I didn’t know it could be so quiet in a kitchen. Back then, I was just a young cook-in-training at the palace. My hands were always busy—chopping, stirring, slicing—and my mind even busier. I tried to do everything fast and perfect. But somehow, the harder I worked, the worse my food turned out. The royal cook, Master Kuan, never raised his voice. He just watched.
One evening, after I had spilled sauce for the third time, I sighed and said, “How do you make cooking look so easy?”
Master Kuan chuckled. His beard was long and white, like clouds drifting over the mountains. “Would you like to know a secret?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
I nodded quickly, ready to write down some magic recipe.
He stepped aside and motioned for me to watch. “I learned this way from Liezi, the great Taoist who once followed the wind like a leaf.” I had heard of Liezi. People said he was so in tune with nature that he could ride the wind and fly. I wondered what cooking had to do with that.
Master Kuan picked up a radish. He didn’t chop it fast. He didn’t chop it slow. He simply moved with it. The knife glided, his hands flowing like water down a quiet stream. No sharp movements. No noise. Just silence. And yet the slices were even, perfect.
I whispered, “How did you do that?”
“The radish told me how,” he replied.
I blinked. “It talked to you?”
He smiled. “Not with words. With the way it felt under my fingers. I do not force it. I follow it.”
I tilted my head. “You’re not even thinking about it?”
“I’m thinking—just not trying,” he said. “In Tao, we call this Wu Wei. It means action without forcing. Like clouds drifting. They move, but they never try. They just go where they’re meant to.”
That night, I tried again. I let go of hurrying. I let the spoon move at its own pace. I listened—not just to sounds, but to the food. Slowly, I felt something I hadn’t before—peace.
The days passed. I didn’t become perfect overnight. Sometimes I still burned the rice or cut the onions too thick. But I no longer rushed. And something strange happened—my cooking got better. More people smiled when they tasted it. Even the servants asked how I made it feel so warm.
Master Kuan winked. “The undone cloud doesn’t rush across the sky. And yet, it gets there. That’s Tao.”
Years later, when I became the palace cook, I told young students the same thing. They laughed when I said the vegetables could speak. But then they watched me move, quiet and steady, like a breeze down a mountain trail.
And now, whenever someone says my cooking tastes magical, I smile and think of that quiet night—and the undone cloud that taught me how to listen, move gently, and let the Tao guide my hands.
I didn’t change in one evening. But every dish taught me a little more. And I’m still learning, one breath, one slice, one cloud at a time.
I didn’t know it could be so quiet in a kitchen. Back then, I was just a young cook-in-training at the palace. My hands were always busy—chopping, stirring, slicing—and my mind even busier. I tried to do everything fast and perfect. But somehow, the harder I worked, the worse my food turned out. The royal cook, Master Kuan, never raised his voice. He just watched.
One evening, after I had spilled sauce for the third time, I sighed and said, “How do you make cooking look so easy?”
Master Kuan chuckled. His beard was long and white, like clouds drifting over the mountains. “Would you like to know a secret?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
I nodded quickly, ready to write down some magic recipe.
He stepped aside and motioned for me to watch. “I learned this way from Liezi, the great Taoist who once followed the wind like a leaf.” I had heard of Liezi. People said he was so in tune with nature that he could ride the wind and fly. I wondered what cooking had to do with that.
Master Kuan picked up a radish. He didn’t chop it fast. He didn’t chop it slow. He simply moved with it. The knife glided, his hands flowing like water down a quiet stream. No sharp movements. No noise. Just silence. And yet the slices were even, perfect.
I whispered, “How did you do that?”
“The radish told me how,” he replied.
I blinked. “It talked to you?”
He smiled. “Not with words. With the way it felt under my fingers. I do not force it. I follow it.”
I tilted my head. “You’re not even thinking about it?”
“I’m thinking—just not trying,” he said. “In Tao, we call this Wu Wei. It means action without forcing. Like clouds drifting. They move, but they never try. They just go where they’re meant to.”
That night, I tried again. I let go of hurrying. I let the spoon move at its own pace. I listened—not just to sounds, but to the food. Slowly, I felt something I hadn’t before—peace.
The days passed. I didn’t become perfect overnight. Sometimes I still burned the rice or cut the onions too thick. But I no longer rushed. And something strange happened—my cooking got better. More people smiled when they tasted it. Even the servants asked how I made it feel so warm.
Master Kuan winked. “The undone cloud doesn’t rush across the sky. And yet, it gets there. That’s Tao.”
Years later, when I became the palace cook, I told young students the same thing. They laughed when I said the vegetables could speak. But then they watched me move, quiet and steady, like a breeze down a mountain trail.
And now, whenever someone says my cooking tastes magical, I smile and think of that quiet night—and the undone cloud that taught me how to listen, move gently, and let the Tao guide my hands.
I didn’t change in one evening. But every dish taught me a little more. And I’m still learning, one breath, one slice, one cloud at a time.
