Meanwhile, back at 737 Southgate Drive in 1970, the day to day living arrangements were going reasonably well.

Carl and I—or at least I, perhaps Perry eventually told Carl—never did find out why Perry hadn’t wanted Terry as the fourth roommate, and the two of them seemed to get along fine, so there were no problems in that regard.

We divided up the chores fairly equally, and as I recall it was usually two or three—often all four—of us who went grocery shopping together, though sometimes, of course, someone needed to make an emergency run for eggs or milk or some other staple. We tried to economize as much as possible, so we bought margarine instead of the 70 cent spread. Once Dickie from next door heard about that, he would chide us for sacrificing flavor to save a few cents. 

For breakfast it was every man for himself, and that worked out OK, as we weren’t all on the same schedule—some of us had earlier classes than others. And naturally that was helpful with the morning showers as well.

Lunch was also not a problem, as some of us grabbed a bite on campus, and some of us fixed a sandwich at the apartment, depending again on our class schedules.

Dinnertime, though, was where I was mostly in charge. I cooked maybe five meals a week with Perry filling in for the other two nights, although it varied a bit as sometimes one or more of us returned home for a weekend.

I was able to dip into some of the recipes I had learned from my mother’s cooking. Things like meatloaf, chile con carne, spaghetti with meatballs, macaroni and cheese, pork chops, hot dogs and sauerkraut, and everybody’s favorite, the recipe that came to my mother form my aunt Joan and to her from the Italian wife of the Army buddy of her husband Mark: lasagne. Of course, at least once a week I made good old fashioned hamburgers.

If that diet seems awfully heavy on the beef, well, at least we tempered it with some vegetables.

I could whip up mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, parsleyed potatoes, and baked potatoes. Plus, we always had peas or corn or lima beans or some other vegetable, usually canned, but sometimes from a frozen package.

And no, I don’t recall that we ever had a salad. Nor did I do any baking in those days.

I made eggplant with stewed tomatoes occasionally, usually along with macaroni and cheese, but as eggplant was such a pain to prepare, that was a rarity.

Perry’s culinary repertoire was even more limited. I forget exactly what he could make, but it wasn’t too much. That’s why I did most of the cooking. That, and whoever cooked was exempt from cleaning up. I didn’t really like to cook that much (still don’t), but I really hated having to clean up afterwards.

Perry did try to do some baking. From a box. You know, a Betty Crocker box cake. It was always a major production. The results were better than no cake at all.

The problem occurred when Perry made hamburgers.

You see, Carl and I liked our burgers rare. Well, we called them rare, but technically it might be closer to medium rare. Perry and Terry liked their burgers well done. Very well done.

I always tried to accommodate the different preferences. It really wasn’t that difficult. Just start the well done burgers first, and when it was time to flip ’em, then put in the rare burgers. Simple.

Perry wasn’t so obliging. He made everyone’s burgers well done. And when I say well done, I mean practically burned to a crisp. I found them practically inedible, and I always complained. Carl told me to calm down. But Carl was always the peacemaker, and he wasn’t the one who was cooking most of the meals and trying to accommodate the different eating preference like I was.

That was the first source of friction between Perry and me.

It wouldn’t be the last.