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From: Omaha Steak Samplers <oss6x@edguenuity.com>
Reply-To: oss6x42@edguenuity.com
To:  bruce@untroubled.org
Subject: 0maha-Steaks: A Steak SampIer - OnIy 500 Remain
Date: Fri, 12 Dec 2025 10:53:52 -0500
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The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the workshop floor. Alex wiped his hands on a cloth, surveying the nearly finished piece. It was a simple bookshelf, but the grain of the oak had turned out beautifully. He could hear the neighbor's dog barking in the distance, a familiar sound that marked the start of the afternoon. The smell of sawdust was always comforting, a scent that meant progress and creation. He thought about the book he was reading last night, a mystery set in a coastal town. The protagonist was a gardener who solved crimes, an unlikely but interesting combination. The plot was thickening around a missing heirloom rose. Alex made a mental note to pick up some more sandpaper on his way home later. The radio in the corner played a soft jazz tune, the trumpet solo winding its way through the steady rhythm of the bass. He hummed along, not knowing the name of the song but enjoying its melody. Outside, a delivery truck rumbled down the street, pausing at a house a few doors down. He watched as the driver carried a large box to the porch, rang the bell, and left with a wave. The simple routines of the neighborhood were a kind of quiet music themselves. He stretched his back, feeling the satisfying pull of muscles after focused work. The next step was applying the finish, which required a clean, dust-free environment. He began sweeping the floor carefully, making sure every wood shaving was collected. The process was methodical, almost meditative. His cat, Whiskers, wandered in and sat in a square of sunlight, watching the broom move back and forth. The phone rang in the other room, but he let it go to the answering machine. It was probably his sister, calling to finalize plans for the weekend hike they had discussed. The weather was supposed to be clear, perfect for a trail they hadn't tried before. He looked forward to the fresh air and the view from the summit. Finishing the sweep, he put the broom away and checked the time. There was still a good couple of hours before he needed to start thinking about dinner. He decided to make a quick cup of tea first, letting the wood settle before the final stage. The kettle whistled a cheerful tune, a sound that promised a brief, warm respite.
OMAHA STEAKS
Exceptional cuts, delivered to your kitchen
A Gourmet Sampler for You
Omaha Steaks has allocated 500 gourmet sampler boxes for this program. Each sampler is provided at no charge to the participant. This is one sampler per household. Please respond by the end of the day Tomorrow.
See What's Included
Our master butchers prepare each cut by hand, selecting for marbling and texture. Each selection is then flash-frozen at the peak of freshness to preserve its quality and flavor for your table. The sampler is provided with no payment required if you are selected.
Your Sampler Contents
Four Filet Mignons
Six Top Sirloins
Four Ribeye Steaks
Four New York Strip Steaks
The availability of samplers is based on the program's current allocation.
We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks.
The park was especially quiet for a Tuesday. Maria found her usual bench, the one near the old oak tree with the gnarled roots. She opened her sketchbook, the blank page a welcome challenge. Today she wanted to capture the way the light played on the pond's surface, creating a shimmering, ever-changing pattern. A few ducks paddled lazily, leaving gentle V-shaped ripples in their wake. She selected a charcoal pencil, its familiar weight comfortable in her hand. The first strokes were light, mapping out the basic shapes of the landscape. She could hear the faint sounds of the city beyond the park walls, a distant hum of traffic, but here it felt separate, insulated. A jogger passed by, nodding a brief hello. Maria nodded back, then returned her focus to the water. She remembered her grandmother teaching her to draw, patient lessons at the kitchen table. They would sketch fruit from a bowl, the curves of an apple, the textured skin of an orange. Her grandmother always said the key was to see the shadows, not just the object. That advice had stuck with her through the years. A breeze picked up, rustling the pages of her sketchbook. She held them down, enjoying the cool air on her face. The seasons were beginning to turn, the green of the leaves deepening toward summer's fullness. She thought about the community art show coming up next month. She hadn't decided what to submit yet. Perhaps this sketch, if it turned out well, could be a contender. It would need a lot more work, of course. Adding the details, the depth, the feeling of the calm water. She switched to a softer pencil to darken the shadows under the tree line. The process absorbed her, the world narrowing to the page and the scene before her. Time had a way of slipping away during these sessions. Her phone buzzed in her bag, a gentle reminder that she had a meeting later in the afternoon. She ignored it for a few more minutes, adding some finer details to the reeds at the water's edge. Finally, she closed the sketchbook with a sense of quiet satisfaction. It was a good start. She packed her pencils away, stood up, and stretched. The walk home would be pleasant, taking the path that wound through the rose garden. She looked forward to seeing which blooms had opened since yesterday. The simple rituals of the day, the drawing, the walking, provided a steady rhythm that she cherished. It was these small, consistent practices that built a life, she thought. Not the grand events, but the quiet Tuesday afternoons in the park.

