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From: Steak Sampler Omaha <steak-flow@getmstbstack.com>
Reply-To: steak-flow@getmstbstack.com
Subject: 0maha-Steaks Is Giving You A Steak SampIer - OnIy 500 Left - Get It Today
To:  bruce@untroubled.org
Date:  Tue, 20 Jan 2026 16:56:15 -0500
Message-ID:  <VKx8LFLC_nk@mail.getmstbstack.com>
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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 beginning its day. My cat, a gray tabby named Mochi, leaped onto the windowsill, her tail twitching at a sparrow on the fire escape. The routine was comforting. I filled the kettle, the sound of water hitting metal a familiar prelude. Outside, a neighbor called a greeting to the postal worker. I thought about the book I was reading, a historical novel set in a coastal village. The author described the smell of salt and pine so vividly I could almost feel the mist. Mochi chirped, a strange sound she makes when particularly intrigued. The kettle began its whistle, a rising note that broke my reverie. I poured the water over the tea leaves, watching them swirl and unfurl in the ceramic pot. The aroma of bergamot filled the kitchen. I carried the cup to my small desk, moving a stack of gardening catalogs to the side. My notes for the weekend were there: prune the rosemary, check the soil pH for the hydrangeas. The quiet of the apartment was a blanket. I could hear the faint melody of a piano from somewhere in the building, someone practicing scales with deliberate, patient repetition. It was a piece I didn't recognize, something classical and melancholic. Mochi abandoned the window and curled around my ankles, purring like a small engine. I scratched behind her ears, and she closed her eyes in bliss. The day ahead was open, a canvas of small possibilities. A walk in the park, perhaps, if the rain held off. The clouds were gathering, but they were the fluffy, white kind that often passed without incident. I made a mental note to finally organize the shelf in the hall closet. It had become a repository for winter scarves and forgotten board games. The piano music stopped, and in the silence, the hum of the refrigerator seemed louder. It was a peaceful, ordinary morning, the kind that forms the bedrock of memory without announcing its importance. I took a sip of tea, savoring the warmth.
Omaha Steaks
Premium cuts, delivered to your kitchen
A Gourmet Sampler from Our Kitchen
We are providing a selection of our hand-selected 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 limited to one sampler per household. Please note this allocation ends Tomorrow.
Our process ensures quality: each cut is individually selected by our experts and immediately flash-frozen to preserve its natural flavor and texture from our facility to you.
See What's Included
Your Sampler Contents
Four Filet Mignons
Four Ribeye Steaks
Four New York Strip Steaks
Six Top Sirloin Steaks
The sampler is filled according to program availability.
This curated assortment represents a selection we are pleased to share. The sampler is provided with no payment required from participants.
We invite you to review the details of this sampler offer.
Thank you for your interest in Omaha Steaks.
Omaha SteaksThis is a service announcement. Please contact us with any questions.
The park was particularly green after the spring rains. I found my usual bench, the one near the old oak tree, and sat down with a sigh. The air was cool and carried the scent of damp earth and blooming lilacs. Joggers passed by in a steady rhythm, their footsteps a soft percussion on the paved path. A group of children played tag near the playground, their laughter ringing out like clear bells. I watched a man with a sketchbook across the lawn, his hand moving quickly over the paper, capturing the scene. My thoughts drifted to the conversation I'd had with my sister last night. We'd talked about our childhood summers spent at our grandparents' lake house. The memory of the wooden dock, warm under our feet, and the endless afternoons of swimming came back with surprising clarity. She remembered the way our grandfather would whistle while he grilled burgers, a specific two-note tune I had forgotten until she hummed it. It's strange how shared memories live in fragments, each person holding a different piece of the puzzle. A squirrel scampered up the oak tree, pausing to look at me with bright, curious eyes. I wondered if it remembered where it had buried its nuts last autumn. The sketchbook man packed up his things and left, leaving an empty space on the grass. The children's game had evolved into something involving a jump rope, the rhythmic slap of the rope on the ground adding to the park's soundtrack. I thought about the book in my bag, but I was content just to observe. An older couple walked slowly along the path, arm in arm, stopping to examine the flowers in a planted bed. Their quiet companionship was a portrait in itself. The sun broke through the clouds for a moment, warming my face, before retreating again. It was a simple afternoon, devoid of grand events, yet full of small, observable life. The details were what mattered: the pattern of light through the leaves, the specific shade of purple in the lilacs, the determined focus of the squirrel. These moments stitch together to form the fabric of a day, a week, a life. I stood up, brushing a few stray leaves from my coat. The walk home felt shorter, my mind quiet and settled. The ordinary beauty of the park had done its work, a gentle reminder to look and listen.

