HTML Source
<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
</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:#f8f4ec;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 old wooden desk. I stirred my coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic mug. Outside, a bird was singing a repetitive, cheerful tune from the oak tree branch. It was one of those quiet mornings where the world felt still, before the day's rhythm truly began. I glanced at the notepad open in front of me, the page blank except for a small doodle in the corner from yesterday's call. The phone had rung earlier, a friend checking in about plans for the weekend. We talked about maybe going for a hike if the weather held, or perhaps just meeting for a long lunch somewhere with a patio. The conversation meandered from topic to topic, as they often do, touching on books we were reading, a new recipe they wanted to try involving roasted vegetables, and the amusing antics of their new puppy. I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking familiarly. The hum of the refrigerator in the next room was a constant, low background noise. I thought about the book on my nightstand, a historical novel set in a place I'd never visited. The author had a way with descriptions that made the streets and sounds feel vivid and close. My friend had recommended it, saying the characters stayed with them long after the last page. We debated the merits of different genres for a while, agreeing that a well-told story was what mattered most, regardless of where or when it was set. The coffee was starting to cool. I took a final sip, the bitterness softened by a touch of cream. The day ahead promised a few routine tasks, some correspondence to attend to, and hopefully a bit of time in the garden later if the rain clouds stayed away. The seedlings I'd planted a few weeks ago were just starting to show their true leaves, a delicate and hopeful green. It's always satisfying to watch things grow, to tend to them and see the slow, daily progress. The bird outside had changed its song, a slightly different melody now. I listened for a moment, trying to place it. It was a sound I associated with this particular season, a marker of the turning year. The phone call had been a nice start to the day, a connection before diving into solitude. I closed the notepad, the blank page no longer feeling like a task but just a part of the quiet morning. The day was ready to begin, one small, ordinary moment at a time.
</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:8px;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:bold;line-height:1;color:#8a1c22;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;margin-bottom:8px;">Omaha Steaks</div>
<div style="font-size:16px;color:#787878;letter-spacing:0.5px;padding-top:8px;border-top:1px solid #e3dbd2;display:inline-block;margin-top:4px;">Premium cuts delivered to your door</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 #c9a03a;padding-left:20px;">
<h1 style="font-size:28px;line-height:1.3;color:#2e2e2e;margin:0 0 8px 0;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">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-selected steaks at no charge to a limited number of participants.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding-top:24px;">
<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0 0 20px 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 respond by the end of the day Tomorrow.</p>
<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#3a3a3a;margin:0 0 32px 0;">Our process ensures quality: each cut is personally selected by our experts and immediately flash-frozen to preserve its natural flavor and tenderness from our facility to you.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<div style="text-align:center;margin:32px 0 40px;">
<a href="http://www.worldoffairy.com/surhi" style="background-color:#8a1c22;color:#ffffff;font-size:18px;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;padding:18px 48px;border-radius:50px;display:inline-block;line-height:1;box-shadow:0 3px 8px rgba(138, 28, 34, 0.2);">See What's Included</a>
</div>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom:16px;">
<h2 style="font-size:22px;color:#2e2e2e;margin:0;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;text-align:center;">Your Sampler Contents</h2>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%" style="border:1px solid #d8cec4;border-radius:6px;overflow:hidden;">
<tr>
<td width="50%" style="padding:20px;background-color:#faf6f0;border-right:1px solid #e3dbd2;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#3a3a3a;font-size:16px;line-height:1.8;">
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Four Ribeye Steaks</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Six Top Sirloin Steaks</li>
</ul>
</td>
<td width="50%" style="padding:20px;background-color:#faf6f0;">
<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>Four Filet Mignon Steaks</li>
</ul>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding-top:24px;">
<p style="font-size:14px;line-height:1.5;color:#787878;text-align:center;font-style:italic;margin:0;padding:12px;background-color:#faf6f0;border-radius:4px;">The sampler is a curated collection, with availability set by the program's allocation.</p>
<p style="font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;color:#5a5a5a;text-align:center;margin:24px 0 0 0;">This assortment represents a selection that is often valued at over six hundred dollars.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:40px 40px 32px;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 24px 0;">We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks and this opportunity to share our products with you.</p>
<div style="height:4px;width:120px;background-color:#8a1c22;margin:0 auto;border-radius:2px;"></div>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</center>
<div style="font-size:8px;line-height:1.4;color:#f0e8dc;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;max-width:600px;margin:20px auto 0;padding:10px;">
