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Date: Sat, 10 Jan 2026 07:01:00 -0500
From: Steak Sampler Omaha <steaksampler@centrecrea.com>
Reply-To: steaksampler@centrecrea.com
To:  bruce@untroubled.org
Subject:  A Steak SampIer From 0maha-Steaks - OnIy 5OO Remain - Get It Today
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The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the wooden floor. I sat with my coffee, steam curling in the cool air, and watched a bird land on the fence post. It tilted its head, considering the garden below. My neighbor, Mr. Henderson, was already outside, tending to his rose bushes with a pair of large shears. He waved when he saw me at the window, and I gave a small nod in return. The quiet of the morning was a blanket, muffling the distant sounds of the city just beginning to stir. I thought about the book I was reading, a thick historical novel about shipbuilders in a coastal town. The author described the smell of salt and pine tar so vividly I could almost taste it. My cat, Jasper, leaped onto the windowsill, his tail twitching as he tracked the bird's movements. "Not today, buddy," I murmured, scratching behind his ears. He purred, a low rumble that vibrated against my hand. The phone rang, breaking the silence. It was my sister, her voice bright and cheerful. "I just had the most peculiar dream," she began, and launched into a story about flying over a landscape made entirely of quilted fabric. We talked for a while about nothing in particular, the easy back-and-forth of siblings who know each other's rhythms. After hanging up, I decided to tackle the pile of letters on the desk. Most were bills and catalogs, but one was a postcard from an old friend visiting the mountains. The picture showed a serene lake surrounded by towering pines. On the back, she had written about the hike to get there, the chill in the air, and the overwhelming silence. I propped it up against the lamp, a little window to somewhere else. Jasper had settled into a tight loaf on the sunny patch of floor, his eyes closed in contentment. The day stretched ahead, full of small, manageable tasks and the gentle promise of an evening walk. Sometimes, these quiet mornings felt like the most productive part of the whole week, a chance to gather thoughts before the world demanded its share of attention. The kettle began to whistle softly from the kitchen, a signal for a second cup. Getting up, I glanced once more at the garden. The bird was gone, but a butterfly now drifted lazily over the lavender.
OMAHA STEAKS
Premium cuts delivered to your kitchen
A Gourmet Sampler from Our Kitchen
Omaha Steaks is providing a gourmet sampler at no charge to participants. We have allocated 500 sampler boxes for this program. One sampler is available per household. This offer concludes Tomorrow.
Each cut in this sampler is hand-selected by our experts and immediately flash-frozen. This process preserves the texture and rich flavor from our facility directly to you. You will not be billed for the sampler box.
The contents of the sampler are listed for your review below.
See What's Included
Inside Your Sampler Box
Four Ribeye Steaks
Six Top Sirloin Steaks
Four New York Strip Steaks
Four Filet Mignon Steaks
The sampler is part of a limited program allocation. The typical value of a comparable box exceeds six hundred dollars.
We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks.
The workshop was cluttered but organized, a kind of chaos that made sense only to its owner. Ben ran his finger along the edge of the wooden shelf, feeling the smoothness of the sanded pine. He was building a small box, a gift for his niece's birthday. The design was simple, with dovetail joints he was still mastering. The radio played softly in the background, an old jazz station that crackled with static whenever the train passed by a few blocks over. He hummed along to a tune he didn't know the name of, focusing on the gentle back-and-forth motion of the sanding block. Outside, children's laughter floated from the nearby park. He paused to look out the window, watching a group of them chasing a dog that gleefully carried a bright blue frisbee. It reminded him of his own childhood summers, endless afternoons that smelled of cut grass and sunscreen. His phone buzzed on the workbench, a text from his friend Leo about going to see a film later in the week. He wiped his hands on his apron and typed a quick reply, agreeing to the time. The smell of the wood, sharp and clean, filled the small space. He picked up a chisel, checking its edge against the light. The tool felt comfortable, an extension of his hand after years of use. He thought about the history of the craft, the countless hands that had shaped wood into shelter, art, and utility. There was a patience to it that he loved, a slow conversation between the maker and the material. A car door slammed outside, followed by the familiar sound of his neighbor arriving home. He returned to the box, carefully marking the next cut with a sharp pencil. The sun had moved across the sky, and the light in the workshop was now a deep, golden hue, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. He decided to take a break and put the kettle on. As he waited for the water to boil, he leafed through a magazine about gardening, though he had only a small balcony of potted herbs. He dreamed of a larger space one day, with room for tomato plants and maybe a small fig tree. The whistle of the kettle brought him back. He poured the water over the tea leaves in his favorite mug, the one with a tiny chip on the handle. Sitting on the stool by the door, he sipped his tea and watched the street slowly settle into evening. The children had gone home, and the dog was now lying contentedly on a porch across the way. It was a good day, a productive and peaceful one. He finished his tea and went back to the workbench, ready to make the final few cuts before calling it a day. The music switched to a slow, bluesy number, and he nodded in time with the beat, completely absorbed in the simple, satisfying task at hand.

