Buddhist Temple Food

Dawn. A line of monks in saffron robes walks silently through the village. Their alms bowls are empty. They do not ask. They do not look at what is given. Villagers emerge from houses with rice, curry, fruit. The food falls into the bowls. No words are exchanged. No preferences expressed. Whatever is offered is received.

This is how Buddhism began with food — in radical dependence. The monk owns nothing but his robes and bowl. He cannot cook for himself, cannot store food, cannot choose what he eats. He receives what the community offers and eats it before noon. After that, nothing until tomorrow's dawn.

This practice continues today in Thailand, Myanmar, Sri Lanka, wherever Theravada Buddhism lives. And from this radical simplicity, an entire philosophy of eating emerged. Across Asia, Buddhist temples developed food traditions that share a common foundation: food is not for pleasure. Food is not for punishment. Food is for sustaining the body that practices the path. No more. No less.

The alms round

The practice is called pindapata — literally, "food falling into the bowl." The etymology matters. The monk does not take food. Food falls. The distinction points at something essential: the practitioner is receiver, not seeker. The posture is receptive. The action is surrender.

The rules are precise. The monk walks with eyes downcast, maintaining silence. He cannot indicate preference, cannot reject what is offered, cannot ask for more. Whatever enters the bowl is accepted with gratitude. The bowl is never held out demandingly. It is simply present, open, empty.

This is the Hunger Teacher at its most radical. The body learns that it will be fed — but not by its own effort. The control that the nervous system craves is surrendered. What emerges is a different relationship to nourishment: one of trust, of receiving, of allowing the world to provide.

Eating before noon

The Vinaya — the monastic code — specifies that solid food must be consumed before solar noon. After noon, only water and certain juices are permitted. This creates a natural fasting window of roughly eighteen hours. Modern intermittent fasting rediscovers what Buddhist monastics have practised for 2,500 years.

The rationale is practical. Eating in the afternoon disturbs meditation. A full stomach produces drowsiness. The body's energy goes to digestion rather than awareness. By front-loading nutrition into the morning hours, the afternoon and evening remain clear for practice.

But there is a deeper logic. The evening meal is associated with attachment — with the pleasures of the day extending into night, with the social dimension of dinner, with the comfort that food provides against the encroaching dark. By cutting the evening meal, the practitioner faces the night without that comfort. The Hunger Teacher meets the Dark Teacher. Together they teach something that neither teaches alone.

The Five Contemplations

Before eating, Buddhist practitioners pause for the Five Contemplations. These verses appear in different forms across traditions, but the essence remains constant.

The contemplations reframe the meal entirely. Food is not about the eater. Food is about the practice. The body is a vehicle. The meal is fuel for the journey. This is not denial of pleasure — it is placement of pleasure in proper perspective. Taste is fine. Enjoyment is fine. But they are not the point. The point is the path.

Oryoki: the formal meal

In Zen monasteries, the meal becomes its own form of meditation. Oryoki — "just enough" — is the ceremonial eating practice that transforms every gesture into awareness.

Each monk has a set of nested bowls, wrapped in cloth with utensils. The unwrapping follows a precise sequence. The bowls are arranged in specific positions. Food is served in silence, with servers moving through the hall. The eating is deliberate — not slow for slowness' sake, but attentive. Every bite is noticed. Every swallow is felt.

When finished, the bowls are cleaned with hot water. This water is drunk — nothing is wasted. The bowls are re-wrapped in the exact reverse sequence. The whole practice takes perhaps thirty minutes. It could be done in five. But speed is not the point. Awareness is the point.

Shojin ryori: the devotion cuisine

When Buddhism arrived in Japan, it encountered a culture already sophisticated in its relationship to food. What emerged was shojin ryori — devotion cuisine — a tradition that elevates vegetarian cooking to high art while maintaining the simplicity of temple practice.

The term shojin means devotion, diligence, zeal in practice. The food is not separate from the practice. Cooking is meditation. Eating is meditation. Washing dishes is meditation. The kitchen is a dojo — a place of awakening.