http://www.edguenuity.com/scrawls

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The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the workshop floor. Alex wiped his hands on a cloth, surveying the nearly finished piece. It was a simple bookshelf, but the grain of the oak had turned out beautifully. He could hear the neighbor's dog barking in the distance, a familiar sound that marked the start of the afternoon. The smell of sawdust was always comforting, a scent that meant progress and creation. He thought about the book he was reading last night, a mystery set in a coastal town. The protagonist was a gardener who solved crimes, an unlikely but interesting combination. The plot was thickening around a missing heirloom rose. Alex made a mental note to pick up some more sandpaper on his way home later. The radio in the corner played a soft jazz tune, the trumpet solo winding its way through the steady rhythm of the bass. He hummed along, not knowing the name of the song but enjoying its melody. Outside, a delivery truck rumbled down the street, pausing at a house a few doors down. He watched as the driver carried a large box to the porch, rang the bell, and left with a wave. The simple routines of the neighborhood were a kind of quiet music themselves. He stretched his back, feeling the satisfying pull of muscles after focused work. The next step was applying the finish, which required a clean, dust-free environment. He began sweeping the floor carefully, making sure every wood shaving was collected. The process was methodical, almost meditative. His cat, Whiskers, wandered in and sat in a square of sunlight, watching the broom move back and forth. The phone rang in the other room, but he let it go to the answering machine. It was probably his sister, calling to finalize plans for the weekend hike they had discussed. The weather was supposed to be clear, perfect for a trail they hadn't tried before. He looked forward to the fresh air and the view from the summit. Finishing the sweep, he put the broom away and checked the time. There was still a good couple of hours before he needed to start thinking about dinner. He decided to make a quick cup of tea first, letting the wood settle before the final stage. The kettle whistled a cheerful tune, a sound that promised a brief, warm respite.
