Shun 旬: The Philosophy of Seasonality in Shōjin Ryōri

Shun (旬) © Tenzo's Kitchen LLC

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).

The character 旬 originally denoted a ten-day period—one-third of a lunar month. In culinary practice, shun refers to the brief window when an ingredient reaches its peak: optimal flavor, highest nutritional value, and fullest vitality. To cook with shun is to practice a form of temporal awareness that transforms the act of preparing food into a meditation on impermanence.

The Three Phases of an Ingredient's Life: Hashiri, Shun, and Nagori

The characters themselves reveal the philosophy: hashiri (走り) contains the radical for movement, evoking urgency; nagori (名残) combines "name" and "remain"—what lingers after something has passed. These are not arbitrary labels but distilled observations about how ingredients move through time.

Japanese culinary philosophy does not treat seasonality as broad categories or even narrower monthly cycles. Instead, it recognizes that every ingredient moves through a life cycle unto itself with three distinct phases, of which shun is the middle peak phase. Each phase demands a different response from the cook.

Hashiri (走り) marks the first appearance of an ingredient. The word means "running," evoking the urgency with which these early arrivals were once sought. Hashiri vegetables are young, tender, and often carry a fresh acidity or gentle bitterness rather than developed sweetness. They represent the potential of the season ahead. In shōjin ryōri, we honor this quality through minimal intervention: a brief blanching, a simple presentation. The purpose is not to satisfy hunger but to awaken awareness.

Shun (旬) is the peak itself—the ten-day window when the ingredient has achieved its full expression. The sugars have developed, the flesh is firm yet yielding, and the nutritional value is greatest. The principle here is restraint: do as little as possible. A cucumber in true shun needs only to be sliced and perhaps touched with a drop of soy sauce. A daikon at its peak can be simmered in clear kombu dashi, its inherent sweetness requiring no embellishment. The cook's task is to step aside and let the ingredient speak.

Nagori (名残) arrives as the season wanes. By this stage, the ingredient has weathered its season. The skin may be tougher, the moisture content lower, the flavor more concentrated and earthy. Where hashiri ingredients are treated gently and shun ingredients are left alone, nagori vegetables invite more assertive methods: longer simmering, glazing with miso, grinding into sauces. The concentrated character of late-season produce can hold its own against bolder techniques and seasoning.

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Mujō (無常): Impermanence as Practice

This three-phase framework is not merely a cooking technique. It is a practical expression of mujō—the Buddhist understanding that all phenomena arise, persist briefly, and pass away. To cook with awareness of hashiri, shun, and nagori is to train oneself in acceptance. We do not mourn the departure of the spring bamboo; we receive it fully while it is here, then turn our attention to what arrives next.

This awareness shapes not only what we cook but how we relate to food itself. There is no grasping after out-of-season ingredients, no disappointment when a favorite vegetable's window closes. The practice cultivates equanimity—and, over time, a deeper appreciation for each moment of nourishment.

Deaimono (出会いもの): The Meeting of Seasons

Mastery of the three phases enables a technique called deaimono—literally, "a meeting." This is when ingredients from different stages are paired together to focus our awareness on each, while simultaneously creating something that transcends both.

In shōjin ryōri, this might take the form of a late-winter root vegetable, earthy and concentrated, simmered alongside the first bitter greens of early spring. The dish captures the precise moment where one season yields to the next. It is not fusion or novelty; it is an honest reflection of what nature offers. What the deaimono is subtly teaching us is that there are no beginnings or endings, but rather a series of transitions in a continuous cycle.

From Principle to Practice

For those beginning to explore seasonal cooking, the framework of hashiri, shun, and nagori offers immediate guidance.

When you encounter an ingredient at the market, ask: where is it in its cycle? If it has just appeared, handle it simply and savor its freshness. If it is abundant and at its peak, let it be the center of the meal with minimal interference. If it is nearing the end of its run, consider preparations that honor its concentrated character—a longer braise, a heartier seasoning.

This is not specialized knowledge reserved for professional chefs or monks. It is an invitation to us all to pay closer attention, to notice the shifts that constantly occur around us day by day, and to let those observations guide your choices in the kitchen. In doing so, the simple act of preparing a meal becomes a practice in presence—one that nourishes not only the body but the capacity for awareness itself.