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From: Steak Sampler Omaha <steak@asurapsych.com>
Reply-To: steakav@asurapsych.com
To: bruce@untroubled.org
Date: Sat, 20 Dec 2025 08:19:37 -0500
Subject: 0maha-Steaks Is Giving You A Steak SampIer - OnIy 500 Left
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I remember the first time I visited the botanical gardens in the early spring. The air was still crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint, sweet promise of blossoms yet to come. My friend Clara was with me, her camera slung over her shoulder as usual. "Look at the structure of that branch," she said, pointing to a bare dogwood. "It's like a map. All the potential for leaves and flowers is right there, waiting." We walked slowly, not talking much, just listening to the distant chatter of sparrows and the crunch of gravel under our shoes. It's funny how some places feel like a reset button. The curated quiet, the orderly rows of plants labeled with their Latin names, it all creates a space where your thoughts can settle. Clara stopped to adjust her lens, focusing on a patch of moss clinging to a north-facing stone. "The green is so intense this time of year," she murmured, more to herself than to me. I sat on a nearby bench, watching a gardener carefully weed a bed of emerging tulips. There was a methodical peace to his movements. Later, we found the greenhouse, a burst of humid, fragrant air greeting us as we opened the door. The world inside was a different palette entirely—lush greens, vibrant orchids, the waxy leaves of tropical plants. A small fountain trickled in the center. We made a silent pact to come back every month, to trace the progression of the seasons through that one, constant place. It became a tradition, a quiet anchor point in our busy lives. The last visit we managed was in autumn, the gardens transformed into a spectacle of gold and crimson. It was just as beautiful, but carried the gentle melancholy of a closing chapter. We still talk about planning a winter visit, to see the structure of the gardens under a blanket of snow, the sleeping forms of the plants waiting for their cycle to begin again.
Omaha Steaks
Exceptional cuts, delivered to your kitchen
A Note About Our Gourmet Sampler
We have a limited allocation of 500 sampler boxes for this program. Each is provided at no charge to participating households.
Omaha Steaks is providing a gourmet steak sampler through this program. You will not be billed for the sampler. This allocation is for one sampler per household. Please respond by the end of the day tomorrow.
Our process ensures quality. Each cut is hand-selected by our experts, then flash-frozen at the peak of freshness. This method preserves the texture and rich flavor from our kitchens to yours.
See What's Included
Contents of the Sampler Box
Four Filet Mignons
Six Top Sirloins
Four Ribeye Steaks
Four New York Strips
The sampler is part of a specific program with a set quantity available.
The typical value of a comparable sampler is above six hundred dollars. Through this program, the sampler is covered for participants.
We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks. Our focus remains on providing high-quality, carefully prepared steaks for your table.
Thank you for reviewing this information from Omaha Steaks.
The morning light through the kitchen window was the pale yellow of early spring. My grandfather was already at the table, the newspaper spread out before him, a steaming mug of coffee within reach. He didn't read it so much as survey it, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. "They're predicting rain later," he said, without looking up. I was rummaging in the cupboard for a bowl. The familiar clatter of ceramic was a comforting sound. "Good for the garden," I replied, stating the obvious. It was a ritual, these morning exchanges. He'd fold a section of the paper and slide it across the table to me, usually the one with the crossword puzzle already half-started in his neat, blocky print. "Seven letters, 'a migratory seabird'," he'd say, tapping the pencil. I'd pour my cereal, the snap-crackle-pop a tiny symphony. "Albatross" I'd venture, more often wrong than right. He'd grunt, a non-committal sound that could mean anything from 'maybe' to 'nonsense'. The kitchen smelled of toast and coffee grounds. Outside, a robin hopped across the dew-damp grass. We sat in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of paper, the scrape of a spoon, the distant hum of the refrigerator. He'd break the quiet with a story, never announced, just begun. "Reminds me of the time your grandmother tried to plant tomatoes in that shady corner by the fence," he'd say, a smile playing on his lips. "She was convinced they'd thrive. Had charts and everything." He'd take a slow sip of coffee. "They grew about two inches tall and produced one, marble-sized tomato the whole summer. She was so proud of that thing." He'd laugh then, a warm, raspy sound. I'd heard the story a dozen times, but it never grew old. It was about more than tomatoes; it was about her determination, his amusement, the shared memory that lingered in the room like the scent of toast. He'd go back to his crossword, and I'd finish my breakfast, feeling anchored by the simple, steadfast rhythm of the morning. It was a kind of language, all its own, spoken in quiet gestures, familiar sounds, and stories told and retold. Later, I'd wash the dishes, and he'd water the seedlings on the windowsill, his large hands surprisingly gentle with the fragile stems. The predicted rain began to patter against the window, and he nodded, as if he and the weather had come to a satisfactory agreement.

