I have the best readers. You'd be surprised how involved many of them are, and I absolutely love that.

There's the couple in upstate New York that's been married more than 25 years, and the gay couple in New England who send pictures of their snowstorms and always ask me to keep writing.

I also have my local readers who send e-mails or see me in town, and always asked how the wedding plans were coming, or who make a point of using my new last name.

I've gotten 13 recipe suggestions from people who read about my intent to master three new dishes by the time my husband returned last week.

I've realized that was a lofty goal, as "master" is a strong word. At this point I'll settle for edible, but things are coming along well in the kitchen and I'll provide a rundown of success and failure in a few weeks.

I have all my reader-submitted recipes printed out and paper-clipped together, and I'll let you know the results of each. Thanks so much to everyone who submitted directions for everything from gumbo and shepherd's pie, to a marinated tomato salad, blackberry chicken and an amazing éclair pie.

One sweet lady even invited me to her house for a hands-on, flan-making lesson, which I plan to accept when things slow down a bit for me on the weekends.

I will say that it took Stan some time to get used to the idea of everyone knowing our comings and goings. People introduce themselves at Outback Steakhouse, and know all about him. One guy told him he was making all other guys look bad with his romance and thoughtfulness, which was explored in my Valentine's Day column.

People, in general, are just good folks, and I always love hearing from them.

Of course, I also get hate mail and an occasional hand-written letter with "Monroe County Detention Center " as the return address. (Actually, most inmates abbreviate MCDC -- no need to freak people out before they open it.)

As hate mail goes, there was the woman about five years ago who hated my slam on a pawn shop's ad, which showed a little girl pawning her toys for cash.

At the time, I wrote that it conjured images of a crackhead mom sending her 6-year-old into the store to get as much cash as she could for the Barbie Dream House and Tickle Me Elmo.

I'm sorry, I'm sticking to my original opinion on that ad, and that woman can continue to hate me and call me names.

Then there's the person who took my column about time travel quite literally and called me a bleeding-heart liberal because I said I would have been opposed to the government's treatment of Native Americans, and I hoped that I would have done something to protest it if I had lived back in the days of the Old West.

Apparently, the problem with we bleeding hearts is that we criticize the way things are done, but without any consideration of the true impacts of any solution.

I wrote back and explained that I didn't expect my columns to be taken quite so seriously. I was talking about time travel, for crying out loud. I simply wanted to wear the corset and full-skirted dress, walk through the dusty streets of a frontier town and maybe ride off into the sunset with a cowboy -- or Indian.

I reminded my former reader that we shouldn't judge or label people so quickly, because if I were judging her rashly, I would have labeled her a right-wing Conservative who was born tragically without a sense of humor.

I lost her as a reader after that.

I also irritated a few Parrotheads and some of their supporters last fall when I merely suggested that they need not wear their identifying lanyards to bed at night.

Seven other people had written to tell me how they had enjoyed that particular column, including a few staff members from Margaritaville, who actually posted the column on their website. Apparently, the vast majority of Parrotheads can take a joke. As for the few others, get a life.

But the positive responses far outnumber the negatives. I feel honored when anyone chooses to read the words I string together, and it somehow makes the world a smaller place.

I hear from other folks who grew up at the Jersey Shore. I hear from the ones who wish they lived in Key West and count the days until their next visit, and from the ones who do live here and share their opinions or simply commiserate about life's little nuisances.

Others really want to help.

An anonymous benefactor dropped off oven mitts at The Citizen after I severely burned my hands while making biscuits.

And I'll never forget the man who felt so badly when my bike got stolen that he made arrangements to buy me a new one. Sadly, journalism ethics would not allow me to accept the gift, but I will never forget one man's attempt to help someone he had never met.

Austin Taylor told me in an e-mail that he couldn't solve all the problems of the world. He couldn't end homelessness or cure cancer. He couldn't repair the political disasters in the Middle East or single-handedly put New Orleans back together.

But here was a tiny problem he could fix -- a way to right a wrong, and he was happy to do it.

Mr. Taylor has since died, but he left an indelible mark that reminds me of the good that remains in this world.

On this hot and steamy Sunday in July, I just wanted to say thanks to all of you who join me here every week for a quick laugh, or short escape from the "real news." I have a great time, and I love sharing Sundays with you all. (Well, most of you.)

So keep in touch, have a great week and try to keep politics out of all time travel discussions.

mmiles@keysnews.com