Food can transport you into the past or push you forward. But there are some situations where food can cause familial friction.

At least that’s how it’s been for forty-some years with my wife and me. The foodstuff that’s been at the center of our domestic distress is lutefisk.

My Nordic ancestors must have looked at some fresh cod and thought, “I bet I can make that better.” They began by drying the fish on open racks where it was exposed to the effects of sea breezes and seabirds.

The desiccated fish looked like wooden shingles. The cod could be rehydrated by simply soaking it in water but my Norwegian ancestors, bored out their skulls by the interminable subarctic winter, decided to make things interesting by steeping the fish in poison.

Specifically, they used lye water. This caused the fish to plump up and become extremely tender. If too much lye was used, the fish would become so tender that it could be slurped through a straw.

The lye obviously had to be rinsed out before the fish could be consumed. I can imagine how it went when it was initially tried: “OK, Ole, I’m going to let you be the first guy to eat some of this.”

“No, Sven, that wouldn’t be right. Soaking the fish in lye was your idea, so you should be the one to have the first bite.”

“That’s nice of you to say. But you’re my best friend and I wouldn’t think of letting you miss out on this historic opportunity. Here! I’m pretty sure that it won’t kill, I mean, that it’ll taste just great!”

My family has a long history of enjoying lutefisk during the holiday season. I have cherished childhood memories of walking into my grandparents’ steaming, bustling kitchen on a bone-chilling Christmas Eve and being walloped by a tsunami of wondrous aromas. The most wondrous of them all, as far as I was concerned, were those that wafted from a pot of translucent, gelatinous fish simmering on the stove.

My wife’s upbringing was vastly different than mine. Tragically, it didn’t involve any interaction with lutefisk. When she was first exposed to this treat at my grandparents’ house on a long-ago Christmas Eve, she whispered to me, “What’s that smell?”

“Isn’t it great?” I replied. “I can’t wait for you to try lutefisk! Drown it in melted butter and sprinkle it with salt and there’s nothing better!”

She thought that I was pulling her leg and inferred that simply being forced to endure the odor should be regarded as a form of punishment.

We eventually arrived at an agreement. I could enjoy as much lutefisk as I liked so long as I didn’t, as she put it, “stink up the house with the stuff.”

That is why we attended the recent lutefisk supper at Lake Campbell Lutheran Church. I could satisfy my lust for lutefisk without causing my wife to endure a houseful of olfactory affliction.

It was fitting that the supper was held on the first truly cold evening of November. A nostalgic and delicious aroma greeted us as we entered the church’s dining hall. A dozen volunteers worked in the bustling, steaming kitchen to feed the hungry throng. I was given a hearty chunk of lutefisk while my wife opted for the Swedish meatballs.

Seated at our table was a lady named Dawn and her adult son, a tall, strapping young man who sported a full beard. He looked like a Viking.

“This is the first time we’ve had lutefisk,” Dawn said nervously. “I’ve heard so much about it.”

I instructed Dawn and her son to apply liberal amounts of butter and a little salt. Dawn took her first nibble of lutefisk and said, “It’s not too bad. I don’t see why people say such horrible things about it.”

Her son bolted down his lutefisk like a starving wolf. “Not bad,” he muttered between bites. “Tastes like fish.” I noticed that he availed himself of a second helping when it was offered. It’s always nice to win new converts.

Dawn was curious about how lutefisk is made. I gave her a brief description, saying that the dried fillets are soaked in a primitive form of Drano. Other than that, there’s nothing special about its preparation. The dessert was sweet soup. Served cold, sweet soup contains chunks of fruit mixed with a delightful blend of spices.

My wife took a bite of sweet soup and closed her eyes. “This is just like my grandma used to make at Christmastime!” she murmured. I was thinking the same thing.

Food can help ease familial tensions. It can also be a time machine.

Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.