http://www.getmstbstack.com/wqekpi3

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</head>
<body style="margin:0;padding:20px 0;background-color:#f8f4ec;font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;color:#2e2e2e;">
<div style="display:none;font-size:1px;color:#ffffff;line-height:1px;font-family:Arial;max-height:0px;max-width:0px;opacity:0;overflow:hidden;mso-hide:all;">
The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the wooden floor. I stretched, listening to the distant hum of the city beginning its day. My cat, a gray tabby named Mochi, leaped onto the windowsill, her tail twitching at a sparrow on the fire escape. The routine was comforting. I filled the kettle, the sound of water hitting metal a familiar prelude. Outside, a neighbor called a greeting to the postal worker. I thought about the book I was reading, a historical novel set in a coastal village. The author described the smell of salt and pine so vividly I could almost feel the mist. Mochi chirped, a strange sound she makes when particularly intrigued. The kettle began its whistle, a rising note that broke my reverie. I poured the water over the tea leaves, watching them swirl and unfurl in the ceramic pot. The aroma of bergamot filled the kitchen. I carried the cup to my small desk, moving a stack of gardening catalogs to the side. My notes for the weekend were there: prune the rosemary, check the soil pH for the hydrangeas. The quiet of the apartment was a blanket. I could hear the faint melody of a piano from somewhere in the building, someone practicing scales with deliberate, patient repetition. It was a piece I didn't recognize, something classical and melancholic. Mochi abandoned the window and curled around my ankles, purring like a small engine. I scratched behind her ears, and she closed her eyes in bliss. The day ahead was open, a canvas of small possibilities. A walk in the park, perhaps, if the rain held off. The clouds were gathering, but they were the fluffy, white kind that often passed without incident. I made a mental note to finally organize the shelf in the hall closet. It had become a repository for winter scarves and forgotten board games. The piano music stopped, and in the silence, the hum of the refrigerator seemed louder. It was a peaceful, ordinary morning, the kind that forms the bedrock of memory without announcing its importance. I took a sip of tea, savoring the warmth.
</div>
<center>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%" style="max-width:600px;margin:0 auto;background-color:#ffffff;border-radius:12px;overflow:hidden;box-shadow:0 4px 12px rgba(0,0,0,0.05);">
<tr>
<td style="padding:32px 40px 24px;text-align:center;border-bottom:1px solid #e3dbd2;">
<div style="font-size:42px;font-weight:700;letter-spacing:-0.5px;color:#8a1c22;line-height:1;margin-bottom:8px;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Omaha Steaks</div>
<div style="font-size:15px;color:#787878;letter-spacing:0.5px;margin-top:4px;">Premium cuts, delivered to your kitchen</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:40px 40px 32px;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom:24px;border-left:4px solid #c19a4a;padding-left:20px;">
<h1 style="font-size:28px;line-height:1.3;color:#222222;margin:0 0 8px 0;font-weight:700;">A Gourmet Sampler from Our Kitchen</h1>
<p style="font-size:17px;line-height:1.5;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0;">We are providing a selection of our hand-selected steaks at no charge to a limited number of participants.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom:32px;">
<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0 0 16px 0;">Omaha Steaks has allocated 500 gourmet sampler boxes for this program. Each sampler is provided at no charge to the recipient. This is limited to one sampler per household. Please note this allocation ends Tomorrow.</p>
<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0;">Our process ensures quality: each cut is individually selected by our experts and immediately flash-frozen to preserve its natural flavor and texture from our facility to you.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom:40px;text-align:center;">
<a href="http://www.getmstbstack.com/wqekpi3" style="background-color:#8a1c22;color:#ffffff;text-decoration:none;font-weight:bold;font-size:18px;padding:18px 48px;border-radius:8px;display:inline-block;box-shadow:0 3px 8px rgba(138, 28, 34, 0.2);">See What's Included</a>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom:24px;">
