'Offal' is a loaded word that seems to divide people into two passionate camps. It's not just 'for' and 'against', but 'yuk, never in a million years' versus 'this, truly, is the food of the gods'. While some simply can't stomach this (pun intended), others positively revel in the goriness of it all. Like those who profess a love for well-hung (or over-hung) game, the offal lover often can't resist allowing his (or occasionally her) passion to slide into a kind of competitive macho posturing, as in, 'what's the weirdest bit of an animal you've ever eaten?' I can say this with confidence, because I definitely served a bit of time in that camp.

These days I try to be less stridently and provocatively in your face about offal, because it often seems to be counter- productive. Instead of being won over, recipients of over-enthusiastic offal evangelism may be further alienated or antagonised. What we offal enthusiasts have to remember is that the very good reasons to explore offal cookery are not because it's big, or clever, or makes us tough. It's because it offers a whole extra range of tastes and textures that are unusual and exciting, and quite unlike those of muscle meat, or any other food. It is incomparable and inimitable.

Some feel that the word itself could perhaps do with some improving. The fact that it sounds a bit like 'awful' has not merely led to some very poor puns among food writers (I myself once wrote a proposal for a book called Simply Offal); it has actually led to a subliminal connection between the two words in the collective subconscious of food culture, so that many people think offal really is awful, without ever having given it any kind of chance. For such knee-jerk offal gainsayers it's guilty until proven innocent.

The etymology is uncompromisingly straightforward. Literally, it is off-fall, or fall-off, as it principally comprises the internal organs that fall to the floor when a hanging carcass is disembowelled. Perhaps for many, this crude image is also encapsulated unconsciously, in the sound of the word. Far more than the word 'meat', which has somehow been sanitised over the centuries, the word offal serves as a reminder, unwelcome for some, that sentient beings - usually mammals - must be killed, eviscerated, and cut up before feasting begins.

But I believe we can and should turn these negative connotations on their heads. Just why should a reminder of the animal origins of our meat be so unwelcome? Offal gives us a chance to pay our respects, in a full and holistic manner, to the animals we've raised for meat. The nose-to-tail approach to using the animals we kill for food is a central tenet of the contract of domestication and good husbandry. Waste is simply not acceptable. It's all or nothing.

Even the word-association game can be flipped over. There's positive assonance in the word offal as well as negative, if only you'll allow it in. Offer-full, or offer-all, makes a satisfying counterbalance to off-fall and awful. We are offered a full and eclectic range of foods from a single animal. It's a notion that can, if we let it, take us a long way from the awful and the ugly, into the realms of the tempting and the sublime.

I don't want to force offal down people's throats. I accept that there are strong flavours and challenging textures here which may not be everyone's idea of good eating. And, of course, the risk of aversions is hugely increased when offal is of poor quality, stale or simply badly cooked. We all know people who have vowed never to revisit liver, or kidneys, after traumatic encounters with them in school dinners. I once made that vow myself. The coarse slabs of ox liver I was served up at school were braised to the texture of a giant pencil rubber, with hideous veins like bicycle inner tubes. And they tasted like they'd been marinated in the school urinal. I couldn't get a morsel past my lips without gagging. In the end I persuaded my mother to give me a note containing that magic word, 'allergic'. And I didn't go near a piece of liver for another 15 years.

But when I went to work at the River Cafe, everything changed. Rose Gray wouldn't hear of my alleged aversion. She introduced me to the best calves' liver, dusted with seasoned flour and fried up with fresh sage, served tender and just a mite pink in the middle. There was no not liking it. It was delicious. It didn't even remind me of my former trauma. Now I rank liver among my favourite foods. It's my special treat, fresh from the abattoir, whenever I take one of my own animals to slaughter. Pigs' liver, lambs' liver, steers' liver - all similar but different, all delicious.

It was also at the River Cafe, after graduating in liver appreciation, that I went on to discover the pleasures of sweetbreads, kidneys, tongues and brains. I now consider them all to be great treats - fun to prepare, exciting to cook and an absolute delight to eat. What I learnt was that, far from being at the crude end of the meat spectrum, all coarse textures and intense, visceral tastes, offal also includes some of the subtlest tastes and most delightful textures that we can find in the vast food firmament.

There'll be a staggering amount of meat consumed this Christmas. And consequently a lot of lonely offal left in the butchers' tin trays. So why not do the decent thing, and offer a vital organ a happy home in your kitchen?

Devilled kidneys

If you think you don't like kidneys, or you're not quite sure, this is the recipe that will convert you. It uses a single pan and is ready in just a few minutes. The quantities for the sauce are approximate. You should be feeling your way towards the level of piquancy you want.

serves 2

4 very fresh lambs' kidneys, cut into quarters with the whitish core trimmed out

a small glass sherry

1 tbs white wine or cider vinegar

1 tsp redcurrant jelly

a few good shakes Worcestershire sauce

a good pinch cayenne pepper

1 tbs English mustard

1 tbs double cream

salt, black pepper

Heat a little oil in a small frying pan, add the kidneys and brown for a minute, tossing occasionally. Add a generous slosh of sherry, let it bubble for a moment, and follow up with a more modest splash of wine or cider vinegar. Add the redcurrant jelly and stir to dissolve. Then add the Worcestershire sauce, cayenne, mustard, and plenty of black pepper. Season with a pinch of salt, add double cream, bubble for another minute or two, shaking the pan occasionally, until the sauce is reduced and nice and glossy. Taste for piquancy, and add more cayenne and black pepper if you like.

Serve with fried bread to give a bit of crunch and mop up the sauce, or, for a more substantial supper dish, with plain boiled rice and a crisp green salad.