Chowdery sort of day

(Or "chowdah" in the vernacular.)

Wife looked out upon the gray sky and white stuff falling therefrom and the general ambience of hell-no-it-won't-suddenly-become-spring-next-Sunday and declared this to be chowder weather. Fish chowder, to be exact.

And the potholes aspire to grow into tank traps. Elder Son thinks one in front of his apartment is actually a sinkhole in disguise, as material seems to be vanishing from below....