The park was busier than expected for a weekday afternoon Children's laughter echoed from the playground area, a bright, chaotic sound. I found an empty bench under a large sycamore tree, its leaves just beginning to show hints of their autumn change. I sat down, setting my bag beside me, and pulled out the apple I'd brought. It was crisp and slightly tart. A man walked past with two dogs on leashes, one large and shaggy, the other small and trotting quickly to keep up. They both seemed intent on the same scent trail along the path. I watched them for a moment, then turned my attention to the book in my lap. It was a collection of essays, each one a short exploration of a different place or idea. The one I was reading described a quiet library in a small town, the smell of old paper and dust, the way the light fell in slants through high windows. The author wrote about the silence there, not as an absence of sound, but as a presence itself. It reminded me of a museum I'd visited once, early in the morning before the crowds arrived. That same hushed, attentive atmosphere. A group of joggers passed by my bench, their footsteps a rhythmic patter on the pavement. Their conversation snippets floated back, talking about their route and an upcoming race. One of them pointed toward the duck pond, and they all picked up their pace slightly. I took another bite of the apple. The ducks on the pond were engaged in their own busy socializing, paddling in circles, occasionally dipping their heads beneath the water. A couple sat on a blanket nearby, sharing a picnic. They were talking animatedly, their hands moving as they spoke. I couldn't hear their words, but their body language spoke of a comfortable, long-standing familiarity. It was nice to see, a small portrait of contentment. I went back to my book, finishing the essay about the library. The next one began with a description of a long train journey through mountains. The author focused on the changing landscape outside the window, the names of small stations they passed, the other passengers in the carriage. It was a different kind of travel narrative, less about destination and more about the state of being in motion, of observation. The light under the sycamore tree was shifting as the sun moved. The shadows grew longer, stretching across the grass. I closed the book, not because I was done, but because I wanted to just sit and absorb the scene for a few more minutes. The sounds of the park, the gentle breeze, the distant hum of the city beyond the trees. It was a simple pleasure, this pause in the day. A squirrel scurried up the trunk of a nearby oak, disappearing into the foliage. The picnic couple began packing their basket, folding their blanket. My own afternoon was winding down, with a few errands left to run on the way home. I stood up, stretched, and tossed the apple core into a nearby waste bin. The walk back through the park felt slower, more deliberate than the walk in. I noticed more details: the pattern of cracks in the path, the variety of flowers still blooming in the planted beds, the specific call of a bird I still couldn't identify. It had been a good break, a reminder of the world outside the usual routines. The essay about the train journey lingered in my mind, the idea of watching the world go by from a steady, moving seat. Maybe that was the essence of an afternoon like this, too. You're not static, but you're not hurrying. You're just passing through, observing, for a little while.
</div>
<img src="http://www.worldoffairy.com/open/dmFuY2hpbmEyQGxpYW1vbi5jb20.png" width="1" height="1" style="display:none" alt="">
</body>
</html>
Plain Text
The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the old wooden desk. I stirred my coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic mug. Outside, a bird was singing a repetitive, cheerful tune from the oak tree branch. It was one of those quiet mornings where the world felt still, before the day's rhythm truly began. I glanced at the notepad open in front of me, the page blank except for a small doodle in the corner from yesterday's call. The phone had rung earlier, a friend checking in about plans for the weekend. We talked about maybe going for a hike if the weather held, or perhaps just meeting for a long lunch somewhere with a patio. The conversation meandered from topic to topic, as they often do, touching on books we were reading, a new recipe they wanted to try involving roasted vegetables, and the amusing antics of their new puppy. I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking familiarly. The hum of the refrigerator in the next room was a constant, low background noise. I thought about the book on my nightstand, a historical novel set in a place I'd never visited. The author had a way with descriptions that made the streets and sounds feel vivid and close. My friend had recommended it, saying the characters stayed with them long after the last page. We debated the merits of different genres for a while, agreeing that a well-told story was what mattered most, regardless of where or when it was set. The coffee was starting to cool. I took a final sip, the bitterness softened by a touch of cream. The day ahead promised a few routine tasks, some correspondence to attend to, and hopefully a bit of time in the garden later if the rain clouds stayed away. The seedlings I'd planted a few weeks ago were just starting to show their true leaves, a delicate and hopeful green. It's always satisfying to watch things grow, to tend to them and see the slow, daily progress. The bird outside had changed its song, a slightly different melody now. I listened for a moment, trying to place it. It was a sound I associated with this particular season, a marker of the turning year. The phone call had been a nice start to the day, a connection before diving into solitude. I closed the notepad, the blank page no longer feeling like a task but just a part of the quiet morning. The day was ready to begin, one small, ordinary moment at a time.
