The kitchen was full of steam, and my sleeves were wet with soup. My name is Lian, and I was just a cook at the palace, nothing more. Every day was the same—I chopped, stirred, and sweated while the nobles feasted in golden rooms.
One day, an old man with a long white beard entered the palace to visit the prince. He wore plain robes and wooden sandals, and yet, everyone treated him as if he were the emperor himself. His name was Master Zhang, a Taoist sage.
He came to the kitchen while I was making duck stew. I tried to hide my nervousness, bowing low.
He looked at my hands and smiled gently. “Do the vegetables ever complain when you cut them?”
I blinked. “No, Master. They are only vegetables.”
“Ah,” he said, lifting the ladle. “Then tell me, why do you complain when life slices you like a carrot?”
I didn’t understand, but he didn’t explain. He simply sipped the broth and said, “Too much spice. Let it settle.”
For the next week, Master Zhang returned every morning to the kitchen. He didn’t give orders, and he didn’t touch the food. He just sat and watched. At first, it made me very uncomfortable. I tried too hard, worried that he would think I wasn’t good enough. My hands shook sometimes when I stirred the pot.
“You are fighting the soup,” he said one day. “Stop. Let it cook.”
“But if I do nothing,” I argued, “it might burn or go bad!”
He didn’t argue. He just smiled and went back to his tea.
Later that week, I was cutting radishes for the royal banquet. I thought about what he had said. I didn’t rush. I didn’t force the blade. I let it move where the root wanted it to go. The radishes practically sliced themselves. Strangely, I began to feel calm—lighter, as if I wasn’t cooking, but just being there while the meal came together on its own.
Days passed. My cooking improved, not because I worked harder, but because I worked with ease. The flames, the knife, the boiling water—all danced with me. I didn’t need to control them. I just let them do what they were meant to do.
One morning, Master Zhang stood beside me while I stirred a pot. “The Tao,” he said, “is like good cooking. Use just enough heat, and let the flavors flow naturally. Do not fight the food.”
I smiled. I finally understood.
That day, the prince called me into the great hall and asked where I had learned such skill. I didn’t speak of perfect recipes or secret ingredients. I said only, “I learned to let go.”
I still cook every day, but now I do it with peace. I don’t rush, I don’t stress, and I don’t cling to the outcome. I follow the Tao, and the kitchen follows me.
And when asked my secret, I just say, “The soup knows what it wants to be. I just help it be that.”
The kitchen was full of steam, and my sleeves were wet with soup. My name is Lian, and I was just a cook at the palace, nothing more. Every day was the same—I chopped, stirred, and sweated while the nobles feasted in golden rooms.
One day, an old man with a long white beard entered the palace to visit the prince. He wore plain robes and wooden sandals, and yet, everyone treated him as if he were the emperor himself. His name was Master Zhang, a Taoist sage.
He came to the kitchen while I was making duck stew. I tried to hide my nervousness, bowing low.
He looked at my hands and smiled gently. “Do the vegetables ever complain when you cut them?”
I blinked. “No, Master. They are only vegetables.”
“Ah,” he said, lifting the ladle. “Then tell me, why do you complain when life slices you like a carrot?”
I didn’t understand, but he didn’t explain. He simply sipped the broth and said, “Too much spice. Let it settle.”
For the next week, Master Zhang returned every morning to the kitchen. He didn’t give orders, and he didn’t touch the food. He just sat and watched. At first, it made me very uncomfortable. I tried too hard, worried that he would think I wasn’t good enough. My hands shook sometimes when I stirred the pot.
“You are fighting the soup,” he said one day. “Stop. Let it cook.”
“But if I do nothing,” I argued, “it might burn or go bad!”
He didn’t argue. He just smiled and went back to his tea.
Later that week, I was cutting radishes for the royal banquet. I thought about what he had said. I didn’t rush. I didn’t force the blade. I let it move where the root wanted it to go. The radishes practically sliced themselves. Strangely, I began to feel calm—lighter, as if I wasn’t cooking, but just being there while the meal came together on its own.
Days passed. My cooking improved, not because I worked harder, but because I worked with ease. The flames, the knife, the boiling water—all danced with me. I didn’t need to control them. I just let them do what they were meant to do.
One morning, Master Zhang stood beside me while I stirred a pot. “The Tao,” he said, “is like good cooking. Use just enough heat, and let the flavors flow naturally. Do not fight the food.”
I smiled. I finally understood.
That day, the prince called me into the great hall and asked where I had learned such skill. I didn’t speak of perfect recipes or secret ingredients. I said only, “I learned to let go.”
I still cook every day, but now I do it with peace. I don’t rush, I don’t stress, and I don’t cling to the outcome. I follow the Tao, and the kitchen follows me.
And when asked my secret, I just say, “The soup knows what it wants to be. I just help it be that.”