The cook in a Zen monastery is called the tenzo. This position is considered as important as the abbot's. The great Zen master Dogen devoted an entire text — Tenzo Kyokun, Instructions for the Cook — to the spiritual dimension of food preparation.

Dogen taught three minds for the kitchen: kishin (joyful mind), approaching the work with gratitude; roshin (nurturing mind), caring for ingredients and those who will eat as a parent cares for a child; and daishin (magnanimous mind), vast and impartial, free from preference and discrimination.

The Rule of Five

Shojin ryori organises meals according to the Rule of Five — a principle that ensures balance across multiple dimensions.

Dimension	The Five
Colours	Green, yellow, red, white, black/purple
Flavours	Sweet, sour, salty, bitter, umami
Methods	Raw, simmered, grilled, steamed, fried

Each meal includes all five colours, all five flavours, all five cooking methods. This is not arbitrary aestheticism. It ensures nutritional completeness, digestive satisfaction, and visual beauty. When all five are present, the body receives what it needs and the eye receives what it craves. Nothing is missing. There is no seeking.

Korean temple food

Korean Buddhism developed its own distinctive food tradition — one that has achieved international recognition through UNESCO and the work of practitioners like Jeong Kwan, the Buddhist nun whose temple cooking earned comparison to the world's finest restaurants.

Korean temple food follows four fundamental restrictions: no killing, no pungent vegetables, no waste, and mindful preparation. The prohibition on pungent vegetables — garlic, onions, scallions, chives, and leeks — distinguishes Korean temple food from secular Korean cuisine. These vegetables are believed to inflame passions, disturb meditation, and create strong odours. Their absence produces a cuisine that is gentler, more subtle, more conducive to practice.

But the glory of Korean temple food is fermentation. Temple kitchens maintain crocks of doenjang (fermented soybean paste), ganjang (soy sauce), gochujang (fermented red pepper paste), and dozens of varieties of kimchi — all made without the fish sauce or shrimp paste used in secular versions. These fermented foods develop over months or years, building complexity through time rather than through intensity of ingredient.

Jeong Kwan, who lives at Chunjinam hermitage in South Korea, does not follow recipes. After decades of practice, she cooks from intuition — from deep familiarity with ingredients and seasons and the needs of those who will eat. When asked about her approach, she says: "Food is a tool for meditation." The cooking is the practice. The eating is the practice. There is no separation.

The recipes

These dishes represent different streams of Buddhist temple food — from the formal simplicity of Zen to the warming sustenance of Tibetan monasteries.

Goma Dofu (Sesame Tofu)

45 minutes Serves 6 Zen tradition

Despite its name, goma dofu contains no soy. It is made from sesame paste and kuzu starch, cooked slowly until it sets into a silky, quivering block. This is one of the signature dishes of shojin ryori — served in temple restaurants in Kyoto, made by hand for centuries. Traditional preparation requires thirty to forty minutes of grinding sesame seeds by hand. The grinding is itself the practice — repetitive, meditative, demanding full attention.

Before You Begin

This dish requires attention but not complexity. The stirring is continuous, almost hypnotic. Let the rhythm settle you. The arm tires, the attention sharpens. When the mixture pulls away from the sides of the pot, it is ready.

Ingredients

• 100g white sesame paste (tahini)
• 50g kuzu starch (or kudzu)
• 400ml water
• Pinch of salt
• Wasabi for serving
• Soy sauce for serving

Method

1. Dissolve kuzu in half the water, breaking up any lumps. In a separate bowl, thin the sesame paste with the remaining water until smooth.
2. Combine both mixtures in a heavy-bottomed pot. Add salt. Stir to combine completely.
3. Place over medium-low heat. Begin stirring with a wooden spoon or spatula. Do not stop stirring. The mixture will begin to thicken after about five minutes.
4. Continue stirring as the mixture becomes increasingly thick and glossy. It will begin to pull away from the sides of the pot. This takes 15-20 minutes of continuous stirring.
5. When the mixture is smooth, shiny, and pulls completely away from the pot, pour immediately into a wet mould or container. Smooth the top.
6. Let cool to room temperature, then refrigerate for at least two hours until fully set.
7. To serve, cut into blocks. Place a small mound of wasabi on top. Drizzle with soy sauce or serve sauce on the side.

