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From: 0maha Omaha Steak <0maha@cheestempo.com>
Reply-To: 0maha@cheestempo.com
To:  bruce@untroubled.org
Date: Fri, 9 Jan 2026 08:49:30 -0500
Subject:  Get Your Steak SampIer From 0maha-Steaks - 500 Left Today
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The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the wooden floor. I sat with my coffee, the steam curling in the quiet air. Outside, a bird was trying out a new song, a series of short, inquisitive chirps followed by a longer, more melodic phrase. It repeated the pattern, as if practicing for a later performance. The neighbor's dog, a friendly old Labrador, ambled down the sidewalk, stopping to inspect a particularly interesting patch of grass. I thought about the book I was reading, a historical account of a journey across a distant continent. The author described the landscape in such detail that you could almost feel the dry wind and see the vast, empty horizons. It made me consider the nature of exploration, not just of places but of ideas. How we set out with a certain understanding and allow the journey to reshape it. The phone rang, a soft trill that broke the stillness. It was my friend from college, calling to catch up. We talked about nothing in particular—the new bakery that opened downtown, a movie we'd both seen, the challenges of growing herbs on a windowsill. The conversation meandered pleasantly, like a slow-moving stream. We promised to meet for a walk in the park soon, to see the tulips that were just beginning to show their colors. After hanging up, I finished my coffee, now lukewarm. The day stretched ahead, full of ordinary potential. I decided to reorganize the bookshelf, a task I'd been putting off for weeks. There's something satisfying about the physical order of books, the weight of them in your hands, the faint smell of paper and ink. As I worked, I found a postcard tucked between the pages of a novel, a picture of a mountain lake sent by a relative years ago. It was a reminder of connections, of messages sent and received across time and distance. The simple act of finding it felt like a small, personal discovery.
Omaha Steaks
Exceptional 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 participants. A total of 500 sampler boxes have been allocated for this program.
You will not be billed for this sampler. One sampler is available per household. This offer concludes Tomorrow. Each cut is individually chosen by our team and flash‐frozen at the peak of flavor to ensure quality upon arrival.
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 provided as part of this program. Quantities are set by our allocation.
This curated collection represents a variety of our most requested cuts. The standard value of a comparable package is over six hundred dollars.
We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks.
The workshop was a clutter of potential, tools hanging on pegboards, half-finished projects on every surface. Sawdust hung in the beams of light from the high windows. My grandfather taught me the names of the tools here, their specific purposes. A coping saw for delicate curves, a block plane for smoothing an edge. The knowledge felt like a secret language. He would hum old tunes while he worked, songs from a different era. The smell of pine and linseed oil is permanently linked to those afternoons. We built a simple birdhouse once, a small, gabled structure. He showed me how to angle the roof so the rain would run off. It seemed like a profound piece of wisdom at the time, this consideration for water and slope. We nailed it to a post in the backyard. For weeks, we watched, but no birds came. Then one morning, a pair of sparrows investigated, flitting around the entrance. Eventually, they moved in. It felt like a quiet triumph. Later, I tried to build a small shelf on my own. The measurements were off, and the joints were wobbly. He didn't fix it for me. Instead, he showed me how to use a square to check for true, how to adjust the clamp pressure. The shelf still exists in my old room, slightly crooked, holding a few paperback books. Its imperfection makes it more valuable to me than any store-bought piece. The workshop is quieter now, but the tools remain. Sometimes I just go and sit there, running a hand over the worn wooden handle of the mallet, remembering the sound of his humming and the steady rhythm of his work. It's a space that holds time in a different way. The projects left unfinished aren't abandoned; they're just waiting. The light still falls through the windows in the late afternoon, illuminating the same floating dust. It's a repository of patience and intention. I think that's what I learned most: the value of the process itself, the focus required to make something with your hands. It's a form of thought, a conversation between mind and material. The birdhouse eventually fell apart after many seasons, weathered by sun and rain. That was part of the lesson, too. Nothing is permanent, but the act of making has its own enduring quality.

http://www.cheestempo.com/lhpgioha

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The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the wooden floor. I sat with my coffee, the steam curling in the quiet air. Outside, a bird was trying out a new song, a series of short, inquisitive chirps followed by a longer, more melodic phrase. It repeated the pattern, as if practicing for a later performance. The neighbor's dog, a friendly old Labrador, ambled down the sidewalk, stopping to inspect a particularly interesting patch of grass. I thought about the book I was reading, a historical account of a journey across a distant continent. The author described the landscape in such detail that you could almost feel the dry wind and see the vast, empty horizons. It made me consider the nature of exploration, not just of places but of ideas. How we set out with a certain understanding and allow the journey to reshape it. The phone rang, a soft trill that broke the stillness. It was my friend from college, calling to catch up. We talked about nothing in particular—the new bakery that opened downtown, a movie we'd both seen, the challenges of growing herbs on a windowsill. The conversation meandered pleasantly, like a slow-moving stream. We promised to meet for a walk in the park soon, to see the tulips that were just beginning to show their colors. After hanging up, I finished my coffee, now lukewarm. The day stretched ahead, full of ordinary potential. I decided to reorganize the bookshelf, a task I'd been putting off for weeks. There's something satisfying about the physical order of books, the weight of them in your hands, the faint smell of paper and ink. As I worked, I found a postcard tucked between the pages of a novel, a picture of a mountain lake sent by a relative years ago. It was a reminder of connections, of messages sent and received across time and distance. The simple act of finding it felt like a small, personal discovery.
