The Legend of the Laba Porridge at Baosheng Temple

Baosheng Temple is a renowned monastery in the Jiangnan region. Legend has it that at its peak, the temple was vast and imposing, boasting 5,048 rooms, a monastic community of a thousand monks, and attracting eminent masters from far and wide.

Long ago, one day, a monk from the Shaolin Temple arrived at Baosheng Temple. His name was Huzi; in his twenties, he was short and stocky, with a round waist and broad back, a swarthy complexion, and a smooth, bald head, always wearing a cheerful smile. He wore a gray monk’s robe and carried a yellow cloth satchel over his shoulder—a bag that won the favor of everyone who saw it.

He, too, was originally from the Jiangnan region. One year, a devastating flood struck his hometown, and his entire family fled north in search of refuge. When he was ten, his parents, worn out by years of toil, fell ill one after another and passed away, leaving him an orphan. It was the monks of the Shaolin Temple who took him in, teaching him the art of staff fighting and helping him hone his skills. As he grew older, he often heard of a renowned temple in Jiangnan—the Baosheng Temple—and longed to return home. With his master’s blessing, he set off for the Shaolin Temple.

A young monk led Huzi to Abbot Fahui. There, the abbot sat quietly in the Buddhist hall, one hand holding a string of prayer beads, the other fingers gently clasped together. The young monk said, “Venerable Master, he’s come from the Shaolin Temple and wishes to remain at the monastery.” The abbot nodded thoughtfully: “Those from Shaolin must be skilled in martial arts—perhaps he can teach our novices.” He replied, “Very well! What kind of kung fu do you know?” Huzi scratched his head and said, “I know the staff technique.” The abbot smiled and said, “Then stay. In the mornings, you’ll teach the novices the staff; in the afternoons, you can help out in the refectory with some chores.” And so, Monk Huzi became both a junior martial‑arts instructor and a kitchen assistant at Baosheng Monastery. They gave him the Dharma name Huili. Every morning at first light, Huili would go to the training ground to teach his fellow monks the staff‑fighting form, and they all practiced with great earnestness. Once their skills were honed, they would move on to the refectory to lend a hand. Thanks to his lifelong habit of being quick and diligent, he never minded taking on extra tasks. He always drew water before washing vegetables, rinsed rice before boiling it, and whenever he had a moment, he’d head out to the vegetable patch to weed and water. Rising early and working late, he remained strong and vigorous. Huili also cultivated another fine habit: frugality. When tending the fire, his eyes were always fixed on the rice‑husk fuel; if he spotted even a single grain, he would pluck it, husk it, and place it in his cloth bag. During rice‑washing, he refused to dump the rinse water right away; instead, he let it settle, then slowly poured it off, checking for any stray grains. If there were any, he’d pick them up, spread them on a bamboo mat to dry, and store them in his bag. On the road or in the fields, should he happen to find even a single bean or a bit of greens, he would wash it clean, dry it in the sun or over a fire, and tuck it into his bag. Monk Huili never parted with his bag; the bag was always by his side. Day after day, year after year, after more than three years of such careful collecting, he amassed no fewer than three stone of assorted foodstuffs.

It was the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month one year. The monks at the temple had all gathered in the Buddha Hall—some chanting sutras, others performing repentance rites, and still others conducting ritual ceremonies—creating a lively, bustling atmosphere. There were also plenty of lay devotees attending the Buddhist services; just among the patrons, there were over a hundred. That day, the head steward in charge of provisions, an elderly monk, had gone to the hall to chant as well. In a moment of absentmindedness, he even forgot to open the granary and draw out the grain. This left Monk Huili beside himself with worry: how would four or five hundred people be fed? At first, he waited—longingly, anxiously—but no sign of the senior monk appeared. Calling out to him was out of the question, for to the monks, the Dharma is as vast as the sky; trespassing into the Buddha Hall without due respect is a grave offense, punishable by three hundred strokes of the rod at the least, or even broken legs at worst. Such a rule, Monk Huili dared not defy. He looked up at the gray‑hued sky, where large flakes of snow were drifting down, and the light grew dimmer by the minute. Time was running short; even if he went out to buy supplies, he lacked the funds, and doing so would delay the mealtime for hundreds of people. After much thought, he realized that even a clever housewife cannot cook without rice—there seemed to be no good solution. Standing in the kitchen, fiddling with the firewood, he happened to notice a few grains of rice. A spark of inspiration lit his eyes, and he recalled the small pouch at his side. “If I were to take the food accumulated over the past three years, toss it into the pot, and boil it up—wouldn’t that ease this urgent need?” With this thought, he leapt up, slapping his thigh in delight.

After a while, the sky gradually grew dark. “Dong, dong, dong”—the bell signaling mealtime rang out, and four or five hundred monks filed into the refectory. Each one thought to himself: Today is the Buddha’s birthday; surely we’ll enjoy a sumptuous vegetarian feast to celebrate. But upon entering the hall, they found only porridge—food that was neither quite porridge nor proper rice, nor really vegetables. Every monk’s eyes widened in astonishment, and their hearts burned with indignation. Yet there were strict rules about eating: no talking during meals; whatever was served had to be eaten, even if one did not wish to. So they closed their eyes and swallowed the soggy gruel. Alas! Once they tasted it, the flavor turned out to be quite good—highly appetizing—and each hurried to help themselves, eager to finish every last bit, as if they could swallow the pot itself. The old abbot, sensing something amiss, asked Monk Huili, “What kind of vegetarian feast is this?” Monk Huili explained the whole story to the abbot. Upon hearing this, the old abbot clasped his hands together and said, “Excellent! Excellent! To cherish grain is to have grain; Huili accumulates merit, reaping immeasurable blessings—truly worthy of respect, admiration, and celebration.” Hearing this, all the monks in the temple praised his virtue of frugality and diligence, unanimously agreeing that the porridge Monk Huili prepared was delicious. Later, they discussed and resolved to treasure food at all times. And so, from then on, every year on the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, they would cook and eat this very porridge. The portions offered to benefactors and nearby residents came to be known as “Buddha Porridge,” or “Laba Porridge.” It was said that drinking this porridge could ward off misfortune and bring blessings. From that day forward, the people of Luzhi began to make and enjoy Laba Porridge on the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month each year, adding joy to their lives and turning it into a cherished folk custom.