Recipes & Insights

Today, I want to share with you how the Buddhist teachings of no-mind and non-action can de-revolutionize your approach to cooking, eating, and perhaps living. In this time and place where knowledge impersonates wisdom, it felt appropriate to share my insights by way of a recipe/dharma talk. I am speaking on my own accord, as a chef and monk. This is not a scholarly Buddhist work, and really offers nothing in the way of technical culinary expertise. My apologies in advance if

Thursday, June 27, 2024, was the day that my life changed. It was the day that I graduated from the intensive esoteric Buddhist training at Enryaku-ji Temple on top of Mt. Hiei in the northeastern corner of Kyoto. I was officially ordained as a Tendai Buddhist monk, and sent back into the world to spread the Dharma. The graduation ceremony ended just before 11 a.m. After that my classmates and I had just thirty minutes to clear our belongings from our tatami-mat rooms and

Everything is shugyō—everything is practice. Mindfulness isn’t something only possible in the idyllic setting of silent retreats or seated meditation. We can return to it at any moment, especially in the midst of the mundane.

This dish sits squarely within shōjin ryōri — Buddhist temple cuisine — where the age-dashi technique fulfills the ageru (揚げ) method, the frying element required by the Goho (五法) framework that structures every well-balanced temple meal. Zen master Eihei Dōgen, writing in the 13th century, instructed the monastic cook to treat humble ingredients with the same attention given to precious ones. Agedashi nasu is that instruction made edible.

The role of the cook, or tenzo, when preparing this dish is to bring attention to the work at hand: first understanding the inherent flavors and textures of each ingredient, and then working mindfully to preserve these qualities by doing only what is necessary. The final point of attention is bringing everything together, harmonizing the individual components into one balanced whole. Cooking as practice.

In May, the asparagus that comes out of Hokkaido is thick, sweet, and faintly grassy at the tip. The vegetable is delicious as is, but when combined with complementary flavors in a balanced manner, the sum of the individual components becomes even greater. The dish that I am sharing today is what is referred to as an aemono (和え物) — a mixed or dressed dish. The first kanji (和) can also be read as 'wa,' expressing the idea of harmony.

Most people who encounter shōjin ryōri for the first time understand the absence of meat. The reasoning is intuitive — non-violence, compassion, the First Precept. It maps onto frameworks that Western audiences already carry. The garlic is harder to explain.

Most people think of tempura as a Japanese dish. Few know the word itself is derived from Portuguese. When Jesuit missionaries arrived in Nagasaki in the mid-sixteenth century, they brought with them the practice of frying vegetables in batter during Lent and the quarterly fasting periods they called têmporas — the Ember Days. The battered vegetables that they fried as part of their religious observations became the prototype for what Japan would eventually make its own.

Dōgen Zenji's Tenzo Kyōkun (Instructions for the Cook, 1237) argues that preparing meals is itself buddha-activity. His language about rice is specific: treat the pot as one's own head, know that the water is one's own lifeblood, do not waste a single grain. He instructed the tenzo to begin preparing morning porridge after midnight — with awareness and care for what hasn't yet arrived. Three attitudes guide this work: joyful mind (kishin), nurturing mind (rōshin), and magnani

Lotus root is one of the most symbolically rich ingredients in Japanese Buddhist cooking. The lotus itself — renge or hasu — represents the path from ignorance to enlightenment. This salad pairs renkon with chrysanthemum: both the greens (shungiku) and the blossoms (kiku-no-hana).. Both ingredients are in their nagori season here in Hokkaido — the final weeks before they are gone. The dish is simple and deliberate. It does not ask for much of your time. It asks for your atten

At its surface, the Rule of Five is a culinary structure. A balanced shōjin ryōri meal must incorporate five colors — red, green, yellow, black or brown, and white — five distinct flavors — sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and umami — and five methods of preparation — raw, simmered, grilled, steamed, and fried. These are not suggestions or aesthetic preferences. They are requirements, and they carry a specific purpose: to produce a meal that is nutritionally complete, energeticall

