My grandfather was an

organic chemist, my father

was a microbiologist, and I

was a little nerdling.

I was never meant to be a cook. Just ask my mom, she’ll

tell you. Doctor? Sure. Lawyer? Yep—I can argue with the
best of ’em. Scientist? Definitely. In fourth grade, we were
given an assignment: write a book about ourselves in the
future. I distinctly remember my future life according to my
ten-year-old self. I’d be married at twenty-four. I’d have my
first kid at twenty-six. I’d get my PhD by twenty-nine (how
I’d manage to get my PhD while trying to raise a kid was a
question I never asked myself). By thirty, I’d discover a
cure for cancer, winning a Nobel prize. Having made my
mark on the world, I’d spend the next forty years fulfilling
my duties as the President of LEGOLAND before finally
retiring and leaving the world a better place at the age of
eighty-seven.
Lofty dreams indeed, but things seemed to be going on
track all through high school. I did well in math and