“Oh, hey! You’re here!” She beams, tossing a wavy lock of hair over her shoulder. She grabs you by the hand and leads you inside, her long skirt floating out behind her as she walks.

“Sit down and relax,” she says, pointing at the couch. She pads into the kitchen and starts rummaging through the fridge. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

It’s been a long week and you’re ready let the stress of the day fall away. You take a deep breath as you sink into the plush cushions, sighing happily on the exhale. It smells homey—woody and floral, like sandalwood incense and something very familiar.

“Speaking of relaxing,” you say, “it smells like you got started without me.”

She shrugs and grins, plopping down into an armchair opposite you. “Guilty. I’m a dirty hippie at heart,” she mumbles around a mouthful of cereal.

You ask, “So, what should we do tonight?”

She thinks about it, hands you her pipe and says the six most beautiful words in the English language: “Why don’t we just stay in?”

Gone are the days of methodically dipping bits of string into vats of rendered tallow to make candles so that you can ward off the unrelenting darkness of those long, winter evenings (which you will then spend darning socks while Pa reads aloud from the scriptures, naturally).