Cooking Sesshin: A Look Behind the Stove
This past winter, I had the privilege of serving as the cook during winter sesshin at Daikozen-ji. As a professional chef and culinary educator, working long hours in a kitchen is familiar. Contrary to what's portrayed on TV, cooking is not about ego, reputation, or control. It’s about caretaking. The role isn’t glamorous, and it isn’t about leading from the front. It’s about nourishing people—not only with food and nutrients, but with attention, with presence, with kiai. It’s about attending to the needs of others.
Cooking at sesshin is not a break from training—it is training. Alongside the jiki, the cook is responsible for the health and well-being of everyone in the dojo. And while it may look like we're just trying to get lunch out on time, what we’re really doing is holding the container—moment by moment—with our whole body and mind.
Being the cook means putting everyone’s training ahead of your own. It means showing up fully for each person, each task, each pot, each bowl. And it’s also a mirror—where we see clearly where our old habits take over, and where we learn to let them go.
What many people don’t see is that the cook’s work begins long before opening tea. Sometimes weeks in advance, preparations are already underway. The cook coordinates with the jiki and the roshi: Who’s attending? What are their ages, their health needs, their training backgrounds? Are there any dietary restrictions? Allergies? Injuries?
Once those pieces are in place, the menu is built—flexible by design, because sesshin is alive. A participant’s kiai may shift mid-week, or someone’s condition may require sudden adjustments. The meals have to support the container—not interrupt it. After the menu comes the cooking schedule, the recipe outlines, the shopping lists. Groceries are acquired, stocks simmered, sauces prepared. Even before anyone arrives, the kitchen is already in motion.
During sesshin, I was in the kitchen immediately after morning sanzen. As the group moved into okyo upstairs, I stepped into the kitchen and began preparing breakfast. While I wasn’t physically present for the morning okyo, I chanted along quietly in my head as I simmered the oatmeal and caramelized the pears.
After breakfast was served, we flowed straight into lunch prep. And during work period—when everyone was installing insulation or repairing the walls—I was busy preparing snacks, working on dinner, and baking sweets for the night. There was always something on the stove, always something to clean, always something to be aware of three steps ahead.
All in all, I was in the kitchen for 12 hours, every day. It reminded me of my old restaurant days—long shifts, fast hands, constant timing. While it was easy to slip into old habits, it was critical to stay connected to the group outside the kitchen and sense what's needed and respond accordingly.
What sustains training isn’t just the teachings, or the schedule, or even the ability to sit for long periods of time. It’s the whole container—the care we offer each other, the food in our bowls, the floors we clean, the walls we repair. It’s the way we show up, again and again, not just for ourselves and our community, but for the world.
Each June we fundraise for the coming year. As we share stories and reflections, we ask for your support in reaching our 2025 goal of $30,000. Your donation, whatever size, allows us to sustain and expand training at all our dojos.