One day the Hodja and a couple of other people were invited for dinner to an acquaintance’s home. It was a hot summer evening. The host brought to the table a large bowl of ice-cold cherry compote. He took a spoon as big as a ladle for himself and gave his guests small, dessert spoons.
“Let’s dig in!” the host said. But nobody could dig in as well as he could. The guests, with their small spoons, were not very successful in either enjoying the compote or quenching their thirsts. The host, on the other hand, was drinking the cold juice with his large spoon expressing his delight after each scoop.
“Ahh, this is killing me!” he was saying, “Ahh, I must have died and gone to heaven. Oh, this is so good, I am dying.” Nasreddin Hodja was not one to allow all the compote to disappear before he had a chance to savor it himself. He said, “Efendi, why don’t you give us that ladle so that we can die a little too!”
