You can make miracle pasta by stirring together flour, miracles, milk, salt, and butter. Then you cut the mix into long strands, air, and cook. The biggest difficulty is in finding the miracles. Once you have done that the stirring, cutting, airing, and cooking is easy.
Miracle pasta is good with a spicy red sauce and shrimp.
It is also good with despair as it is the function of miracles to alleviate despair.
A long time ago seven miracle pasta wheels fell to Earth, one of them landing on a frog.
It was like this:
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Squish! Thump!
“We will guide these people, and guard them, and shepherd them,” say the miracle pasta wheels.
Then they roll around and make all kinds of havoc.
“Oh, look!” says a hungry child in Germany. She points at a pasta wheel. Then she eats it. This alleviates her hunger and her despair!
Six pasta wheels remain.
“The simplest way to rid our planet of the troublesome infinite-weight stone would be to launch it into space via rocket,” decide Atlantean alchemists.
Whoosh! Sploosh! It is a typical Atlantean disaster.
Two pasta wheels are on Atlantis when it sinks. They grow weak and soggy in water and eventually drown.
A mammoth in North America stumbles across a pasta wheel. “At last,” it says, “the power of miracles is mine!”
Three blind sages stumble across the pasta wheel at that same exact moment.
“No!” cries the first blind sage. “Pasta is a human treasure!”
“A tasty meal!” cries the second.
“An ineffable symbol of hope and endurance!” explains the third.
“I’ll show you my terrible tusks,” trumpets the mammoth. But only one of the blind sages is even aware of the mammoth’s tusks! He runs away and two sages remain.
“I’ll stomp you with my terrible feet!” the mammoth declares. But only one of the blind sages is even aware of the mammoth’s feet! He runs away, leaving one blind sage.
“I’ll defeat you with my mammoth philosophy of nonviolence!”
There’s a pause.
“Yoink!” says the last blind sage, grabbing half of the pasta wheel. The mammoth seizes the other half. They each run away, treating the pasta in ill manner.
Later, Arthur Pendragon falls.
He bleeds from many wounds.
“Oh, Arthur,” says a wheel of miraculous pasta. “You were the best of England.”
This is in fact not true. The best of England was probably the curry. But pasta does not know such things.
“So hungry,” murmurs the dying king.
“Partake of my flesh, my liege,” the pasta wheel says. “You will never die.”
Two pasta wheels remain.
They roll around the world causing all kinds of havoc.
One meets a man.
They fall in love.
It is the forbidden love. It is the love between man and pasta: that slippery, boiling love that slowly stiffens as it cools, eventually becoming dry and tasteless.
Heaven frowns upon this love.
The man is chastised.
The pasta is cast up into the sky, where it becomes a new constellation.
Thus in these days there is only one wheel of miracle pasta left upon the Earth.
There is only one miracle left to guide us, to guard us, to shepherd us, and to bring us hope.
Treasure it while ye may; the world progresses swift.