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<div style="font-size:42px; font-weight:bold; line-height:1; color:#8a1c22; margin-bottom:8px; font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Omaha Steaks</div>
<div style="font-size:16px; color:#787878; letter-spacing:0.5px; padding-top:8px;">Exceptional cuts, delivered to your kitchen</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:40px 40px 10px 40px;">
<table role="presentation" width="100%" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0">
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<h1 style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size:28px; line-height:1.3; color:#2e2e2e; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:12px;">A Gourmet Sampler From Our Kitchen</h1>
<p style="font-size:17px; line-height:1.6; color:#5a5a5a; margin:0;">We are providing a selection of our hand‐selected steaks at no charge to participants. A total of 500 sampler boxes have been allocated for this program.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:10px 40px 30px 40px;">
<p style="font-size:16px; line-height:1.7; color:#3a3a3a; margin:0 0 20px 0;">You will not be billed for this sampler. One sampler is available per household. This offer concludes Tomorrow. Each cut is individually chosen by our team and flash‐frozen at the peak of flavor to ensure quality upon arrival.</p>
<table role="presentation" width="100%" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0">
<tr>
<td align="center">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" style="margin:30px auto;">
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<a href="http://www.cheestempo.com/lhpgioha" style="color:#ffffff; text-decoration:none; font-size:18px; font-weight:bold; display:inline-block; padding:16px 48px; line-height:1;">See What's Included</a>
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<h2 style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size:22px; color:#2e2e2e; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:20px; padding-bottom:12px; border-bottom:2px solid #f5efe6;">Inside Your Sampler Box</h2>
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<td style="background-color:#faf6f0; padding:16px 20px; border:1px solid #e3dbd2; border-top-left-radius:6px; border-right:none;">Four Ribeye Steaks</td>
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<td style="padding:16px 20px; border:1px solid #e3dbd2; border-right:none;">Six Top Sirloin Steaks</td>
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<table role="presentation" width="100%" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0">
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<td style="background-color:#faf6f0; padding:16px 20px; border:1px solid #e3dbd2; border-top-right-radius:6px;">Four New York Strip Steaks</td>
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<td style="padding:16px 20px; border:1px solid #e3dbd2; border-bottom-right-radius:6px;">Four Filet Mignon Steaks</td>
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</table>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p style="font-size:14px; line-height:1.6; color:#787878; margin:24px 0 0 0; font-style:italic;">The sampler is provided as part of this program. Quantities are set by our allocation.</p>
<p style="font-size:15px; line-height:1.7; color:#3a3a3a; margin:20px 0 0 0;">This curated collection represents a variety of our most requested cuts. The standard value of a comparable package is over six hundred dollars.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:30px 40px 40px 40px; text-align:center; background-color:#faf6f0; border-top:1px solid #e3dbd2;">
<p style="font-size:15px; line-height:1.6; color:#5a5a5a; margin:0 0 10px 0;">We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks.</p>
<div style="height:4px; width:120px; background-color:#8a1c22; margin:20px auto; border-radius:2px;"></div>
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The workshop was a clutter of potential, tools hanging on pegboards, half-finished projects on every surface. Sawdust hung in the beams of light from the high windows. My grandfather taught me the names of the tools here, their specific purposes. A coping saw for delicate curves, a block plane for smoothing an edge. The knowledge felt like a secret language. He would hum old tunes while he worked, songs from a different era. The smell of pine and linseed oil is permanently linked to those afternoons. We built a simple birdhouse once, a small, gabled structure. He showed me how to angle the roof so the rain would run off. It seemed like a profound piece of wisdom at the time, this consideration for water and slope. We nailed it to a post in the backyard. For weeks, we watched, but no birds came. Then one morning, a pair of sparrows investigated, flitting around the entrance. Eventually, they moved in. It felt like a quiet triumph. Later, I tried to build a small shelf on my own. The measurements were off, and the joints were wobbly. He didn't fix it for me. Instead, he showed me how to use a square to check for true, how to adjust the clamp pressure. The shelf still exists in my old room, slightly crooked, holding a few paperback books. Its imperfection makes it more valuable to me than any store-bought piece. The workshop is quieter now, but the tools remain. Sometimes I just go and sit there, running a hand over the worn wooden handle of the mallet, remembering the sound of his humming and the steady rhythm of his work. It's a space that holds time in a different way. The projects left unfinished aren't abandoned; they're just waiting. The light still falls through the windows in the late afternoon, illuminating the same floating dust. It's a repository of patience and intention. I think that's what I learned most: the value of the process itself, the focus required to make something with your hands. It's a form of thought, a conversation between mind and material. The birdhouse eventually fell apart after many seasons, weathered by sun and rain. That was part of the lesson, too. Nothing is permanent, but the act of making has its own enduring quality.
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