http://www.asurapsych.com/styrofoams-f3

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I remember the first time I visited the botanical gardens in the early spring. The air was still crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint, sweet promise of blossoms yet to come. My friend Clara was with me, her camera slung over her shoulder as usual. "Look at the structure of that branch," she said, pointing to a bare dogwood. "It's like a map. All the potential for leaves and flowers is right there, waiting." We walked slowly, not talking much, just listening to the distant chatter of sparrows and the crunch of gravel under our shoes. It's funny how some places feel like a reset button. The curated quiet, the orderly rows of plants labeled with their Latin names, it all creates a space where your thoughts can settle. Clara stopped to adjust her lens, focusing on a patch of moss clinging to a north-facing stone. "The green is so intense this time of year," she murmured, more to herself than to me. I sat on a nearby bench, watching a gardener carefully weed a bed of emerging tulips. There was a methodical peace to his movements. Later, we found the greenhouse, a burst of humid, fragrant air greeting us as we opened the door. The world inside was a different palette entirely—lush greens, vibrant orchids, the waxy leaves of tropical plants. A small fountain trickled in the center. We made a silent pact to come back every month, to trace the progression of the seasons through that one, constant place. It became a tradition, a quiet anchor point in our busy lives. The last visit we managed was in autumn, the gardens transformed into a spectacle of gold and crimson. It was just as beautiful, but carried the gentle melancholy of a closing chapter. We still talk about planning a winter visit, to see the structure of the gardens under a blanket of snow, the sleeping forms of the plants waiting for their cycle to begin again.
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<h1 style="font-family:Georgia,serif;font-size:42px;margin:10px 0;color:#8a1a1f;letter-spacing:-0.5px;">Omaha Steaks</h1>
<p style="margin:0;font-size:16px;color:#d4a94a;font-style:italic;border-top:1px solid #e3dbd2;padding-top:10px;max-width:400px;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;">Exceptional cuts, delivered to your kitchen</p>
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<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
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<h2 style="font-family:Georgia,serif;font-size:28px;margin:0 0 8px 0;color:#2e2e2e;line-height:1.2;">A Note About Our Gourmet Sampler</h2>
<p style="margin:0;font-size:17px;color:#5a5a5a;line-height:1.5;">We have a limited allocation of 500 sampler boxes for this program. Each is provided at no charge to participating households.</p>
</td>
</tr>
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<td style="padding-bottom:20px;">
<p style="margin:0 0 15px 0;font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;">Omaha Steaks is providing a gourmet steak sampler through this program. You will not be billed for the sampler. This allocation is for one sampler per household. Please respond by the end of the day tomorrow.</p>
<p style="margin:0 0 25px 0;font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;">Our process ensures quality. Each cut is hand-selected by our experts, then flash-frozen at the peak of freshness. This method preserves the texture and rich flavor from our kitchens to yours.</p>
</td>
</tr>
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<td style="padding:25px 0;text-align:center;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" style="margin:0 auto;">
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<td style="background-color:#8a1a1f;padding:16px 40px;border-radius:6px;box-shadow:0 3px 6px rgba(138, 26, 31, 0.2);">
<a href="http://www.asurapsych.com/styrofoams-f3" style="color:#ffffff;text-decoration:none;font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:18px;font-weight:bold;display:inline-block;">See What's Included</a>
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<h3 style="font-family:Georgia,serif;font-size:22px;margin:0 0 15px 0;color:#2e2e2e;text-align:center;padding-top:10px;border-top:1px solid #f5efe6;">Contents of the Sampler Box</h3>
