teaches Wu Wei—non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not forcing. Let the ingredients be what they are. Help them become their best—not what you want them to be.”
I blinked. “So... I shouldn’t try so hard?”
He nodded. “Be like water. Flow. Don’t push.”
The next day, I tried something different. I didn’t rush my chopping. I didn’t grow angry when the dough stuck to my fingers. I breathed gently and moved with the sounds and smells around me, like the river that flows without needing to try.
When I served the dumplings, Master Lin took a bite and smiled. “Ah. Now that tastes like freedom.”
I blinked. “Freedom?”
He patted my shoulder. “When you stop trying to control everything, you become free. And so does your cooking.”
At that moment, I didn’t feel proud or perfect. I felt... light, like a leaf floating in the breeze. I didn’t need to fight. I just needed to follow the Way.
I didn’t change overnight. But from that day on, I stopped forcing the food and started listening to it. And every time my hands touched flour and water, I remembered the Tao of cooking—a recipe not written in books, but in the quiet balance of being.