As a Buddhist monk and a professional chef, I draw on two distinct disciplines — the philosophical framework of my monastic training at Enryaku-ji on Mt. Hiei, and the technical foundation of years in professional kitchens. Shōjin ryōri sits at the intersection: a practice of preparing food with awareness, economy, and respect for life. In that tradition, constraint is not an obstacle — it is the condition that sharpens attention. This recipe for shōjin gyōza is a perfect exa

Inarizushi traces its roots to the Edo period, roughly 300 years ago. Affordable, portable, and satisfying, it was sold by street vendors from baskets and wooden boxes — fast food long before the term existed. Its exact birthplace remains debated, with Nagoya, Edo, and Toyokawa in Aichi Prefecture each laying claim to its origins. What is not debated is the source of its name. Inarizushi takes its name from Inari Ōkami, the Shinto deity of agriculture, rice, and prosperity.

In standard Japanese cooking, dashi primarily relies on katsuobushi — dried bonito flakes — for its savory depth. Guided by the Buddhist precept of non-violence (ahimsa) toward all sentient life, the monastic kitchen turns exclusively to the forest and the sea: dried shiitake mushrooms and kombu kelp are the two main ingredients, used separately or together. But this broth does more than simply replace fish. It serves as a philosophical medium, teaching us a new way to practi

In Sapporo, the winter tap water runs cold, numbing your fingers in seconds. The feeling brings back memories of my time training at Enryaku-ji on Mt. Hiei. But now I am in my own kitchen, surrounded by modern appliances and the sounds of the city. Yet every morning as I wash the day’s rice until the water runs clear, the internal work remains exactly the same. Whether you are a monk in training or a home cook preparing dinner after a long day, the physical act of cooking is

In monastery kitchens time is not measured solely by the clock. It is measured by the moment a bamboo shoot pushes through the soil and reaches for the sun, the color and scent of a fully ripened persimmon ready to be plucked from the tree, or the final days before winter when the last of the year’s crops are harvested and the earth goes dormant. This attentiveness to natural rhythm lies at the heart of shōjin ryōri, and it is expressed through the concept of shun (旬).

Shōjin Ryōri (精進料理) is the traditional vegetarian cuisine of Japanese Buddhist temples—a culinary discipline that transforms the mundane act of cooking into a rigorous vehicle for spiritual awakening. Buddhism arrived in Japan during the 6th century, bringing with it the foundations of this plant-based cuisine, but shōjin ryōri as we know it today crystallized during the Kamakura period (1185–1333) with the rise of Zen Buddhism.

La Ribollita, a cornerstone of Tuscan "cucina povera" (peasant cooking), originated from the practical necessity of rural life where nothing was allowed to go to waste. This "reboiled" soup was traditionally prepared by reheating leftover soup from the previous day, layered with stale, crusty bread to create a hearty, porridge-like consistency. Its humble beginnings reflect a time when resourcefulness was a necessary survival skill.

In the West, rice is often treated as an afterthought—a filler side dish to support the "main event." But in Shōjin Ryōri (Japanese Buddhist temple cuisine), rice is the foundation. It is the canvas upon which the meal is painted. When I was training on Mt. Hiei, each meal was centered around a bowl of steamed Japanese rice: porridge in the early morning (okayu) served with ground sesame and salt (goma-shio), and a bowl of perfectly cooked unadorned grains at noon.

Polpette Senza Carne in Sugo Don't tell my nonna, but I've been messing with her meatball recipe. For years, I made traditional polpette—first in my family's kitchen, then professionally at Hearth and Insieme Restaurants in Manhattan under Marco Canora, who had learned his technique from Fabio Picci at Cibreo in Florence. Those meatballs were legendary: fall-apart tender, deeply savory, at once familiar, yet strikingly different. The challenge was recreating that same texture