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From: Steak Sampler 0maha <ss06a@hihitomyum.com>
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Subject: 0maha-Steaks Is Giving You A Steak SampIer - 5OO Remain
To: bruce@untroubled.org
Date:  Tue, 6 Jan 2026 07:13:10 -0500
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The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the wooden floor. I stretched, listening to the distant hum of the city waking up. My cat, a gray tabby named Jasper, leaped onto the windowsill, his tail twitching at a sparrow on the fire escape. The coffee machine gurgled its familiar song, a sound that promised a slow, thoughtful start. I opened a notebook, the pages blank and full of potential. Today felt like a day for lists, for organizing thoughts that had been scattered like leaves in the wind. I considered the garden project, the one involving herbs and perhaps some tomatoes. The seed packets were in a drawer, their colorful illustrations a small burst of optimism. The neighbor's dog barked a cheerful hello to the postman. I could hear the faint sound of a violin from the apartment above, someone practicing scales with diligent patience. It was a Tuesday, ordinary in its rhythm, yet holding its own quiet charm. The air smelled of rain from the night before, clean and fresh. I thought about the book I was reading, a mystery set in a coastal village, and wondered if I'd have time to finish a chapter later. Jasper meowed, a demand for breakfast, breaking my reverie. The day awaited, simple and mine to shape.
Later, I met a friend at the park. We walked along the path that circled the pond, dodging enthusiastic joggers and families with strollers. We talked about everything and nothing: the peculiar shape of a cloud, a new recipe for lentil soup, the difficulty of finding a good mechanic. She told me about her pottery class, how the clay felt cool and solid in her hands, a tangible thing to mold from a lump into a form. I shared my frustration with a crossword puzzle from the weekend, a particularly elusive seven-letter word for "antique." Ducks quacked near the reeds, a noisy debate over a piece of bread. We found an empty bench and sat, watching the water ripple in the gentle breeze. The conversation drifted to childhood memories, of climbing trees and building forts from sofa cushions. It was easy, comfortable talk, the kind that refills your spirit without you noticing. We parted ways with a wave, promising to do it again soon. The walk home was slower, the afternoon sun warm on my shoulders. I passed the library and made a mental note to return my books. The ordinary threads of the day were weaving together into something that felt, quietly, like a good life.
OMAHA STEAKS
Premium cuts, delivered with precision
A Gourmet Sampler from Our Kitchen
We are providing a selection of our hand-cut steaks at no charge to a limited number of participants.
Omaha Steaks has allocated 500 gourmet sampler boxes for this program. Each sampler is provided at no charge to the recipient. This is a one-per-household allocation.
Our master butchers hand-select each cut, which is then flash-frozen at the peak of freshness to preserve its natural flavor and texture. This offer concludes Tomorrow.
See What's Included
Your Sampler Contents
The following cuts are included in the gourmet box. The typical value of this collection exceeds six hundred dollars.
Four Ribeye Steaks
Six Top Sirloin Steaks
Four New York Strip Steaks
Four Filet Mignon Steaks
Availability is based on the program's allocation.
We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks.
The old oak tree in the backyard was her favorite thinking spot. Its branches spread wide, creating a canopy of dappled shade. She'd bring a blanket and a novel, but often just ended up watching the ants march in their busy lines or listening to the chatter of squirrels. It was a place outside of time. Her grandfather had planted it decades ago, and she liked to imagine him as a young man, patting the soil around the slender sapling. Now it was strong enough to hold the swing he later added for her mother. The rope was frayed, the seat worn smooth, but it still swayed gently in the breeze. The smell was always the same here: damp earth, green leaves, and a hint of the wild mint that grew at the base of the fence. It was where she had her first serious conversation about life with her best friend, where she read letters from college, where she came to sort through confusing feelings. The tree was a silent witness, its leaves whispering secrets only it knew. She leaned against the rough bark, feeling the sun warm her face through the gaps in the foliage. A blue jay landed on a lower branch, scolding something unseen. This small patch of the world was a constant, an anchor. It reminded her that growth is slow and steady, that strength comes from deep roots, and that there is profound peace in simply being present. She closed her eyes, breathing in the calm. Later, she would go inside to the noise and tasks of the house, but for these few minutes, she was part of the tree's quiet, enduring story.
