In the summer of 2003 I found myself in Minneapolis, working a national church event housed in the downtown convention center. Long days and nights turned into hurried mornings as I would scour the area near my hotel looking for a nourishing meal to get me through the day.

Hell's Kitchen came into my life on a dawn-mottled Wednesday. At the close of my first meal there — eggs over easy; Rosti potatoes slathered with sweet butter and grilled with onions, chives and scallions; a tender slab of grilled ham; followed by cup after steaming cup of dark, fragrant coffee — I was engaged. By Thursday afternnon — Vegetarian Panini (eggplant, sauteed mushrooms, bell peppers, tomatoes, carmelized onions, garlic, served with seasoned fries and chipotle sauce — I was entralled.

Alas, I never met Mitch Omer. But Hell's Kitchen will always be a part of my life.

Thanks, Patrick, for another well-written, superbly engaging tale of air travel told from the other side of the cockpit door. The tentativeness that you experienced, both before and during the flight, is one that most passengers are familiar with once they pack their bags and head for the airport. It is good to know that pilots occasionally experience a tumult of emotions, as do the paying customers.

As a single parent, I am pleased to say that I have passed on my ever-increasing comfort level for air travel to my 10-year-old daughter, now a veteran flier. I give thanks to you, your column and your book, portions of which I have read out loud to my daughter, for our comfort. Our better understanding of the intricacies of air travel has immeasurably added to our enjoyment.

Keep the stories coming!

As a single parent whose reading habits have returned great dividends in the life of his only child — at 10-years-old, she is now a voracious reader, I sure would like to see a list of the best children's and teen's books for 2007!

Single father here and, sigh, I don't for a moment buy one word of Mr. Ellis' story. Unsolicited flirting? Hot nanny? A rental home near the Venice boardwalk? Yoga classes? Cyberskin sex toys? Better he had written the piece for "Penthouse Letters" than for higher-minded Salon.

Please, bring back "Mothers Who Think," one of the most endearing and refreshing Salon departments, gone these many years. There, one could read true stories, where the emotions (and motives) rang true, where the sex (or lack thereof) was real and the ex's didn't flaunt sex toys; rather did they use them!

"Reality Distorition Field" is a term often applied to Apple CEO Steve Jobs. Bascially, what it means is that Jobs finds it easy to manipulate reality to suit his own needs, his own experience, his brand. The very real experience of others serves no purpose in Jobs' world. Others don't count.

The same could be said for those celebrities whose stratosphperic fame makes the rest of us mere mortals appear as serving no role other than to worship their celebrity.

Bateman's cartoon does a great job of illustrating the reality distortion field that surrounds Miley Cyrus. Her world is not my world, your world or for that matter anyone's world other than her celebrity-fueled own — a point I hope my 11-year-old daughter, currently worshipping at the altar of all things "Twilight," will oneday understand.

Warm remembrances to your mom for her having shown the good sense to capture you and your sister climbing the stairs into that Washington, D.C.-bound American Airlines Boeing 727. Little did you know at the time that the image would, on several levels, prove so memorable these many years later.

As regards the allure of using tarmac stairs, I have a much cherished photo of my own then 9-year-old, daughter Nora standing on the Baltimore tarmac in 2005 after disembarking from a regional jet. We too were bound for Washington, D.C., the final leg via the MARC commuter train.

Your stories never fail to draw us readers in, Patrick. Thanks for that.