Exploits of a Chan Cook, Chan Retreat October 2001

I had trained with Pete, one of the established Maenllwyd cooks, in March. I had been ready to cook a short, five-day retreat in June but it had been cancelled due to foot and mouth disease. Suddenly, it all seemed a long time ago. Could I remember any of it, come to that? What utensils were up there and what had Pete taken along himself? Did I need a big stockpot or not? How much cheese did one allow per person? All at once, the enormity of it all struck home. They might not eat. We might not eat

Dharma friends laughed and said “Tell them it’s a fasting day. Tell them it’s good to break down attachment to eating. It’s supposed to be a light diet anyway. It’s the early stages of renunciation; you will be being kind to people in the long term.” And so on. But I had contracted to provide three meals a day and afternoon cake for 14 people, myself included. It had to be done.

Shopping went on at a frantic pace for two days. Wholefoods, dairy, fruit and veg, sundries, personal supplies, first aid requisites, paper bags, toilet rolls, paper towels, other fresh stuff; all of these filled the house and the car. Then there were the “extras”. These were the additionals in case stuff did not work and substitutes needed to be applied. I could just about see out of the car windows. Anxiety was at an all time high. Lots of “what ifs”.

The drive took longer than expected, probably because of having to corner more carefully than usual. Mindfulness practice was imposing itself on my scattered mind. Anxiety was replaced by contentment as I pulled onto the little road to Tylwch and the valley began to unfold before my wheels. Those hills are just beautiful and the late afternoon light was superb. A few red kites stretched their wings near the refuse tip and flew over. Perhaps they knew how much food was in the car! No assistance with the gates, so the entry to the Maenllwyd hill was slow but measured and finally the farmyard appeared.

Hilary and Simon were welcoming as always. I decided on a cup of tea before unloading. A first timer was wandering around the yard, so introductions were made. Getting to know you, getting to know me. Who am I when I am the cook? This became an interesting question over the days. The practice was practical and began with a chain of folk shifting stuff from car to kitchen. The theory is that creation of order follows out of chaos. Master Sheng-Yen tells us to put thoughts like sheep into pens. Cooks put veggies into blue plastic boxes and stack them in an orderly fashion. But it’s the first day and not everything will fit where one would like it to go. Vexation arises. It’s early on. You do what you can do. Mind and kitchen are both chaotic. There is probably a way of calming the kitchen, but this was my first time and I do not know that yet. I remembered a note that I had made for myself on my training retreat. “Just keep going back to the method.” Doesn’t matter if it is meditation or cooking. It’s all the same. Do what needs to be done at the time. Just do it. Follow the recipe. Follow the breath. Don’t add on.

I sat with a cup of tea and passed around a plate of biscuits. People were already quietening down. The fire glowed and threw light onto the ancient stone walls. The nooks and crannies sighed into the warm air and the Green Man in the corner smiled at us. We told our stories to each other. Some were old hands and might be expecting culinary standards akin to those of the earlier cooks. Others were “newies” and had no idea what to expect. I told my tale of novelty and asked for forbearance with the cooking. The Rayburn and I had yet to bond intimately.

The opening ceremony was strangely moving. We were creating a monastery of the spirit and I really was a stonemason in that construction this time. My efforts would help to keep things moving. I felt a warmth towards these people and a strong desire that they should be able to do what they needed to do. We would do this together.

A first night in the cook’s sleeping quarters in the Buddha room. I awoke in the early hours, unable to breathe in the pitch black. Convinced that I was about to die, I sat bolt upright and flayed around with my arms, calling out-to whom? So. Not ready to die yet! Coughing and snorting, I realised that the problem was my sinuses. At last, an in-breath. The internal blackness faded to a shade of grey and faint moonlight illuminated the room. The Rayburn called to me, reminding me that it would need feeding just like everyone else, except that I was also responsible for clearing out its innards too.

Morning clappers and I was doing that very thing for the first time. Kettles on gas, humming away, teapots clinking, tea bags rustling, furnacite for the stove rumbustuously rattling and clunking in the metal scuttle. A silent retreat means hearing all these things really clearly and smelling the oil of bergamot in the Earl Grey and the Calor gas and the paraffin and sniffing for differences that indicate change.

Porridge: the eternal indicator of mental state. Mindfulness of porridge. Degrees of stirring and heat and water absorption. All this while cutting bread, lighting candelabra, placing milk, distributing marmalade and tahini and warming the boiler for tea. Not too thick or thin. Warmed through but not scorched.

Morning service over, people arrive expectantly. Not ready, not ready. They sit patiently. Yak bells ring. Ready now. First meal. First offering to Tara. First cut of the first loaf and a spoon of the first porridge. I go out and give thanks. Om Tare tutare ture soha. She has her head inclined quizzically and a smile plays around her mouth. I know that I cannot do this alone. I need all the help I can get from deities that I don’t even know exist.

