Greg waded into “the zone” on occasion as much by chance as by planning. Sometimes it was a smooth slide, other times a heart-stopping plunge as bad as when the surfboard dumped him into the ocean and the wave action didn’t release him until his head ached with the cold.
Tonight there’d been too little warning for him to be anywhere else except the zone. By the time the seventy-pound slab of cleaned halibut, Airport Peggy, and the Judge all arrived at the restaurant, prep time had already been tight.
In minutes he was spewing out directions like a master chef. He was so wound up that he slid into his commercial kitchen mode. He only ground to a halt when Peggy came to stand directly in his path and wouldn’t let him by to reach the fresh herbs he kept growing in the restaurant’s south win