The community center's art room buzzed with a comfortable energy. The scent of clay and turpentine hung in the air. At one table, a group was learning watercolor techniques, their brushes making soft swishing sounds. At another, a man concentrated on a wood carving, his tools moving with careful precision. I was at the wheel, trying to center a lump of clay. It was harder than it looked, the wobble resisting my wet hands. The instructor, a patient woman named Elena, placed her hands over mine. "Feel the rhythm," she said. "Let it find its center with you, not against you." And slowly, the wobbling subsided. The clay became a smooth, spinning column. It was a small victory, but it felt monumental. Around the room, people were creating, some expertly, some clumsily, but all with focus. There was no competition, only the shared experience of making something from nothing. A teenager showed her glazed bowl, beaming with pride. An older gentleman shared stories of his garden, which inspired his paintings. The two hours passed in a flow, a break from screens and schedules. My vase was lopsided, thicker on one side, but it was mine. I etched a simple pattern around the rim with a needle tool. Elena nodded approval. "Character," she said with a smile. We cleaned our stations, talking about next week's project. Leaving, my hands still faintly dusty, I felt a sense of accomplishment that had nothing to do with email or deadlines. It was the satisfaction of a tangible, imperfect, human-made thing.

http://www.hihitomyum.com/vejivopukg

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The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the wooden floor. I stretched, listening to the distant hum of the city waking up. My cat, a gray tabby named Jasper, leaped onto the windowsill, his tail twitching at a sparrow on the fire escape. The coffee machine gurgled its familiar song, a sound that promised a slow, thoughtful start. I opened a notebook, the pages blank and full of potential. Today felt like a day for lists, for organizing thoughts that had been scattered like leaves in the wind. I considered the garden project, the one involving herbs and perhaps some tomatoes. The seed packets were in a drawer, their colorful illustrations a small burst of optimism. The neighbor's dog barked a cheerful hello to the postman. I could hear the faint sound of a violin from the apartment above, someone practicing scales with diligent patience. It was a Tuesday, ordinary in its rhythm, yet holding its own quiet charm. The air smelled of rain from the night before, clean and fresh. I thought about the book I was reading, a mystery set in a coastal village, and wondered if I'd have time to finish a chapter later. Jasper meowed, a demand for breakfast, breaking my reverie. The day awaited, simple and mine to shape.
<br><br>
Later, I met a friend at the park. We walked along the path that circled the pond, dodging enthusiastic joggers and families with strollers. We talked about everything and nothing: the peculiar shape of a cloud, a new recipe for lentil soup, the difficulty of finding a good mechanic. She told me about her pottery class, how the clay felt cool and solid in her hands, a tangible thing to mold from a lump into a form. I shared my frustration with a crossword puzzle from the weekend, a particularly elusive seven-letter word for "antique." Ducks quacked near the reeds, a noisy debate over a piece of bread. We found an empty bench and sat, watching the water ripple in the gentle breeze. The conversation drifted to childhood memories, of climbing trees and building forts from sofa cushions. It was easy, comfortable talk, the kind that refills your spirit without you noticing. We parted ways with a wave, promising to do it again soon. The walk home was slower, the afternoon sun warm on my shoulders. I passed the library and made a mental note to return my books. The ordinary threads of the day were weaving together into something that felt, quietly, like a good life.
