The smell of sweet ginger and sizzling mushrooms filled the air. I was ten years old, standing on a wooden stool beside my uncle Ping in his quiet kitchen, deep in the bamboo forests of the south. Uncle Ping wasn’t a famous chef, but everyone in the village said his food could calm even the angriest heart.
I believed them.
On that day, though, I didn’t feel so calm. I’d just lost a game of sticks to my cousin Wen, and worse, he teased me the whole way home. My fists were still clenched when I burst into the kitchen.
Uncle Ping didn’t look surprised. He kept stirring the pot with his carved wooden spoon. “Ah, losing can be bitter,” he said without turning. “But bitterness doesn’t help the rice cook faster.”
That didn’t make much sense to me. “I should’ve tried harder!” I snapped. “Maybe if I practiced more, pushed more—”
Uncle Ping held up a hand. “Shh,” he said softly. “The water boils when it’s ready. Not before.”
He dropped a few leaves into the pot and smiled at the rising steam. I stayed quiet, still confused, but curious. I wanted to understand how he always felt so peaceful—even when things went wrong.
“Why don’t you cook with fire like Master Gao does?” I asked. “He burns the wok so hot, it’s loud and fast.”
Uncle Ping chuckled. “Everyone thinks fast is better,” he said. “But when I rush, the rice sticks and the broth turns bitter.”
I watched as he moved, slow and graceful. He didn’t stir too much. He didn’t poke or flip things over and over. In fact, he hardly seemed to be “doing” anything. But somehow, the soup smelled perfect.
“You know, some people think freedom is about doing whatever you want,” he said suddenly. “But real freedom… It’s doing just enough—and then letting things be.”
“What do you mean?” I leaned closer.
He ladled me a cup of soup and handed it to me with both hands. “Taste,” he said with a wink.
The broth was warm, soft, and rich with quiet flavors—just like how I felt beside him. Something inside me relaxed. My clenched fists opened.
“Simplicity,” he said, “lets the flavor show itself. That’s the Tao of cooking. And of life.”
We finished our soup in silence, only the birds outside and the soft bubbling of the pot filling the air. I didn’t need to ask any more questions.
I didn’t understand everything that day. But something gentle stayed with me, like the scent of ginger before a meal. I began noticing how no tree tries to grow faster than another, how rivers bend without force, and how peace always came when I stopped trying so hard.
I still remember that soup whenever I get frustrated.
Now, when things don’t go my way, I breathe, stir just once, and let them simmer. Because sometimes… doing less is the secret to doing just enough.
The smell of sweet ginger and sizzling mushrooms filled the air. I was ten years old, standing on a wooden stool beside my uncle Ping in his quiet kitchen, deep in the bamboo forests of the south. Uncle Ping wasn’t a famous chef, but everyone in the village said his food could calm even the angriest heart.
I believed them.
On that day, though, I didn’t feel so calm. I’d just lost a game of sticks to my cousin Wen, and worse, he teased me the whole way home. My fists were still clenched when I burst into the kitchen.
Uncle Ping didn’t look surprised. He kept stirring the pot with his carved wooden spoon. “Ah, losing can be bitter,” he said without turning. “But bitterness doesn’t help the rice cook faster.”
That didn’t make much sense to me. “I should’ve tried harder!” I snapped. “Maybe if I practiced more, pushed more—”
Uncle Ping held up a hand. “Shh,” he said softly. “The water boils when it’s ready. Not before.”
He dropped a few leaves into the pot and smiled at the rising steam. I stayed quiet, still confused, but curious. I wanted to understand how he always felt so peaceful—even when things went wrong.
“Why don’t you cook with fire like Master Gao does?” I asked. “He burns the wok so hot, it’s loud and fast.”
Uncle Ping chuckled. “Everyone thinks fast is better,” he said. “But when I rush, the rice sticks and the broth turns bitter.”
I watched as he moved, slow and graceful. He didn’t stir too much. He didn’t poke or flip things over and over. In fact, he hardly seemed to be “doing” anything. But somehow, the soup smelled perfect.
“You know, some people think freedom is about doing whatever you want,” he said suddenly. “But real freedom… It’s doing just enough—and then letting things be.”
“What do you mean?” I leaned closer.
He ladled me a cup of soup and handed it to me with both hands. “Taste,” he said with a wink.
The broth was warm, soft, and rich with quiet flavors—just like how I felt beside him. Something inside me relaxed. My clenched fists opened.
“Simplicity,” he said, “lets the flavor show itself. That’s the Tao of cooking. And of life.”
We finished our soup in silence, only the birds outside and the soft bubbling of the pot filling the air. I didn’t need to ask any more questions.
I didn’t understand everything that day. But something gentle stayed with me, like the scent of ginger before a meal. I began noticing how no tree tries to grow faster than another, how rivers bend without force, and how peace always came when I stopped trying so hard.
I still remember that soup whenever I get frustrated.
Now, when things don’t go my way, I breathe, stir just once, and let them simmer. Because sometimes… doing less is the secret to doing just enough.
