The smell of steamed rice filled the air as I stirred the pot slowly. I was only twelve, but today was my first time cooking for our family’s tea shop. My hands trembled. What if it was too salty? What if the rice stuck to the bottom?
Grandfather sat in his usual spot by the window, sipping oolong tea with a calm smile. He had cooked every meal in this kitchen for thirty years. Everyone called him Master Chen, not just because he was a good cook, but because he cooked like he was breathing.
“Why are your eyebrows twisting like a dragon’s tail, little one?” he asked with a chuckle.
“I’m trying so hard to get it right,” I muttered, my eyes fixed on the bubbling broth. “But the harder I try, the more nervous I feel. What if I mess up?”
Grandfather set his cup down and stretched a crooked finger at the spoon in my hand. “That spoon is like a boat in a storm,” he said. “Let it float.”
“But I’m supposed to make it perfect.”
“No,” he said gently, “you’re supposed to be part of the flow.”
I didn’t understand what he meant, but I kept stirring. Slower this time. I watched how the soup bubbled all on its own. The steam rose without me doing anything. And the rice? It softened exactly when it was ready—no rushing, no forcing.
After we served the soup to guests, I sat next to Grandfather. “They liked it,” I said in shock. “I didn’t even do anything special.”
“Ah,” he smiled, “that is why they liked it.”
I furrowed my brow. “But I didn’t add extra spice or beat the dough harder like Mama does.”
“Too much effort pulls you away from the Way,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Cooking, like life, needs a light hand. Be like water, child—soft, flowing, yet stronger than stone.”
He told me then about Laozi, the old sage who lived long ago in a land full of noise and busy people. Laozi wrote the Tao Te Ching to teach a different path—a quiet one. One that didn’t chase things or force them. The Tao, he explained, means The Way—like how rivers carve valleys not by fighting, but by falling. The Falling Way.
That night, I lay awake thinking about the river and the rice, and how both seemed to do better when left alone. I thought about how I always tried so hard to prove I could do something on my own. But maybe, just maybe, I didn’t need to push so much. Maybe I could float, too.
Since then, I still stir the soup. But I breathe with it. Rest with it. Let it change without forcing it. And somehow, everything tastes better.
I haven’t mastered cooking like Grandfather. But I’ve begun to understand. The more I let go, the more I feel free. Not empty, not lazy—but lighthearted and deep, like a falling leaf landing exactly where it’s meant to be.
And that, I think, is the secret recipe Grandfather always spoke of.
The smell of steamed rice filled the air as I stirred the pot slowly. I was only twelve, but today was my first time cooking for our family’s tea shop. My hands trembled. What if it was too salty? What if the rice stuck to the bottom?
Grandfather sat in his usual spot by the window, sipping oolong tea with a calm smile. He had cooked every meal in this kitchen for thirty years. Everyone called him Master Chen, not just because he was a good cook, but because he cooked like he was breathing.
“Why are your eyebrows twisting like a dragon’s tail, little one?” he asked with a chuckle.
“I’m trying so hard to get it right,” I muttered, my eyes fixed on the bubbling broth. “But the harder I try, the more nervous I feel. What if I mess up?”
Grandfather set his cup down and stretched a crooked finger at the spoon in my hand. “That spoon is like a boat in a storm,” he said. “Let it float.”
“But I’m supposed to make it perfect.”
“No,” he said gently, “you’re supposed to be part of the flow.”
I didn’t understand what he meant, but I kept stirring. Slower this time. I watched how the soup bubbled all on its own. The steam rose without me doing anything. And the rice? It softened exactly when it was ready—no rushing, no forcing.
After we served the soup to guests, I sat next to Grandfather. “They liked it,” I said in shock. “I didn’t even do anything special.”
“Ah,” he smiled, “that is why they liked it.”
I furrowed my brow. “But I didn’t add extra spice or beat the dough harder like Mama does.”
“Too much effort pulls you away from the Way,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Cooking, like life, needs a light hand. Be like water, child—soft, flowing, yet stronger than stone.”
He told me then about Laozi, the old sage who lived long ago in a land full of noise and busy people. Laozi wrote the Tao Te Ching to teach a different path—a quiet one. One that didn’t chase things or force them. The Tao, he explained, means The Way—like how rivers carve valleys not by fighting, but by falling. The Falling Way.
That night, I lay awake thinking about the river and the rice, and how both seemed to do better when left alone. I thought about how I always tried so hard to prove I could do something on my own. But maybe, just maybe, I didn’t need to push so much. Maybe I could float, too.
Since then, I still stir the soup. But I breathe with it. Rest with it. Let it change without forcing it. And somehow, everything tastes better.
I haven’t mastered cooking like Grandfather. But I’ve begun to understand. The more I let go, the more I feel free. Not empty, not lazy—but lighthearted and deep, like a falling leaf landing exactly where it’s meant to be.
And that, I think, is the secret recipe Grandfather always spoke of.