The Teaching

Goma dofu is patience made edible. There is no shortcut to the stirring. You cannot rush the setting. What rewards you is texture unlike anything else — silky, dense, rich with the essence of sesame. This is what temple cuisine teaches: that attention transforms simple ingredients into something extraordinary. Not through complexity. Through presence.

Kenchinjiru (Temple Vegetable Soup)

40 minutes Serves 4-6 Zen tradition

Named for Kenchoji temple in Kamakura, this soup has warmed monks through Japanese winters for over seven hundred years. It is simple fare — root vegetables stir-fried in sesame oil, then simmered in clear dashi. But in that simplicity is everything: earthiness, warmth, the satisfaction of enough. The soup embodies mottainai — the principle of no waste. Every part of every vegetable is used.

Before You Begin

Gather all vegetables before you start. Cut them with care — irregular shapes are traditional, as they would be if you were using every scrap of what you have. Let the shapes tell the truth about their origins.

Ingredients

• 200g daikon radish
• 2 medium carrots
• 150g taro root or potato
• 100g burdock root (gobo)
• 200g firm tofu
• 4 shiitake mushrooms
• 2 tbsp sesame oil
• 1L kombu-shiitake dashi
• 2 tbsp soy sauce
• 1 tbsp sake
• Chopped spring onion for garnish

Method

1. Prepare the dashi: soak 10g kombu and 4 dried shiitake in 1L water overnight, or simmer gently for 20 minutes. Strain. Reserve the mushrooms for the soup.
2. Cut all vegetables into irregular bite-sized pieces. Slice the reserved shiitake. Press excess water from tofu and crumble or cut into cubes.
3. Heat sesame oil in a large pot. Add vegetables in order of density — burdock first, then daikon, carrot, and taro. Stir-fry for 3-4 minutes until lightly coated and fragrant.
4. Add the dashi. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Cook until vegetables are just tender — about 15 minutes.
5. Add tofu, soy sauce, and sake. Simmer another 5 minutes.
6. Taste and adjust seasoning. The broth should be clear, the vegetables distinct but tender.
7. Serve in deep bowls, garnished with spring onion. Eat with awareness of everything that made this soup possible.

The Teaching

Kenchinjiru is what winter tastes like in a temple. Earthy, warming, grounding. The vegetables come from the earth and return you there. This is the Floor Teacher in a bowl — the reminder that we are bodies made of elements, nourished by elements, returning to elements. Nothing fancy. Everything necessary.

Po Cha (Tibetan Butter Tea)

20 minutes Serves 4 Tibetan tradition

At 4,000 metres above sea level, the rules of nourishment change. Cold that penetrates bone. Air so thin that digestion slows. Bodies that need fat and salt and warmth just to survive another day of practice. Tibetan butter tea evolved as survival. Tea churned with yak butter and salt produces something that is not quite tea, not quite soup — something that the body at altitude desperately needs.

Before You Begin

This tea is foreign to most palates on first encounter — salty, rich, savoury. Approach it not as tea but as warm nourishment. Let go of what you expect tea to be. Receive what this is.

Ingredients

• 4 cups water
• 2 tbsp loose pu-erh or strong black tea
• 60g unsalted butter (or yak butter)
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 2 tbsp whole milk (optional)

Method

1. Bring water to a boil. Add tea leaves and simmer for 5-10 minutes — longer than Western brewing, to create a strong, dark base.
2. Strain tea into a blender or traditional churn. Add butter, salt, and milk if using.
3. Blend on high for 2-3 minutes until completely emulsified and slightly frothy. The liquid should be smooth and creamy, not separated.
4. Taste and adjust salt. The saltiness should be pronounced but not overwhelming.
5. Serve immediately in cups or bowls. Keep the pot warm — this tea is meant to be sipped throughout hours of practice.