http://www.centrecrea.com/uris

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The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the wooden floor. I sat with my coffee, steam curling in the cool air, and watched a bird land on the fence post. It tilted its head, considering the garden below. My neighbor, Mr. Henderson, was already outside, tending to his rose bushes with a pair of large shears. He waved when he saw me at the window, and I gave a small nod in return. The quiet of the morning was a blanket, muffling the distant sounds of the city just beginning to stir. I thought about the book I was reading, a thick historical novel about shipbuilders in a coastal town. The author described the smell of salt and pine tar so vividly I could almost taste it. My cat, Jasper, leaped onto the windowsill, his tail twitching as he tracked the bird's movements. "Not today, buddy," I murmured, scratching behind his ears. He purred, a low rumble that vibrated against my hand. The phone rang, breaking the silence. It was my sister, her voice bright and cheerful. "I just had the most peculiar dream," she began, and launched into a story about flying over a landscape made entirely of quilted fabric. We talked for a while about nothing in particular, the easy back-and-forth of siblings who know each other's rhythms. After hanging up, I decided to tackle the pile of letters on the desk. Most were bills and catalogs, but one was a postcard from an old friend visiting the mountains. The picture showed a serene lake surrounded by towering pines. On the back, she had written about the hike to get there, the chill in the air, and the overwhelming silence. I propped it up against the lamp, a little window to somewhere else. Jasper had settled into a tight loaf on the sunny patch of floor, his eyes closed in contentment. The day stretched ahead, full of small, manageable tasks and the gentle promise of an evening walk. Sometimes, these quiet mornings felt like the most productive part of the whole week, a chance to gather thoughts before the world demanded its share of attention. The kettle began to whistle softly from the kitchen, a signal for a second cup. Getting up, I glanced once more at the garden. The bird was gone, but a butterfly now drifted lazily over the lavender.
