Setting up a business, of course, is a lot of hard work. I planned on the meeting with Important People, such as accountants and small business experts and the like. I planned on Regulations and Rules, a Logo and Marketing, though I’m still no expert on these things and learning as I fumble along. What I hadn’t planned for is all the recipe testing. I know how to cook, I scoffed. That will be the easy part.

Wrong. First, I can safely say that until two week ago I had never had the occasional to sear sea scallops, then stow them in the fridge for a quick dip in the cool air, then gingerly re-heat them in the microwave. I repeat, I have never done that to scallops. Who would? What kind of crazy person does that?

Me. I’ve also further tortured them by searing them, then freezing them. That explains why - like a pregnant mother-to-be obsessed with thought of watermelon in January - I sent my honey running to Whole Foods before they closed to procure a single, lonely sea scallop (at $2.34 no less - yikes!). If I was a sea scallop, sweet and dainty and delicate, I’d stay far, far away.

A side note: Kelly and I don’t usually eat this way, with this planning, storing and freezing, all this stowing things to eat away for the winter, or just a rough day when we both land, with a thud, on the back door at 8 p.m. I want to hire myself now. I’m not just saying that. I’ve heard of personal chefs who end the day doing what they’ve saved the rest of the world from - calling in take out. Oh no. I’m not going into business to end up like that every day.

But you know what? Most things have turned out okay, much to my surprise, even that sea scallop. It turns out you can freeze a lof of things just fine without compromising much. Which is good, because while I am going to be cooking and stowing away food in the freezer and fridge for my clients, I do not want to become a Casserole Queen. It’s too nice to eat sea scallops.

My chef coat came today, crisp and crackling out of its plastic shell, with “The Good Fork” embroidered in cloudy gray script on the left breast pocket (Daniel, my neighbor, asked if I was in school when I came galloping up to his front door to show off…sort of!). My clogs arrived last week. Friday night, I’ll pack my knives and my pans, and Saturday morning I’ll head to the market and then cook for my first client. Gasp! Egads!

In between, there has been a wedding and a float down a lazy, low brown river with cans of cheap beer, rollercoasters and corn on the cob, and roasted pork, and ice cream sandwiches and wheat beers with orange slices and vodka tonics infused with rosemary, and a few trashy movies. Now we’re moving into a season of caramel apples and smarty-pants foreign films on weekday evenings. We are moving into a season of homework, folks.

I like mine, though. I am so excited about cooking for people the way I love to eat. I am so excited to take care of them and feed them well. Hopefully I can keep doing the same for myself.

Luckily, I’m pretty easy to please. Sure, I like purple potatoes and fancy cured meats and zucchini blossoms, fava beans and cornichons and mussels and lots of oysters on the half shell, but at the end of the day, our at home summer supper is sort of an endless variation on a theme.

So here is it is, the September-late August rendition of a tomato salad, inspired and pirated from the witty, wonderful pastry cheftress Dorie Greenspan, which was in turn lifted from Dan Barber, the chef at Blue Hill at Stone Barns. The last of my backyard tomatoes, still sweet and juicy, paired with silky peaches, basil, sea salt, pepper and just a slick of good olive oil. Maybe a slice of proscuitto, if it is on hand, just for some more salty contrast. Lord. We slurped down our third plate of this in the last few weeks this evening, with deep bowls of corn chowder on the side.

I feel silly giving you all a recipe…but protocol requires it, I suppose…

Take one largish tomato, slice thinly and arrange on a plate. Do the same with a ripe peach or two (no excuses this time of year if you live in most of the United States. I just know you can track down a localish peach and have the patience to let it ripen for two or three days on the kitchen counter. The same for Herr Tomato). Chiffonade a few basil leaves. Sprinkle on the peaches and tomato. Drizzle very lightly with good olive oil, dust lightly with sea salt and pepper and a few thin slivers of proscuitto, if it happens to be around. Don’t put too much effort into this salad, even though the calendar says it’s back to school time and all that. We can still hang on for a few weeks.

 When Kelly and I bought our first house together last August, I can’t say it was the kitchen that sold me. Sure, it is spacious, chock-a-block with wide drawers and deep cabinets and tall windows. The ceiling is high, wonderfully high in that old house way, but I can’t reach the smoke alarm even when I clamber onto a chair and stretch, dangerously, waving a dish towel wildly to stop the piercing screeching. There is a niche in one wall, handy for cookbooks, assorted tequilas and my growing collection of cake stands.

 The wallpaper, though, is terrible. Friends, it is textured. Scattered with drawings of herbs, their genus and species listed in script, which is why I suppose our bungalow’s previous owners thought made it oh-so-appropriate for a kitchen.

And then there was this oven.

A grayish green electric Frigidaire DeLuxe RDG-20S behemoth, circa 1970-something or other, this super-sized appliance in many ways is my kitchen. You can’t ignore it. You can’t pretend it’s not there. It’s prepetually too hot, a good 50 degrees warmer than what I turn to on the temperature dial. Despite its girth, the oven is narrow, so cookie sheets and roasting pans must go in vertically (that tempting section on the left is not, most unfortunately, another oven. It’s a storage drawer). The rear, right burner doesn’t work. Neither does the clock. If you baking nerds are curious, a month-long flurry of Christmas cookies, 20-plus pounds of butter and much cursing taught me that it will burn the beejesus out of anything on a darkish sheet unless I am careful to use parchment paper and make a few sacrifies to the Frigidaire gods.

But the color…it makes me so happy. And there is wood-paneling, I suppose to match your 1970s station wagon.

You can’t see it very well in the photo, but our house’s previous owners painted the kitchen trim the exact same shade as the oven. So you see I’m not the only one fascinated with it. They also left behind the instruction booklet, yellowed and faded and with a deep fat frying chart that includes suggested temperatures for croquettes and fritters. I suspect my five-year warrenty has expired, but this thing was constructed by General Motors. They build cars, friends!

So, we have grown to love each other. It’s probably entirely one-sided. But, maybe, just maybe, we are ready for bigger commitments. Like bread.

This blog is more an outlet, you see, for my food prattlings, rather than the constant in person ear-bending you get from me about what is honestly just dinner.

Just dinner, right.

Welcome to the beginning. We’re off!