One September evening in Lancaster, the tired laughter of three generations drifted around our kitchen table while something sweet and earthy mingled with the steam off homemade stew. My mother had set her old brass burner atop the counter, letting a thread of frankincense swirl hazily above us. By dessert, even cousin Eli - always tense from a week of swing shifts—was grinning wide and bobbing his niece on his knee. Scent did what no speech could: it took everyday edges off,