And the day drew to a close, with shadows lengthening, when the people did come unto Their Majesties, clamoring, "Give us Meat!" And the cooks grew pale at the clamoring mob, but the Queen stepped forth and said unto them, "Lo, be not afraid! For We have won by our own hands (and those of a couple of friends) this fine side of Bacon!" The cooks did look upon the Bacon, and sayeth unto the Queen, "It's beautiful, but surely this Multitude is too great for it, and we shall be torn apart and consumed ourselves in their ravenous hunger!" But the Queen bade them fry, and so fry they did.
And the slicing and frying was like unto legend. The sacred Bacon was cut and placed in a vessel of blackest iron, and fried upon a heat like that of Vulcan's forge. As the slices came forth from this vessel, the horde did fall upon them, so that scarcely did they reach the serving vessel before they were consumed. The hearts of the cooks were filled with fear for their lives, should the Bacon run out before the masses were sated.
And yet (and this is the miracle), the Bacon persisted. Like the sacred Bacon of the great philosopher Xeno, each time they sliced half the Bacon, so was some yet left to slice and cook. The ravenous horde was sated by the Bacon. (And the sausages, and the hamburgers, and the steaks, and the pasta salad, and even, though they spake it not, the zucchini. But all spake mainly of the Bacon.) And there was No Death.
So it is that, on the Feast Day of St. Marguerite, we do eat of the Sacred Bacon, with its chewy rind and crispety-crunchety bits, and give thanks for its salty goodness. So may it ever be. Amen.