The fire crackled quietly as I stirred the soup. My name is Ping, and I was just a kitchen boy in Master Li’s house. He was a retired general who had chosen a quiet life in the mountains. People said he once led thousands, but now he spent his days gardening, painting… and watching me mess up his favorite meals.
One night, I spilled the pepper all over the duck stew. I tried wiping it off, but it soaked right in. My hands shook as I brought the steaming bowl to Master Li.
He smiled gently. “Ah, spicy tonight, is it?” Then he took a bite.
I braced for shouting. But he just laughed. “Sometimes, Ping, a good dish teaches more than a perfect one.”
I blinked. “But I ruined it.”
“Or maybe,” he said, “you made it different.”
Later, as we cleaned up, he told me about Cook Ding.
“Many years ago,” Master Li began, “there was a cook named Ding who served a great prince. But he didn’t cook like others. He followed the Tao.”
I paused. “The Tao? Like, the Way?”
“Yes, the Way of nature,” he nodded. “Cook Ding didn’t fight with the meat or rush with the knife. He moved with ease, flowing like water, dancing with each cut. He sharpened his knife only once every nineteen years, Ping. Because he didn’t force his way—he followed it.”
That night, I lay awake thinking about that—about not forcing things. I always tried so hard to get everything right. Chop fast. Stir quicker. Please Master Li. But maybe… I was trying too much.
The next day, I took a breath before cooking. I moved carefully, but not stiff like before. When the spoon slipped, I let it be. When the steam fogged my glasses, I laughed instead of panicking.
Master Li tasted the soup quietly.
After a few sips, he looked up. “Tell me, Ping… What’s your secret recipe?”
I smiled. “I stopped trying to control every part.”
He chuckled. “Ah… The Tao of Cooking.”
I didn’t fully understand the Tao yet, but I knew how I felt. Calm. Lighter. Even if the food wasn’t perfect, something inside me had changed. I had stopped fighting so much.
Now, I still work in the kitchen. But I don’t rush. I don’t panic. I try to cook like Cook Ding—flowing, not pushing.
And whenever a dish turns out funny, I just smile and remember what Master Li said: “Ping, sometimes the spoon teaches more than the sword.”
I didn’t become wise all at once. But each meal, each mistake, taught me something new. And maybe that’s what Tao is—learning to dance with life, even when it spills a little.
I still cook every day. And every day, I learn a little more about the Way.
The fire crackled quietly as I stirred the soup. My name is Ping, and I was just a kitchen boy in Master Li’s house. He was a retired general who had chosen a quiet life in the mountains. People said he once led thousands, but now he spent his days gardening, painting… and watching me mess up his favorite meals.
One night, I spilled the pepper all over the duck stew. I tried wiping it off, but it soaked right in. My hands shook as I brought the steaming bowl to Master Li.
He smiled gently. “Ah, spicy tonight, is it?” Then he took a bite.
I braced for shouting. But he just laughed. “Sometimes, Ping, a good dish teaches more than a perfect one.”
I blinked. “But I ruined it.”
“Or maybe,” he said, “you made it different.”
Later, as we cleaned up, he told me about Cook Ding.
“Many years ago,” Master Li began, “there was a cook named Ding who served a great prince. But he didn’t cook like others. He followed the Tao.”
I paused. “The Tao? Like, the Way?”
“Yes, the Way of nature,” he nodded. “Cook Ding didn’t fight with the meat or rush with the knife. He moved with ease, flowing like water, dancing with each cut. He sharpened his knife only once every nineteen years, Ping. Because he didn’t force his way—he followed it.”
That night, I lay awake thinking about that—about not forcing things. I always tried so hard to get everything right. Chop fast. Stir quicker. Please Master Li. But maybe… I was trying too much.
The next day, I took a breath before cooking. I moved carefully, but not stiff like before. When the spoon slipped, I let it be. When the steam fogged my glasses, I laughed instead of panicking.
Master Li tasted the soup quietly.
After a few sips, he looked up. “Tell me, Ping… What’s your secret recipe?”
I smiled. “I stopped trying to control every part.”
He chuckled. “Ah… The Tao of Cooking.”
I didn’t fully understand the Tao yet, but I knew how I felt. Calm. Lighter. Even if the food wasn’t perfect, something inside me had changed. I had stopped fighting so much.
Now, I still work in the kitchen. But I don’t rush. I don’t panic. I try to cook like Cook Ding—flowing, not pushing.
And whenever a dish turns out funny, I just smile and remember what Master Li said: “Ping, sometimes the spoon teaches more than the sword.”
I didn’t become wise all at once. But each meal, each mistake, taught me something new. And maybe that’s what Tao is—learning to dance with life, even when it spills a little.
I still cook every day. And every day, I learn a little more about the Way.
