I never claimed to be a mover and a shaker. So what if I found myself playing giant "Jenga" with some friends on a Friday night? It's good wholesome fun for the young adult set...or the developmentally stunted middle-aged one. And we were very into it. Our party was a living Hasbro commercial. A nice middle-class living room filled with excited faces; joyous bursts of laughter and tense silence when a play piece was cautiously pulled from the teetering stack of blocks. A cute but mischievous cat played at our feet. The atmosphere was light. Fun. There was nothing to warn of the coming atrocity.

Kristie brought out a pepperoni pizza. I grabbed a plate and, in that instant, the abomination reared its ugly head. It was just like this classic horror movie moment:

That's exactly how I felt when I saw the soy pepperoni covering the pizza our host had just delivered. I was in shock. Pepperoni is my raison d'être. Smiling in the face of this culinary blasphemy was a difficult feat. But I was polite. I ate the pizza. And it was OK. But when you're expecting pepperoni's soul-zinging verve accompanied by the decadent, greasy crunch of the burnt edge, soy pepperoni is a dismal disappointment. I was, again, the victim of a masquerading soy product. It's becoming epidemic.

My niece asked me to help her with a béchamel sauce when I was over for dinner. I asked for the milk and butter. She gave me vanilla soymilk and organic butter substitute. Dumbfounded, I thought to myself, "That's like handing a surgeon a Chia Pet in place of a scalpel." Both are wonderful items, but hardly interchangeable. I've never been a fan of substitutes—whether teachers, performers, or stand-in medical interns. I want real plants in my home, real flowers drinking real water in real glass vases. And I'm definitely not a fan of soy parading around as if it were a cut of meat.

I'm not anti-vegetarian or anti-soy. On the contrary, I could eat my weight in edamame. I love tofu. 'Love' may a bit of a stretch, but I can honestly say, without fear of overstatement, I really, really like tofu. I like soft curd, firm curd, grilled, smoked, and flavored. If it's prepared well, I enjoy it and I appreciate its nutritious qualities.

The health benefits from a soy- rich diet could fill a book; several books, actually. Search 'soy health' on the Internet and you could spend a couple of lifetimes reading the results. There are significant controversies surrounding soy consumption, but I believe, in moderation, soy should be a regular part of your diet. Tofu is an excellent source of protein—the only plant based protein that provides all essential amino acids. It's also rich in calcium, iron and isoflavones. Among the many claims out there, soy is purported to boost bone strength, ease the symptoms of menopause, and aid memory. According to the FDA, "Diets low in saturated fat and cholesterol that include 25 grams of soy protein a day may reduce the risk of heart disease." Tofu is a sturdy, beneficial, respectable edible with a history that predates Christianity. It's great stuff.

But I only like tofu as tofu. Not breaded, not pressed and die-cut into a Disney-esque silhouette of a fried chicken leg. This doesn't fool me—not for a nanosecond. Having more than my share of vegetarian friends, I'm quite familiar with the many reconditioned, sculpted, colored, textured and shaped forms of soy. I don't mean to burst anyone's bubble, but these processed soy bastardizations fall tragically short of imitating meat.

Soy bacon is the most appalling offender. The taste is poor enough on its own, but the pathetic attempt at a bacon-ish appearance is ridiculous. They could show bloody pigs on the package and a two-year-old would know at a glance that SOY BACON IS NOT PORK. It looks like Fruit Stripe gum gone bad. God bless you if you have the willpower to give up bacon and eat the fake stuff. I just don't see that happening to me. I would rather permanently live without bacon than be cruelly reminded of the flavor by some pork imposter with a geometrically created 'fat' strip proclaiming nourishing goodness.

Believe me, I understand the attraction to something you can't have. And I understand there are many benefits to a properly managed vegetarian diet. I have, for brief moments, considered going meatless. But, unless you morally object to the consumption of meat, I think moderation is the better option. For me, Soysage is not an option. It's wrong. And I can't help preaching against the 'imitation' of any food. I do not favor processed cheese, margarine or wheat-free bread. I loathe high fructose corn syrup. MSG makes me sick. And I can smell modified food starch in soups and sauces from twenty paces away. I don't like preservatives, chemicals, or anything that interferes with purity of flavor. I am, and forever will be, pro-food. If you've read my previous missives, you already know my passion for fresh produce. A perfectly ripe, organic, local tomato is a work of art. Asparagus is a thing to be worshipped, and I'll gladly choose a grilled Portobello mushroom sandwich over a burger most days of the week. Vegetables often trump meat in satisfying my palate. Vegetarianism can be a beautiful lifestyle. I simply want foods to be their best and most glorious.

If you do choose to eat vegetarian, I implore you to buy a reliable cookbook and abandon the microwaveable, overly prepared, faux meat world. Chez Panisse Vegetables, by Alice Waters, is brilliant. And I highly recommend Jack Bishop's A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen." I'm not a recipe man, myself, but the ideas in these two books show proper respect for fresh, pure ingredients. There are thousands of recipes and a boundless world of seasonal, succulent greens, beans and roots to explore.

Middle Eastern and Asian cookbooks usually contain many, exotic treatments for fresh vegetables. I'm partial to Thai, Indian, Ethiopian and Moroccan dishes. Try Vietnamese cookery or, at least, Chinese take-out. But please, respect the meat and respect the vegetable. Let them follow their own destinies. Stand up and shout, "No more protein loaf!" Come on people, CHANT! "No more protein loaf!" You have nothing to lose but your Boca Burger.

And next time you're tempted to buy a soy hot dog, walk away from the textured vegetable protein and think of me—a rotund, hairy, 40-something man, next to a display of faux meats. I'll be standing there in a wig and a hot pink bikini doing my imitation of Halle Berry. And it will be infinitely more believable than Tofurkey's counterfeit of turkey on its best day.