Martha Stewart and I just have so much in common. She knows everything; my friends say I think I do.

We both write columns for this newspaper, although hers, admittedly, reaches more readers since it’s syndicated throughout the universe.

So, I knew exactly what to do when rust stains marred a white cotton-Lycra sleeveless top recently purchased for the summer season of July.

She and I know to first try Spray ‘n Wash, and when that fails, to move onto carpet stain remover, which was efficiently stored under the kitchen sink amid containers of Miracle-Gro, Spic and Span, silver polish, ant bait, dust rags, Cascade, Windex, furniture polish and mouse traps.

For some reason, the stain remover created new spots on the top, or perhaps the rust specks expanded, but it became clear Clorox was in order to bleach away the imperfections and return the top to its toothpaste-white brightness.

Ms. Stewart may not have iron and magnesium in her well water, so she probably would not have known bleach tends to yellow otherwise white clothes when mixed with those minerals. I knew but momentarily forgot.

Three cantaloupe-sized – and colored – circles appeared rather quickly on the top, which both Martha and I would have concluded would not be satisfactory, so it became clear the shirt would have to be dyed in a jiffy.

Most of the time, she and I would have stored a complete rainbow of Rit dye colors for such occasions, but for some reason the inventory had been depleted as had the bottles of food coloring normally kept in the spice rack between the almond flavoring and the basil. Not to be thwarted, however, we would naturally turn to the natural.

Blueberries make marvelous dyes, as evidenced by a number of T-shirts splotched from summertime picking. Our freezers would be full of perfectly sealed bags, so it would be effortless to boil a few pints, strain off the pulp and soak the shirt, only to have it become a soft shade of berry blue.

It was a sunny day, splendid for drying clothes outside, so the naturally dyed shirt was draped over the bench where the air could whip through it and prevent any shrinkage on the already snug Lycra fit.

Martha and I would have had a laugh, though, when we discovered the horizontal slat marks on the back of the shirt, which were much lighter than the blueberry stained front. In fact, the shirt couldn’t truly be called blue but resembled rather the Down East barrens themselves – an earthy mix the shade of a boiled egg discovered a couple of months later in the back of the refrigerator.

Pondering what to do next, Martha and I would know to sit and enjoy a cup of hot coffee, making certain to save the remainder of the pot for our new remedy. Within minutes, the sleeveless top would be drenched in steaming liquid from the java bean, absorbing all the richness of brown; then – this time – hung outside over the smooth grill cover until sun-dried.

Martha and I would wink at each other, knowing the secret of our success.

Chock Full O’ Nuts, some might suggest.