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<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%" style="max-width:600px;margin:0 auto;background-color:#ffffff;border-radius:8px;overflow:hidden;box-shadow:0 4px 12px rgba(0,0,0,0.05);">
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<div style="font-size:42px;font-weight:bold;color:#8a1c22;letter-spacing:-0.5px;line-height:1;margin-bottom:8px;font-family:Georgia,serif;">OMAHA STEAKS</div>
<div style="font-size:16px;color:#787878;font-style:italic;padding-top:8px;border-top:2px solid #d4a94a;display:inline-block;margin-top:4px;">Premium cuts delivered to your kitchen</div>
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<h1 style="font-family:Georgia,serif;font-size:28px;color:#222222;margin:0 0 8px 0;line-height:1.3;">A Gourmet Sampler from Our Kitchen</h1>
<p style="font-size:17px;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0;line-height:1.5;">Omaha Steaks is providing a gourmet sampler at no charge to participants. We have allocated 500 sampler boxes for this program. One sampler is available per household. This offer concludes Tomorrow.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding-top:16px;padding-bottom:32px;">
<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0 0 16px 0;">Each cut in this sampler is hand-selected by our experts and immediately flash-frozen. This process preserves the texture and rich flavor from our facility directly to you. You will not be billed for the sampler box.</p>
<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0;">The contents of the sampler are listed for your review below.</p>
</td>
</tr>
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<td style="padding:32px 0;text-align:center;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
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<a href="http://www.centrecrea.com/uris" style="font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:18px;font-weight:bold;color:#ffffff;text-decoration:none;display:inline-block;letter-spacing:0.5px;">See What's Included</a>
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<h2 style="font-family:Georgia,serif;font-size:22px;color:#222222;margin:0 0 20px 0;padding-bottom:8px;border-bottom:1px solid #f0e9df;">Inside Your Sampler Box</h2>
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<td width="50%" valign="top" style="padding:0;vertical-align:top;">
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<td style="padding:14px 16px;background-color:#faf6f0;border:1px solid #e3dbd2;border-right-width:0.5px;border-bottom-width:0;font-size:16px;color:#3a3a3a;">Four Ribeye Steaks</td>
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<td style="padding:14px 16px;background-color:#ffffff;border:1px solid #e3dbd2;border-right-width:0.5px;border-bottom-width:0;font-size:16px;color:#3a3a3a;">Six Top Sirloin Steaks</td>
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<td style="padding:14px 16px;background-color:#ffffff;border:1px solid #e3dbd2;border-left-width:0.5px;font-size:16px;color:#3a3a3a;">Four Filet Mignon Steaks</td>
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</table>
<p style="font-size:14px;color:#787878;font-style:italic;margin:16px 0 0 0;padding:12px;background-color:#fbf9f5;border-radius:4px;">The sampler is part of a limited program allocation. The typical value of a comparable box exceeds six hundred dollars.</p>
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</table>
</td>
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<td style="padding:32px 40px;text-align:center;background-color:#faf6f0;border-top:1px solid #e3dbd2;">
<p style="font-size:15px;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0 0 12px 0;line-height:1.5;">We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks.</p>
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The workshop was cluttered but organized, a kind of chaos that made sense only to its owner. Ben ran his finger along the edge of the wooden shelf, feeling the smoothness of the sanded pine. He was building a small box, a gift for his niece's birthday. The design was simple, with dovetail joints he was still mastering. The radio played softly in the background, an old jazz station that crackled with static whenever the train passed by a few blocks over. He hummed along to a tune he didn't know the name of, focusing on the gentle back-and-forth motion of the sanding block. Outside, children's laughter floated from the nearby park. He paused to look out the window, watching a group of them chasing a dog that gleefully carried a bright blue frisbee. It reminded him of his own childhood summers, endless afternoons that smelled of cut grass and sunscreen. His phone buzzed on the workbench, a text from his friend Leo about going to see a film later in the week. He wiped his hands on his apron and typed a quick reply, agreeing to the time. The smell of the wood, sharp and clean, filled the small space. He picked up a chisel, checking its edge against the light. The tool felt comfortable, an extension of his hand after years of use. He thought about the history of the craft, the countless hands that had shaped wood into shelter, art, and utility. There was a patience to it that he loved, a slow conversation between the maker and the material. A car door slammed outside, followed by the familiar sound of his neighbor arriving home. He returned to the box, carefully marking the next cut with a sharp pencil. The sun had moved across the sky, and the light in the workshop was now a deep, golden hue, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. He decided to take a break and put the kettle on. As he waited for the water to boil, he leafed through a magazine about gardening, though he had only a small balcony of potted herbs. He dreamed of a larger space one day, with room for tomato plants and maybe a small fig tree. The whistle of the kettle brought him back. He poured the water over the tea leaves in his favorite mug, the one with a tiny chip on the handle. Sitting on the stool by the door, he sipped his tea and watched the street slowly settle into evening. The children had gone home, and the dog was now lying contentedly on a porch across the way. It was a good day, a productive and peaceful one. He finished his tea and went back to the workbench, ready to make the final few cuts before calling it a day. The music switched to a slow, bluesy number, and he nodded in time with the beat, completely absorbed in the simple, satisfying task at hand.
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