The way-seeking mind of a tenzo is actualised by rolling up your sleeves.

— Dōgen Zenji (道元 禅師, 1200–1253)

When everything seems to need my attention at once, I often return to the kitchen in search of order. With a full schedule, it would seem reasonable to let kitchen work slip. The same is true in moments of emotional fatigue or exhaustion. When time and energy are scarce, surely the more efficient, self-soothing choice would be to order in, eat out, or reach for something ready-made.

All the more reason, I’d argue, to return to the kitchen. Nourishment is non-negotiable, and meals made from scratch tend to be healthier, better equipping us for the day’s demands. But beyond nutrition, the kitchen offers something more: a moment offline, a shift into a simpler mode where one physical action follows another in a practical order. The sequence of preparing, cooking, and cleaning is a contained cycle that, once complete, leaves me refocused and re-centred.

Silence suits me best during preparation—the slicing, stirring, and assembling. Later, as I wash pots and wipe down surfaces, a podcast works well, provided there isn’t too much on my mind. When my thoughts are still circling, I opt for yet more silence to confront the noise within.

This week, London has felt like it's entering the transition from spring to summer—sunny and dry, with low humidity and minimal wind, making it ideal for kitchen work with the door and windows open. Into the evening, there has been only a slight breeze, rustling the leaves and carrying a little of the outdoor soundscape inside to complement the clatter of pots and pans.

During these phases, I also tend to reach for my copy of Tenzo Kyōkun (典座教訓). It’s a significant text, written in the spring of 1237 by Dōgen, founder of the Sōtō school of Zen Buddhism. I reread it whenever the need arises.

The term tenzo (典座) refers to the head cook in a Zen monastery—a respected officer within the monastic order, entrusted with the preparation of food. Kyōkun (教訓) translates to ‘lesson’, and connotes a set of teachings or earnest instruction. Together, Tenzo Kyōkun is usually rendered as “Instructions for the Cook”.

Within Zen, cooking is not a menial task but a form of practice, demanding presence, discipline, and a grasp of Zen principles. Dōgen’s guidance for the tenzo combines practical instruction with philosophical thought, urging the head cook to approach their job with attentiveness and a sense of duty.

Unlike some of Dōgen’s more abstruse works, Tenzo Kyōkun speaks in relatively plain language. Though composed nearly eight centuries ago, it outlines an approach to living that remains relevant to the demands of modern life. Most people’s daily routines are far from monastic, but one needn’t be a monk, a Buddhist, or even religious to find something instructive in its pages. So, with sleeves rolled up and life arriving at point-blank, I’d like to share a few passages that helped me this week.