If there’s a better smelling house on the block right now, I’d like an invite.

I’ve got six pounds of chicken bones and a mess of vegetable scraps burbling away in a 10-quart stockpot. Little, golden globules of fat are pooling on the surface like Monet lily pads. The pot has been going for about three hours, and its comforting aroma has walked right through the front door and into our building’s hallway. You don’t need to live here to know what’s on the stove.