Our son was successfully in bed at exactly nine o’clock, but not before I handed him a small vial of wheatgrass juice while he prepared to brush his teeth. “Drink this first,” I commanded. “If you dare,” I added. His eyes widened. “You did it!” he said with awe, and then drank it down while wincing over its bitter taste. For weeks he had been begging me to make a potion that would turn him into a tiger. “Make it in your lab,” he had directed me. “Make it out of plants.”