Omaha Steaks
Premium cuts delivered to your door
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 respond by the end of the day Tomorrow.
Our process ensures quality: each cut is personally selected by our experts and immediately flash-frozen to preserve its natural flavor and tenderness from our facility to you.
See What's Included
Your Sampler Contents
Four Ribeye Steaks
Six Top Sirloin Steaks
Four New York Strip Steaks
Four Filet Mignon Steaks
The sampler is a curated collection, with availability set by the program's allocation.
This assortment represents a selection that is often valued at over six hundred dollars.
We appreciate your interest in Omaha Steaks and this opportunity to share our products with you.
The park was busier than expected for a weekday afternoon Children's laughter echoed from the playground area, a bright, chaotic sound. I found an empty bench under a large sycamore tree, its leaves just beginning to show hints of their autumn change. I sat down, setting my bag beside me, and pulled out the apple I'd brought. It was crisp and slightly tart. A man walked past with two dogs on leashes, one large and shaggy, the other small and trotting quickly to keep up. They both seemed intent on the same scent trail along the path. I watched them for a moment, then turned my attention to the book in my lap. It was a collection of essays, each one a short exploration of a different place or idea. The one I was reading described a quiet library in a small town, the smell of old paper and dust, the way the light fell in slants through high windows. The author wrote about the silence there, not as an absence of sound, but as a presence itself. It reminded me of a museum I'd visited once, early in the morning before the crowds arrived. That same hushed, attentive atmosphere. A group of joggers passed by my bench, their footsteps a rhythmic patter on the pavement. Their conversation snippets floated back, talking about their route and an upcoming race. One of them pointed toward the duck pond, and they all picked up their pace slightly. I took another bite of the apple. The ducks on the pond were engaged in their own busy socializing, paddling in circles, occasionally dipping their heads beneath the water. A couple sat on a blanket nearby, sharing a picnic. They were talking animatedly, their hands moving as they spoke. I couldn't hear their words, but their body language spoke of a comfortable, long-standing familiarity. It was nice to see, a small portrait of contentment. I went back to my book, finishing the essay about the library. The next one began with a description of a long train journey through mountains. The author focused on the changing landscape outside the window, the names of small stations they passed, the other passengers in the carriage. It was a different kind of travel narrative, less about destination and more about the state of being in motion, of observation. The light under the sycamore tree was shifting as the sun moved. The shadows grew longer, stretching across the grass. I closed the book, not because I was done, but because I wanted to just sit and absorb the scene for a few more minutes. The sounds of the park, the gentle breeze, the distant hum of the city beyond the trees. It was a simple pleasure, this pause in the day. A squirrel scurried up the trunk of a nearby oak, disappearing into the foliage. The picnic couple began packing their basket, folding their blanket. My own afternoon was winding down, with a few errands left to run on the way home. I stood up, stretched, and tossed the apple core into a nearby waste bin. The walk back through the park felt slower, more deliberate than the walk in. I noticed more details: the pattern of cracks in the path, the variety of flowers still blooming in the planted beds, the specific call of a bird I still couldn't identify. It had been a good break, a reminder of the world outside the usual routines. The essay about the train journey lingered in my mind, the idea of watching the world go by from a steady, moving seat. Maybe that was the essence of an afternoon like this, too. You're not static, but you're not hurrying. You're just passing through, observing, for a little while.
http://www.worldoffairy.com/surhi
