A Record from the Fragrance Accumulation Kitchen

Mituo Village Year-End Buddha-Recitation Retreat, 2025

Preface
“There are those who cultivate blessings but not wisdom—like an elephant adorned with ornaments;
and those who cultivate wisdom but not blessings—like an arhat carrying an empty bowl.”

In daily life, listening to teachings and studying the Dharma at home makes cultivating wisdom relatively easy, but opportunities to cultivate blessings are few. Upon hearing that Amitabha Village’s year-end Buddha-recitation retreat was recruiting kitchen volunteers—and that a new approach was being adopted, encouraging families, friends, and children to participate together—I gladly picked up my pen and signed up.

Since ancient times, many sages of the Buddhist tradition have been hidden in the kitchen. The most famous examples from the Tang dynasty are Hanshan, Shide, and Fenggan—known as the “Three Recluses of Guoqing Temple,” later recognized as manifestations of Manjushri, Samantabhadra, and Amitabha Buddha. I have also heard volunteers marvel that the same ingredients somehow taste better when cooked in a monastery—truly worthy of the name “Fragrance Accumulation Kitchen.” With reverence and curiosity, I stepped into the retreat kitchen for the first time, quietly wondering: might there really be bodhisattvas here, disguised in ordinary forms?

The most ordinary and mundane tasks—rice and oil, pots and pans—are in fact the best training ground for patience, attentiveness, equanimity, and altruism. As soon as I arrived, I noticed three Vietnamese practitioners. Whether at 5:00 a.m. or 4:40 a.m., they always arrived earlier than I did. The eldest among them is already seventy-five years old. I was told that ever since Amitabha Village was founded, they have been protecting and supporting the temple. No matter how noisy external disputes may be, no matter how management changes, they remain unmoved—steadfastly chanting the Buddha’s name and making offerings through wind and snow alike. Whenever the kitchen is short-handed, they quietly step in.

One of these practitioners had required a wheelchair several years ago, yet recently her legs have grown stronger, and she can now walk with a cane. Though I have witnessed many inconceivable things and do not wish to exaggerate, one may glimpse something here: faith itself is a kind of power. Once, she gently signaled me to help move something heavy, then showed me her swollen wrist joints—apparently rheumatoid arthritis. My heart ached. This, surely, is the “suffering of illness” among the Eight Sufferings of life. Yet steaming hot meals still came from her hands day after day. In the bitter cold of late winter, amid pain and fatigue, what is it that keeps her joyfully serving the assembly?

Below is a photo of this practitioner.

The second Vietnamese practitioner, also seventy-five, never uses pre-made dough to fry crullers. In her hands, the dough is kneaded, rested, stretched, and fried—soon the entire kitchen is filled with fragrance. No wonder they taste so good.

The third Vietnamese practitioner—fortunately, she guided us patiently. Though we did not share a common language, we managed to communicate through gestures (AI Vietnamese translation did not seem very effective!).

The day before the retreat began, I had the good fortune to speak with several mothers and grandmothers who volunteered in the kitchen, all rich in blessings. They shared that their first encounters with Buddhism came during times of exhaustion—when they could neither forgive themselves nor others. Later, through fortunate conditions, they attended Amitabha Village’s Friday tea gatherings and heard the elder master teach the Dharma. Joy arose in their hearts, and they have followed the path ever since. They also admitted that after emerging from hardship and as life became fuller again, their diligence in practice sometimes waned. May all practitioners, in favorable or adverse conditions alike, never forget the Dharma, remain diligent, and abide in right mindfulness. (Hehe—I was there too!)

On the first day’s lunch, a brother and sister brought their children to help in the kitchen. The brother’s knife skills were remarkable—his blade rose and fell swiftly, turning potatoes into even, delicate shreds in moments. Volunteers gathered around, praising him with admiration and delight.

There was also a mother-and-son volunteer pair. The mother carefully portioned the cooked dishes into trays, her movements steady and quiet. This scene has already settled into her son’s heart, silently taking root.

In the photo below, a father and son stayed the longest at the temple. Because volunteers were often scarce, the father could often be seen rushing from kitchen duties to help transport fellow practitioners. The son stood at the counter, carefully cutting green beans into even pieces under the guidance of an older volunteer.

On the third day of the retreat, a new volunteer group arrived—whom I privately dubbed the “advanced intellectual team.” At least three members held PhDs, seemingly all from the Buddhist Youth Group. Most astonishing was their team leader, who, on only her second visit to Amitabha Village, took on full responsibility for coordinating the kitchen.

She swiftly set up a work group chat, meticulously noting the process and recipe for each dish (I stood by in quiet awe), and efficiently assigned tasks. Though it was their first time working together, even the senior monastics praised the food. Especially memorable was the purely vegan rice cake—thinking of it now still makes one’s mouth water.

That day also included a visiting scholar couple and two long-time friends from the Buddhist Youth Group. As they washed, chopped, and cooked, they chatted and laughed. Smoke and steam filled the kitchen, laughter flowed, and amid the busyness there was a warm, vibrant energy.

On the fourth day, a married couple volunteered. In conversation, I learned that both had practiced closely with the elder master in Singapore. The team leader, responsible for meals for the first time, seemed anxious about ingredient quantities. Yet I noticed that this couple had already prepared, a day in advance, a Nanjing-style vegetarian New Year dish—sixteen kinds of seasonal vegetables and soy products, each cooked separately and then carefully combined into a dish serving forty people. I thought quietly: how could work done with such sincerity fail to be complete? I gently reassured the team leader not to worry about portions. Indeed, when the dishes and rice were served, their color, aroma, and flavor were perfectly balanced, and everyone praised the meal.

In the final two days of the retreat, the kitchen was filled with lovely children and families who had long supported the temple. Watching the children concentrate on cutting vegetables at the counters (as shown in the photo), warmth arose in my heart. It turns out that a temple is also fertile ground for parent-child cultivation—practice unfolds in each slice of the knife, each smile, each ordinary moment.

To cultivate blessings and be blessed is perhaps just this:
letting seeds of goodness quietly take root in young hands,
and allowing the joy of mutual support to grow gently amid the warmth of daily life.