<h2 style="font-size:22px;color:#222222;margin:0 0 20px 0;font-weight:600;text-align:center;">Your Sampler Contents</h2>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%" style="border:1px solid #d8cec4;border-radius:8px;overflow:hidden;">
<tr>
<td width="50%" style="padding:20px;border-right:1px solid #f0ebe5;background-color:#fcf9f5;vertical-align:top;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#3a3a3a;font-size:16px;line-height:1.8;">
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Four Filet Mignons</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Four Ribeye Steaks</li>
</ul>
</td>
<td width="50%" style="padding:20px;background-color:#fcf9f5;vertical-align:top;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#3a3a3a;font-size:16px;line-height:1.8;">
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Four New York Strip Steaks</li>
<li>Six Top Sirloin Steaks</li>
</ul>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p style="font-size:14px;color:#787878;text-align:center;margin-top:16px;font-style:italic;">The sampler is filled according to program availability.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
<p style="font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0 0 20px 0;text-align:center;">This curated assortment represents a selection we are pleased to share. The sampler is provided with no payment required from participants.</p>
<p style="font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0;text-align:center;">We invite you to review the details of this sampler offer.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:32px 40px;text-align:center;background-color:#faf6f0;border-top:1px solid #e3dbd2;">
<p style="font-size:14px;color:#5a5a5a;margin:0 0 12px 0;line-height:1.5;">Thank you for your interest in Omaha Steaks.</p>
<div style="height:4px;width:120px;background-color:#8a1c22;margin:20px auto;border-radius:2px;"></div>
<p style="font-size:12px;color:#787878;margin:20px 0 0 0;line-height:1.5;">Omaha Steaks<br>This is a service announcement. Please contact us with any questions.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</center>
<div style="font-size:8px;line-height:1.2;color:#f0e8dc;font-family:Arial;margin-top:30px;max-width:600px;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;">
The park was particularly green after the spring rains. I found my usual bench, the one near the old oak tree, and sat down with a sigh. The air was cool and carried the scent of damp earth and blooming lilacs. Joggers passed by in a steady rhythm, their footsteps a soft percussion on the paved path. A group of children played tag near the playground, their laughter ringing out like clear bells. I watched a man with a sketchbook across the lawn, his hand moving quickly over the paper, capturing the scene. My thoughts drifted to the conversation I'd had with my sister last night. We'd talked about our childhood summers spent at our grandparents' lake house. The memory of the wooden dock, warm under our feet, and the endless afternoons of swimming came back with surprising clarity. She remembered the way our grandfather would whistle while he grilled burgers, a specific two-note tune I had forgotten until she hummed it. It's strange how shared memories live in fragments, each person holding a different piece of the puzzle. A squirrel scampered up the oak tree, pausing to look at me with bright, curious eyes. I wondered if it remembered where it had buried its nuts last autumn. The sketchbook man packed up his things and left, leaving an empty space on the grass. The children's game had evolved into something involving a jump rope, the rhythmic slap of the rope on the ground adding to the park's soundtrack. I thought about the book in my bag, but I was content just to observe. An older couple walked slowly along the path, arm in arm, stopping to examine the flowers in a planted bed. Their quiet companionship was a portrait in itself. The sun broke through the clouds for a moment, warming my face, before retreating again. It was a simple afternoon, devoid of grand events, yet full of small, observable life. The details were what mattered: the pattern of light through the leaves, the specific shade of purple in the lilacs, the determined focus of the squirrel. These moments stitch together to form the fabric of a day, a week, a life. I stood up, brushing a few stray leaves from my coat. The walk home felt shorter, my mind quiet and settled. The ordinary beauty of the park had done its work, a gentle reminder to look and listen.
</div>
<img src="http://www.getmstbstack.com/open/YnJ1Y2VAdW50cm91YmxlZC5vcmc.png" width="1" height="1" style="display:none" alt="">
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