Saga of Slotz Supreme, pt. 1

T.W. Slotz cut an outstanding figure. The county he lived in (Slotz County, USA) was named after his great great grandpa T.W. Slotz, a Slobovian immigrant who brought to this county the seeds to develop a dazzling variety of fruit known as the “Slotz Supreme.”

Neither apple, orange, peach nor pear; neither cherry, berry, grape nor kiwi, the Slotz somewhat resembled a bowling pin, only smaller. But truth tell, they made The Valley famous, the county famous, and certainly it made T.W. famous.

He reaped, so to speak, the fruits of his labors, though no one in The Valley knew for sure that Slotz Supremes were actual fruits. It was hard to tell as there were no seeds for spitting. To experience a fully mature 12” Slotz was to believe in the Almighty, or so it was said by The Reverend Otis Otis who accepted them in the Sunday offering plate, in lieu of cash, which was in short supply during the recession.

Why, any fool knew that the Slotz was as good as cold hard cash and if you knew how to deal, a truckload of Slotz Supremes would get you a decent used Ford F-190 Big Ram truck. You could also get a decent perm at the local Blow & Go for only a bushel.

Their crowning grace was that they grew just about anywhere: on vines, trees, bushes, underground, above ground, on trellises, upside down, downside up and every which way, including under water. It was hard to ignore the majestic Slotz, the ultimate fruit be it summer, spring, fall or winter.

The harder the winter the sleeker their skin; the hotter the summer the rounder their bowling pin shape. “Suck On a Slotz,” was hand-stamped just so on each and every piece that rolled forth from the Slotz Alot Canning Factory out on Route 66.

They were devoured in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night and on the hour 24/7. The Valley’s regulation Number 1313, proclaimed it was illegal NOT to eat them and truth tell no one dared think what would happen to The Valley should folks cease eating Slotz. It was feared they would  become unruly and their vines would forthwith strangle all things living

There is always one rotten apple in the bunch, and in this case it was T.W. Slotz himself who refused to eat them, though not one Valley citizen had a clue that this was so. A master of deceit, T.W. did a good imitation of someone actually eating a Slotz, when in fact, he’d never ever taken one bite.

This wasn’t easy, but when he was at Valley festivities, he learned that if he sliced a Slotz in teensie weensie segments, he could stash them in his cheeks and spit them into a napkin. He learned this deceit as a young lad when he was forced to eat broccoli, consequently he was never without a napkin. A few thought it odd that at times T.W.’s cheeks were veritable pouches of protruding flesh, while at other times his cheeks seemed almost hollow.

Fried, Slotz Supremes tasted like chicken; broiled they tasted like goat cheese. Toast one, roast one, bake one … well, you never knew what you’d get. A greasy pot pie, a sizzling steak, a veggie casserole and now and then, the perfect toasted marshmallow, brown on the outside and melted and oozy on the inside.

One housewife reported that she’d given up baking and turned to Slotz Supremes instead, thus saving her hours of slaving over her microwave.

Another reported accidentally dropping one into a tub of hot water, and then watching in amazement as the Slotz morphed to perfectly prepared strands of pasta, plus a nice red garlic sauce (you can check with her if you don’t believe me). For awhile, the housewife diddled with the idea of bottling her discovery and calling it “Lotsa Slotza Pasta Plusa Sauca,” but she never got around to it.

Sadly,The Year of the Great Fruit Bat marked the demise of the reign of Slotz Supremes. Out of the West came the bats in squadrons of flapping packs, filling the night and the day with the beating whir of tiny wings.

Down they swooped, to chew and chew and chew, until every living Slotz was debauched, digested and deposited in the form of a marvelous rich and wildly aromatic fertilizer which covered The Valley like a sea of stinky brown sludge.

This was not a bad thing, particularly for T.W. who knew a good thing when he smelled it. “We’ll call it SlotzShit!” he shouted, “There’s enough here to last for eternity. We can create lots of jobs if we bag and sell it. Our motto will be, ‘Slotz, The Shit that Made the Valley Famous.”‘

Should the endless sea of sludge ever harden, Slotz figured the surface would be perfect for surfing.

And so it was that everyone in The Valley quickly forgot to remember the once mighty Slotz Supremes. Now instead of bartering with Slotz Supremes, they bartered with SlotzShit, though the Reverend Otis Otis, a sensitive soul with a sensitive nose, opted for cold hard cash. Why just yesterday (or was it last year?), you could get a decent haircut if you bartered with a mere quart of the stuff.

Not bad, hey?