Tunachuckers Can-O'-Blog

What can I say?  Nay, what can anyone say?  They're two great tastes that go great with...racing!  As reported by faithful Jalopnik weekend update dude Murilee Martin, after our race car's crank bearings shuffled off to Valhalla, we decided to reroute our efforts to chili preparation.  Saturday night at the LeMons race was the Great Chili Cookoff.  Not to be too anticlimactic about the whole thing, but we lost.  It just wasn't a Tuna sort of weekend, I guess.  Though we did win some sort of imaginary consolation prize for having the best presentation:

Yes, that is a valve cover.  Yes, that is the valve cover from our race car.  Since the engine wasn't really using it, we decided to take it off and fill it with Chili.  Wise heads prevailed and the valve cover was first thoroughly scrubbed and lined with several layers of aluminium foil.  Could we be trendsetters?  Could future LeMons cookoff entrants follow our lead?  I sure hope so.  Imagine...Oil Pan Gumbo!  Piston Skirt Martinis!  Timing Cover Shrimp Cocktail!

The Vikings sure appreciated Tunachucker Valve Cover Chili, as did the vegetarian who somehow was able to eat turkey - we used ground turkey in our chili, to be healthy (also, it was cheaper than ground beef).

Now, what goes perfect with a steaming pile of chili in your valve cover?  I've already answered that question- beer in your mug!  Judge Murilee is known near and, well, ok, just near, as a beer connoisseur.  And since bribery of the LeMons judicial system is considered de rigeur, it was only a matter of time before someone came up with this:

Now, that right there is one mighty fine piece of glassware.  Any gearhead would be proud to display that in the china cabinet.    As one might discern from the near-empty state of the above-pictured beverage conveyance device, Judge Murilee is requesting a refill of his chosen libation.  And who could deny a man, especially one as hard working and dedicated and communist-medal wearing as Ms. Martin, a cold frosty drink?

Of course, that Saturday night, there wasn't a man to be found who appeared to have been denied a drink.  There's something about the comeraderie of being flat busted, having a broken race car, hundreds of miles from home, resigned to sleeping in a mildewy 1974 camper before treking home in defeat the next morning, huddled under drafty blue tarps and a hastily assembled carport, bunched around a propane heater to fend of hypothermia, that brings out the desire to just try to, in spite of it all (and this incredibly running-on sentence) have one mother of a good time.  Photographic evidence of this phenomenon shall be forthcoming...