bocka bocka

There are three recent additions to our family, and George and I are whole-heartedly obsessed with them. These days, if you'd like to have intelligent conversations about worldly matters, we maybe could but probably wouldn't have much to offer (except for Nathan, who gives a bang-up verbal treatise on the latest issue of the Economist). On the subject of cutie little feathery buddies, however, we are rather stunning conversationalists. You know, if I do say so myself. 

Three pretty ladies to chase around the yard in mostly futile attempts at chicken petting. Three funny, chickeny friends to hang out with in the garden. They're thoroughly lovable, and so, tonight, when, during fake-chicken-taco dinner, Nathan said, "Hey George, do you want some more chicken?" we should've seen it coming. 

He looked around in utter horror and started clucking. 

Oh no, we assured him: we are not eating the chickens! "Papa meant tacos. Do you want more tacos? More fake chicken? Err... no, that doesn't work. More meat? Fake meat? Taco filling? WHAT THE HELL DO WE CALL IT?"

Precise language -- well thought-out, accurate and succinct -- is something I value so deeply, and I believe equally deeply in the power of words to do both significant harm and good. If you're feeling up to a losing fight, try arguing with me about how it's totally okay to say "you're retarded" or "that's so gay" because, like, language is a living thing, man, and besides, you're too sensitive, and you know who really has it bad? Black lesbians in wheelchairs and anyway, I was just kidding. 

Until now, I'd been confident in my word choices with George. I am purposeful, inclusive; I don't dumb things down, and when prompted he can point to his scrotum just as quickly as he can his ears. Victory, right? Well, as with most best laid plans, something was forgotten and it caused a minor conniption fit brought on by the fear that we'd just had our pets for supper. OOPS.

It wasn't easily solved, though, either. Usually, I can correct and move on, but I'm at a loss. What do I call the fake meat that we eat? If it's seitan, I guess that's easy and I'm not counting tempeh or tofu -- also clearly identifiable -- but the fake bacon and ground "beef"? The "sausage" (is 'sausage' just any old thing in a casing?)? I'm sure to some this is an odd (stupid?) quandary, but it intersects at intentional eating and intentional communicating: two things I'd always hoped to instill in my child(ren). I will not be thwarted by Morningstar breakfast links and my abiding love of taco night. 

So, dear readers, friends: what do you suggest? The first person to say "start eating meat" gets a punch in the nose.