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<h1 style="margin:0;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:42px;color:#8a1c22;letter-spacing:-0.5px;line-height:1;">OMAHA STEAKS</h1>
<p style="margin:5px 0 0;font-size:15px;color:#6a6a6a;font-style:italic;letter-spacing:0.5px;">Exceptional cuts, delivered to your kitchen</p>
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<td style="padding:30px 20px;background-color:#ffffff;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
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<h2 style="margin:0 0 10px 0;font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:28px;color:#2e2e2e;line-height:1.2;">A Gourmet Sampler for You</h2>
<p style="margin:0;font-size:16px;color:#5a5a5a;line-height:1.5;">Omaha Steaks has allocated 500 gourmet sampler boxes for this program. Each sampler is provided at no charge to the participant. This is one sampler per household. Please respond by the end of the day Tomorrow.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</td>
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<a href="http://www.edguenuity.com/scrawls" style="background-color:#c9a03a;color:#ffffff;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:18px;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;padding:16px 40px;border-radius:6px;display:inline-block;box-shadow:0 3px 8px rgba(201, 160, 58, 0.3);mso-padding-alt:0;">
<span style="color:#ffffff;">See What's Included</span>
</a>
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<td style="padding:0 20px 30px;">
<p style="margin:0 0 20px 0;font-size:16px;color:#3a3a3a;line-height:1.6;">Our master butchers prepare each cut by hand, selecting for marbling and texture. Each selection is then flash-frozen at the peak of freshness to preserve its quality and flavor for your table. The sampler is provided with no payment required if you are selected.</p>
<div style="background-color:#faf6f0;border:1px solid #d8cec2;border-radius:6px;padding:25px;margin:25px 0;">
<h3 style="margin-top:0;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:22px;color:#8a1c22;text-align:center;">Your Sampler Contents</h3>
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<td style="padding:10px 15px;border-bottom:1px dashed #d8cec2;">Four Filet Mignons</td>
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<td style="padding:10px 15px;border-bottom:1px dashed #d8cec2;">Six Top Sirloins</td>
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<td width="50%" style="vertical-align:top;padding:5px;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
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<td style="padding:10px 15px;border-bottom:1px dashed #d8cec2;">Four Ribeye Steaks</td>
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<td style="padding:10px 15px;">Four New York Strip Steaks</td>
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</table>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</div>
<p style="margin:20px 0 0;font-size:14px;color:#787878;font-style:italic;text-align:center;">The availability of samplers is based on the program's current allocation.</p>
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<td style="padding:30px 20px;background-color:#faf6f0;border-top:1px solid #e3dbd2;border-radius:0 0 8px 8px;">
<p style="margin:0;text-align:center;font-size:15px;color:#5a5a5a;line-height:1.5;">We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks.</p>
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<div style="font-size:8px;line-height:10px;color:#f0e8dc;font-family:Arial;margin-top:20px;text-align:center;">
The park was especially quiet for a Tuesday. Maria found her usual bench, the one near the old oak tree with the gnarled roots. She opened her sketchbook, the blank page a welcome challenge. Today she wanted to capture the way the light played on the pond's surface, creating a shimmering, ever-changing pattern. A few ducks paddled lazily, leaving gentle V-shaped ripples in their wake. She selected a charcoal pencil, its familiar weight comfortable in her hand. The first strokes were light, mapping out the basic shapes of the landscape. She could hear the faint sounds of the city beyond the park walls, a distant hum of traffic, but here it felt separate, insulated. A jogger passed by, nodding a brief hello. Maria nodded back, then returned her focus to the water. She remembered her grandmother teaching her to draw, patient lessons at the kitchen table. They would sketch fruit from a bowl, the curves of an apple, the textured skin of an orange. Her grandmother always said the key was to see the shadows, not just the object. That advice had stuck with her through the years. A breeze picked up, rustling the pages of her sketchbook. She held them down, enjoying the cool air on her face. The seasons were beginning to turn, the green of the leaves deepening toward summer's fullness. She thought about the community art show coming up next month. She hadn't decided what to submit yet. Perhaps this sketch, if it turned out well, could be a contender. It would need a lot more work, of course. Adding the details, the depth, the feeling of the calm water. She switched to a softer pencil to darken the shadows under the tree line. The process absorbed her, the world narrowing to the page and the scene before her. Time had a way of slipping away during these sessions. Her phone buzzed in her bag, a gentle reminder that she had a meeting later in the afternoon. She ignored it for a few more minutes, adding some finer details to the reeds at the water's edge. Finally, she closed the sketchbook with a sense of quiet satisfaction. It was a good start. She packed her pencils away, stood up, and stretched. The walk home would be pleasant, taking the path that wound through the rose garden. She looked forward to seeing which blooms had opened since yesterday. The simple rituals of the day, the drawing, the walking, provided a steady rhythm that she cherished. It was these small, consistent practices that built a life, she thought. Not the grand events, but the quiet Tuesday afternoons in the park.
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</body>
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