Master Banzen had been wrestling with a design problem late
into the night. Upon his whiteboard were three possible
approaches, each with their own promises and pitfalls:
Banzen had been trying desperately to decide which would be
best. Finally, eyes red and ink-stained hands trembling, he
left his office and began to pace through the Temple
hallways to clear his mind.
Eventually he came to the kitchens, which rang with shouting
and the clanging of pots; for the cooks were awake, having
risen early to prepare the morning meal as was their custom.
Banzen wandered among them, observing the bustle of
activity. Onions were being peeled, carrots chopped,
chickens plucked. Rice was steaming, soup was boiling, pork
was sizzling, eggs were frying.
One cook he noticed had a fairly simple task. She would mix
up a pot of thin dark liquid, carry it to a quiet corner,
and leave it there unattended. After a while she would
return to empty out the contents, which had somehow turned
solid. She did this several times.
“What is that?” Banzen asked her.
“Duck’s blood,” came the answer. “I am congealing it for the
blood tofu.”
Banzen bowed and went out.
Later that morning, a novice found Banzen again in his
office. The master was sitting motionless, gazing at his
whiteboard, eyes distant, hands empty.