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<div style="font-size:42px;font-weight:800;letter-spacing:-0.5px;color:#8a1c22;line-height:1;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">OMAHA STEAKS</div>
<div style="font-size:16px;color:#787878;margin-top:12px;letter-spacing:0.5px;font-style:italic;">Premium cuts, delivered with precision</div>
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</table>
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<td style="padding:40px 40px 32px;">
<table width="100%" role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0">
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<h1 style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:32px;line-height:1.2;color:#222222;margin:0 0 8px;">A Gourmet Sampler from Our Kitchen</h1>
<p style="font-size:18px;line-height:1.5;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0;">We are providing a selection of our hand-cut steaks at no charge to a limited number of participants.</p>
</td>
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<td style="padding-top:32px;">
<p style="font-size:17px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0 0 20px;">Omaha Steaks has allocated 500 gourmet sampler boxes for this program. Each sampler is provided at no charge to the recipient. This is a one-per-household allocation.</p>
<p style="font-size:17px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0 0 28px;">Our master butchers hand-select each cut, which is then flash-frozen at the peak of freshness to preserve its natural flavor and texture. This offer concludes Tomorrow.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="center" style="padding-bottom:40px;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" style="background-color:#8a1c22;border-radius:6px;box-shadow:0 3px 6px rgba(138, 28, 34, 0.2);">
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<a href="http://www.hihitomyum.com/vejivopukg" style="font-size:18px;font-weight:bold;color:#ffffff;text-decoration:none;display:inline-block;line-height:52px;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">See What's Included</a>
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<h2 style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:24px;color:#222222;margin:0 0 20px;padding-bottom:12px;border-bottom:1px dashed #cfc6bd;">Your Sampler Contents</h2>
<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0 0 24px;">The following cuts are included in the gourmet box. The typical value of this collection exceeds six hundred dollars.</p>
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<div style="font-size:17px;color:#3a3a3a;">Four Ribeye Steaks</div>
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<div style="font-size:17px;color:#3a3a3a;">Six Top Sirloin Steaks</div>
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<div style="font-size:17px;color:#3a3a3a;">Four New York Strip Steaks</div>
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<div style="font-size:17px;color:#3a3a3a;">Four Filet Mignon Steaks</div>
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</table>
</td>
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<p style="font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;color:#787878;font-style:italic;margin:24px 0 0;">Availability is based on the program's allocation.</p>
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<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0 0 20px;text-align:center;">We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks.</p>
<div style="height:4px;background-color:#7c171d;border-radius:2px;width:120px;margin:0 auto;"></div>
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The old oak tree in the backyard was her favorite thinking spot. Its branches spread wide, creating a canopy of dappled shade. She'd bring a blanket and a novel, but often just ended up watching the ants march in their busy lines or listening to the chatter of squirrels. It was a place outside of time. Her grandfather had planted it decades ago, and she liked to imagine him as a young man, patting the soil around the slender sapling. Now it was strong enough to hold the swing he later added for her mother. The rope was frayed, the seat worn smooth, but it still swayed gently in the breeze. The smell was always the same here: damp earth, green leaves, and a hint of the wild mint that grew at the base of the fence. It was where she had her first serious conversation about life with her best friend, where she read letters from college, where she came to sort through confusing feelings. The tree was a silent witness, its leaves whispering secrets only it knew. She leaned against the rough bark, feeling the sun warm her face through the gaps in the foliage. A blue jay landed on a lower branch, scolding something unseen. This small patch of the world was a constant, an anchor. It reminded her that growth is slow and steady, that strength comes from deep roots, and that there is profound peace in simply being present. She closed her eyes, breathing in the calm. Later, she would go inside to the noise and tasks of the house, but for these few minutes, she was part of the tree's quiet, enduring story.
<br><br>
The community center's art room buzzed with a comfortable energy. The scent of clay and turpentine hung in the air. At one table, a group was learning watercolor techniques, their brushes making soft swishing sounds. At another, a man concentrated on a wood carving, his tools moving with careful precision. I was at the wheel, trying to center a lump of clay. It was harder than it looked, the wobble resisting my wet hands. The instructor, a patient woman named Elena, placed her hands over mine. "Feel the rhythm," she said. "Let it find its center with you, not against you." And slowly, the wobbling subsided. The clay became a smooth, spinning column. It was a small victory, but it felt monumental. Around the room, people were creating, some expertly, some clumsily, but all with focus. There was no competition, only the shared experience of making something from nothing. A teenager showed her glazed bowl, beaming with pride. An older gentleman shared stories of his garden, which inspired his paintings. The two hours passed in a flow, a break from screens and schedules. My vase was lopsided, thicker on one side, but it was mine. I etched a simple pattern around the rim with a needle tool. Elena nodded approval. "Character," she said with a smile. We cleaned our stations, talking about next week's project. Leaving, my hands still faintly dusty, I felt a sense of accomplishment that had nothing to do with email or deadlines. It was the satisfaction of a tangible, imperfect, human-made thing.
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