The kitchen was warm and full of smoke, but it was my favorite place in the whole house. My name is Lian, and I lived with my grandfather in a small village near the southern mountains of ancient China. He was a cook, but not just any cook—Grandfather used to say he followed “The Tao of Cooking.”
I didn’t understand what that meant. To me, cooking was just fire, oil, squeaky rice paddles, and my stomach growling. But one summer night, when the stars blinked like sleepy eyes and the air felt sticky, I learned something I would never forget.
I had just dropped an entire batch of dumplings into the fire by accident. I froze. Grandfather looked over and simply smiled. He didn’t scold me. He didn’t even flinch.
“That’s one way not to cook dumplings,” he said gently.
“I ruined it,” I sulked, my cheeks red as chili oil. “I tried so hard to copy your recipe. I followed every step!”
Grandfather wiped his hands and sat on a wooden stool. “Cooking,” he said, “is not just about steps. It’s about feeling.”
That didn’t make sense to me. I had followed everything exactly. I read the list, measured the flour, folded each dumpling like I was folding a wooden origami box. But still—it didn’t work.
“What do you mean... feeling?” I asked.
He reached for a small bamboo leaf he kept in his apron pocket. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. “There was once a famous cook named Cook Ding. People came from all around to watch him slice meat. But when asked what his secret was, he said this: ‘I follow the natural lines. I do not force. I let my knife flow where it must. I do not push—I feel. I follow the way things are.’”
I blinked. “So you don’t have a recipe?”
He chuckled. “I have one. But I don’t cling to it. Cooking, like life, isn't meant to be forced. That’s the Tao—The Way. It teaches us to be in harmony with things, to act without forcing.”
I was quiet. I thought hard about what he said.
The next day, I tried again. I didn’t grip the spoon too tightly. I let my hands move how they wanted. I listened to the sizzle of the oil and the whisper of the garlic instead of reading every word from a scroll. I didn’t try to be perfect. I just... cooked.
That batch of dumplings didn’t look as neat. But when Grandfather tasted one, he smiled with his eyes.
“I see you’re learning the real recipe,” he said.
Since that day, I started doing other things that way—brushing my hair, walking down the hill, even sitting quietly under the plum tree. I didn’t rush, I didn’t force. I just let the world move and moved with it.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel like things aren’t working, I remember the lost dumplings and Cook Ding’s knife. I take a deep breath, let go, and let the Way guide me.
After all, the Tao isn’t a recipe—it’s the taste of life when you stop trying to control it.
The kitchen was warm and full of smoke, but it was my favorite place in the whole house. My name is Lian, and I lived with my grandfather in a small village near the southern mountains of ancient China. He was a cook, but not just any cook—Grandfather used to say he followed “The Tao of Cooking.”
I didn’t understand what that meant. To me, cooking was just fire, oil, squeaky rice paddles, and my stomach growling. But one summer night, when the stars blinked like sleepy eyes and the air felt sticky, I learned something I would never forget.
I had just dropped an entire batch of dumplings into the fire by accident. I froze. Grandfather looked over and simply smiled. He didn’t scold me. He didn’t even flinch.
“That’s one way not to cook dumplings,” he said gently.
“I ruined it,” I sulked, my cheeks red as chili oil. “I tried so hard to copy your recipe. I followed every step!”
Grandfather wiped his hands and sat on a wooden stool. “Cooking,” he said, “is not just about steps. It’s about feeling.”
That didn’t make sense to me. I had followed everything exactly. I read the list, measured the flour, folded each dumpling like I was folding a wooden origami box. But still—it didn’t work.
“What do you mean... feeling?” I asked.
He reached for a small bamboo leaf he kept in his apron pocket. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. “There was once a famous cook named Cook Ding. People came from all around to watch him slice meat. But when asked what his secret was, he said this: ‘I follow the natural lines. I do not force. I let my knife flow where it must. I do not push—I feel. I follow the way things are.’”
I blinked. “So you don’t have a recipe?”
He chuckled. “I have one. But I don’t cling to it. Cooking, like life, isn't meant to be forced. That’s the Tao—The Way. It teaches us to be in harmony with things, to act without forcing.”
I was quiet. I thought hard about what he said.
The next day, I tried again. I didn’t grip the spoon too tightly. I let my hands move how they wanted. I listened to the sizzle of the oil and the whisper of the garlic instead of reading every word from a scroll. I didn’t try to be perfect. I just... cooked.
That batch of dumplings didn’t look as neat. But when Grandfather tasted one, he smiled with his eyes.
“I see you’re learning the real recipe,” he said.
Since that day, I started doing other things that way—brushing my hair, walking down the hill, even sitting quietly under the plum tree. I didn’t rush, I didn’t force. I just let the world move and moved with it.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel like things aren’t working, I remember the lost dumplings and Cook Ding’s knife. I take a deep breath, let go, and let the Way guide me.
After all, the Tao isn’t a recipe—it’s the taste of life when you stop trying to control it.