Meal over, I introduce myself to the kitchen assistants. I set down some ground-rules and then realise that I sound too stern. I tell them that I may seem fierce but that it is just a way of keeping things ordered. I also tell them that they have an excellent job for mindfulness practice. It is too. The kitchen is a place to watch impermanence minute by minute. Also to see transformation taking place. The repetitiousness of onion peeling or washing up the same pans over and over again. The significance of small changes-no, not finely chopped this time: sliced. Stoke fire, carry water. This really happens.

First porridge gives way to first soup and first cake. Flapjack is the first disaster as it comes away in pieces on being removed from the tin. Blast. What to do? Shove it all back in and re-bake it. It works! Pieces unevenly sized, but that gives people the opportunity to pick large or small. Anyway it is tasty and the newies look amazed that treats like this exist. Cake is followed by chanting, which is about as good as it gets for me. Tea, cake and singing, all in the same half-hour. Bliss. Meditation steady.

First evening meal causes some anxiety. Tagliatelle for 14 not a good idea in the size of pot we have. Sauce OK though. Still having discerning mind. Not good. Relieved at getting through the day. Not in the moment. Meditation scattered. Too concerned. Stoke stove and sleep.

The days begin to repeat. A settling occurs. I remember to light the candle in the kitchen, salute the flowers and offer incense before I start to cook anything. It seems to work. Either it creates a mindfulness in my work or the kitchen gods are satisfied, or both. The bread rises, the soup has flavour and the cake stays in one piece. What more can a cook ask?

One day, the stove would not heat up properly. I riddled and raddled and bunged in more coke and didn’t run the water and still it would not burn. I went over to Simon and Hilary to ask whether either of them knew any Tibetan invocation to the wind gods for a bit of wind to get the fire going. Truly, I was at Maenllwyd! I searched my memory for Taoist practices, but could find none. We were lucky to have cake that day. Eventually the fire burned up and by evening had reached the highest temperature that it was to reach all week. Perhaps some dragon, be it Welsh or Chinese or Tibetan heard my cries and blew some breath down the flue. Perhaps the incense appeased the kitchen gods. But something beyond me assisted that day.

There were real disasters. Chocolate brownies that had to be composted before they saw the light of day. Pumpkin fritters that could not get the required temperature off the gas rings and were abandoned even before they hit a pan. But every day food was served three times. I was amazed that in the midst of all this, there was also space for retreat stuff to go on. I followed the same process that I always follow on retreat, even though I was not in the Ch’an hall with the others. There was weeping and there was joy and there were small realisations. There was noticing and looking and hearing and more smelling than usual. There was the ineffable beauty of the turning leaves that changed daily before our eyes. There was the Milky Way reflected in the poppy seeds in the lemon cake. There was the moon. The mist in the valley, perfect autumnal drift. The screeching owl by the stream at 6.30. The kiwi fruit nibbled by discerning mice, “At one with the food we eat”. Blessings heaped up upon each other. Throwing out the hungry ghost soup each mealtime or finding the Tara offering being eaten away by mice or slugs. All of these added to the experience. All of these were the experience.

All the time the retreat participants sat strongly. A great sense of solidity pervaded the hall. They sat, worked, walked and chanted. And ate. And in eating they were doing something for me. They gave me the chance to give. This became very precious as the week went on. I felt very privileged to be a part of the process.

The other strange bit of the week was one night when everyone was in bed and I was stoking the stove and Simon was getting lamps ready for the morning. He had given a talk that night about Xu Yun. He was laughing about being a few Dharma generations down from Xu Yun. And I laughed too. But I went to bed soon after and realised that I had been standing in the kitchen talking to one of the Patriarchs. That made me sit up and take notice.

So what was it like being a Zen cook? It was fantastic on lots of levels. It was a private retreat. It was an offering. It was a sharing. It was fun. It was hard work. It was a time to meet dragons and ride with them. It was an opportunity to watch the ego rise and fall like bread dough. It was a time to bond with the Rayburn; she and I are good mates now. Inside and outside become strangely mixed when you are the cook. We are all the same because we are eating the same food. And that extends outwards to the other critters that share it with us; mice, slugs, birds. Then there is the Dharma food that we all share. Cooks always try to get to the talks. Nourishment happens on many levels. The kitchen helpers fed me with their enthusiasm and their unwillingness to depart a work period before everything was complete. Four pounds of carrots in Jullienne strips? No problem. Fifteen pounds of potatoes to peel? Just put them there. It is an experience that I am still digesting. I am grateful for having had it.