The Teaching

Po cha teaches that nourishment has many forms. What the body needs at high altitude, in deep cold, during long hours of seated meditation — this is what nourishment looks like there. Do not judge it by the standards of sea level. Let it teach you that context determines everything.

Okayu (Temple Rice Porridge)

45 minutes Serves 2 Zen tradition

Before dawn, before the first meditation bell, monks eat okayu — rice porridge. This is the simplest possible food: rice and water, cooked until the grains dissolve into something both substantial and light. Easy to digest. Warming. Enough to sustain morning practice without heaviness. Okayu is what leftover rice becomes. In the no-waste tradition, yesterday's rice is transformed rather than discarded.

Before You Begin

Make this when you need gentleness — when sick, when tired, when the stomach needs rest. Or make it as the monks do, simply because morning has come and the body needs fuel for practice.

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup short-grain rice (or 1 cup leftover rice)
• 4 cups water
• Pinch of salt
• Pickled plum (umeboshi) for serving
• Toasted sesame seeds for garnish

Method

1. If using raw rice, rinse until water runs clear. If using leftover rice, break up any clumps.
2. Combine rice and water in a pot. Bring to a boil, then reduce to lowest simmer.
3. Cook uncovered, stirring occasionally, for 30-40 minutes. The rice will gradually break down. Add more water if needed for desired consistency.
4. When the porridge is creamy and the grains have lost their distinct shape, add salt. Stir to combine.
5. Serve in deep bowls with a pickled plum pressed into the centre and sesame seeds scattered across the top.

The Teaching

Okayu is what simplicity tastes like. One ingredient transformed by water and time. The sourness of the umeboshi cuts through the blandness; the sesame adds richness without heaviness. This is breakfast in a Zen monastery. This is what sustains awakening. Not elaborate. Not exciting. Just enough. Always enough.

The teaching

What does Buddhist temple food offer the Terra Form§ practitioner?

First: the radical practice of receiving. The alms round teaches that nourishment comes from beyond the self. You do not have to hustle for every meal. You do not have to earn the right to eat. The community provides. The universe provides. Your work is to receive — and to use what is given wisely.

Second: the power of enough. The Middle Way cuts between indulgence and deprivation. Neither feasting nor fasting is the point. The point is sufficiency — taking what the body needs, no more, and directing the surplus energy toward practice. The Hunger Teacher teaches through restraint, but not through punishment.

Third: the meal as meditation. Oryoki, the Five Contemplations, the silence of the refectory — all transform eating from unconscious consumption into conscious practice. The nervous system settles when eating has structure. The mind clarifies when attention is directed. The meal becomes a laboratory for awareness.

Fourth: the kitchen as dojo. The cook is not separate from the practitioner. The vegetables are not separate from the teaching. Dogen's three minds — joyful, nurturing, magnanimous — apply not just to kitchen work but to all work. If you can chop vegetables with full attention, you can meet any challenge with full attention.

Buddhist temple food asks nothing of belief. You do not need to accept rebirth or karma or the Four Noble Truths. You need only eat with attention, receive with gratitude, and use what you are given for something beyond mere survival. The body responds. The nervous system settles. The practice deepens.

The bowl is waiting. Fill it with what you receive.

The Seven Teachers in Buddhist Practice

How each Teacher manifests in this tradition of mindful sufficiency.

Sources & Further Reading

• Dogen, Eihei. "Tenzo Kyokun: Instructions for the Cook." 1237 CE.
• Brown, Edward Espe. "The Tassajara Bread Book." Shambhala, 1970.
• Thich Nhat Hanh. "How to Eat." Parallax Press, 2014.
• Jeong Kwan. "Chef's Table" Season 3, Episode 1. Netflix, 2017.
• Institute of Korean Temple Food. "Korean Temple Food." Bulkwang Publishing, 2010.
• Tsuji, Shizuo. "Japanese Cooking: A Simple Art." Kodansha, 1980.