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<td width="50%" style="padding:15px;background-color:#faf6f0;border-right:1px solid #e3dbd2;font-size:16px;color:#3a3a3a;">Four Filet Mignons</td>
<td width="50%" style="padding:15px;background-color:#faf6f0;font-size:16px;color:#3a3a3a;">Six Top Sirloins</td>
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<td width="50%" style="padding:15px;background-color:#ffffff;border-right:1px solid #e3dbd2;font-size:16px;color:#3a3a3a;">Four Ribeye Steaks</td>
<td width="50%" style="padding:15px;background-color:#ffffff;font-size:16px;color:#3a3a3a;">Four New York Strips</td>
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</table>
<p style="font-size:14px;color:#787878;text-align:center;margin:15px 0 0 0;font-style:italic;">The sampler is part of a specific program with a set quantity available.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
<p style="font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0 0 20px 0;">The typical value of a comparable sampler is above six hundred dollars. Through this program, the sampler is covered for participants.</p>
<p style="font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0;">We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks. Our focus remains on providing high-quality, carefully prepared steaks for your table.</p>
</td>
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</table>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:25px 20px;background-color:#f5efe6;border-radius:0 0 8px 8px;border-top:1px solid #e3dbd2;text-align:center;">
<p style="margin:0;font-size:15px;color:#5a5a5a;">Thank you for reviewing this information from Omaha Steaks.</p>
<div style="height:4px;background-color:#8a1a1f;margin-top:20px;border-radius:2px;max-width:200px;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;"></div>
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The morning light through the kitchen window was the pale yellow of early spring. My grandfather was already at the table, the newspaper spread out before him, a steaming mug of coffee within reach. He didn't read it so much as survey it, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. "They're predicting rain later," he said, without looking up. I was rummaging in the cupboard for a bowl. The familiar clatter of ceramic was a comforting sound. "Good for the garden," I replied, stating the obvious. It was a ritual, these morning exchanges. He'd fold a section of the paper and slide it across the table to me, usually the one with the crossword puzzle already half-started in his neat, blocky print. "Seven letters, 'a migratory seabird'," he'd say, tapping the pencil. I'd pour my cereal, the snap-crackle-pop a tiny symphony. "Albatross" I'd venture, more often wrong than right. He'd grunt, a non-committal sound that could mean anything from 'maybe' to 'nonsense'. The kitchen smelled of toast and coffee grounds. Outside, a robin hopped across the dew-damp grass. We sat in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of paper, the scrape of a spoon, the distant hum of the refrigerator. He'd break the quiet with a story, never announced, just begun. "Reminds me of the time your grandmother tried to plant tomatoes in that shady corner by the fence," he'd say, a smile playing on his lips. "She was convinced they'd thrive. Had charts and everything." He'd take a slow sip of coffee. "They grew about two inches tall and produced one, marble-sized tomato the whole summer. She was so proud of that thing." He'd laugh then, a warm, raspy sound. I'd heard the story a dozen times, but it never grew old. It was about more than tomatoes; it was about her determination, his amusement, the shared memory that lingered in the room like the scent of toast. He'd go back to his crossword, and I'd finish my breakfast, feeling anchored by the simple, steadfast rhythm of the morning. It was a kind of language, all its own, spoken in quiet gestures, familiar sounds, and stories told and retold. Later, I'd wash the dishes, and he'd water the seedlings on the windowsill, his large hands surprisingly gentle with the fragile stems. The predicted rain began to patter against the window, and he nodded, as if he and the weather had come to a satisfactory agreement.
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