The last thing I expected to learn in college was how to coerce someone into accepting candy, but over the four years and however-many courses I’ve taken at Calvin, I confess this knowledge is among the most valuable I’ve gained.
It started with a container of chocolate caramels my mother left as a going-away gift when I first moved to the dormitory.
Obviously, I didn’t need all thirty salted caramels for myself (though no shame to those who’d eat them all alone—do what you gotta do). So every time someone stopped by the room, I’d offer them a caramel in the course of our conversation and find myself increasingly washed with delight when they accepted one and enjoyed it. From there it became like an addiction: hospitality is a one-way road and I’d already made the turn. I started collecting tea and sweets like a troll finding every way to persuade people to enjoy some of my hoard.
But I soon discovered that giving people candy, or food or tea or any gift, is not as simple as it seems. There are social queues you must overcome. You must prove you do genuinely want to give them something, that it contains no hidden strings of gratitude or payback, that their accepting your gift actually makes you happier than if they refuse.
What followed was trial and error, but over years of collegiate-level scientific experimentation, I finally worked it out: the grandma secret, the come-in-I-have-cookies technique mastered by every sugary auntie and gentle grannie I’ve ever known.
When at first someone politely declines your chocolate or tea, try, try again—but sneakier.
My sophomore year, my and my roommate’s dorm room was a special triple room meant for three people, so with only the two of us, there was extra space in the center of the room for a carpet and small coffee table with a couch along the far wall. Perfect for having tea. I set up pillows on the couch and kept the carpet vacuumed and ready for guests whenever the opportunity arose, and we left the door open when we were around so we could catch the most passersby as possible.
But sometimes when people spot you randomly and stop to say hi, the automatic response to an offer of chocolate is oh, that’s alright. I was just passing by, don’t want to intrude.
But I want them to intrude. So I began devising the best way to be intruded upon, one step at a time.
Turns out, people are more likely to accept a snack if the lid or bag is already open. You could even portion it for them—they’re much less likely to reject it if they don’t even have to reach for it. Don’t say, “Would you like some?” when you could say, “Here, I have extras!”
I began inviting people to tea parties around our little coffee table. By the time the first person knocked, snacks and boxes of teas and extra mugs would be waiting ready atop the table, easy to grab mid-chat. In fact, the mugs were always kept on a shelf at hand height so we could whip them out at any time like a weapon—you forgot a cup? Oh, there are plenty of extra mugs here. There’s black tea if you don’t like herbal, or vanilla chai if you want to be fancy. Don’t worry, there’s milk in the fridge. Help yourself.
And it doesn’t have to be tea. As long as it functions as a bribe to get people to stay and chat or study or hang out with you, it works. Since moving to Japan, it’s been rice balls. Simple, easy, entertaining, filling as dinner. Bonus points if you provide several varieties of whatever you have, and you can even share the joy of hospitality by encouraging people to bring sides or contributions of their own. Maybe they’ll become addicted to sharing, too. If they feel indebted, they can always take you to lunch so you can hang out even more. They win, you win.
But eventually, I think everyone figures out the one in debt is actually me. I am the sacred community troll, and what I actually hoard is little invitations to be together. Giving the chocolates away makes me richer, not poorer, so the situation is actually more like this: You come for the snacks (my payoff), but stay for the conversations (your payoff). And if the conversation suddenly gets awkward and we sit around for a half a minute searching for something else to talk about, the tea I gave you is actually a trick to keep you from leaving. You can’t casually excuse yourself while you’re borrowing my mug, you see, so really, I’m the one pulling the strings. Chocolate is my home territory, after all, so when you accept one, you unknowingly accept the contract of a new friend. The hospitality troll. You may expect future invitations at any time. 😉
Emilyn Shortridge (’25) spent her Calvin years studying English linguistics, Asian studies, and ministry leadership, and intends to finish her Asian studies program in Chiba, Japan, in 2026. When at home in Plymouth, Michigan, she thrives anywhere near fantasy novels, houseplants, hot tea, or her calico cat, Genie, but she plans to live and learn in many cultures before deciding which corner of the world needs her most.
