But for me, nothing quite says Christmas like a jiggling plate of lye dipped cod.

For each of the 24 Christmases I have spent on this planet, the specter of lutefisk has hung drearily over my head. In a tradition handed down from my Scandinavian grandparents (Three Norwegians and a Swede) lutefisk has been a staple of every Christmas Eve dinner in the Dybvig household.

Over the years I have learned that it is not even a love of the food that has kept the tradition alive. After my mother purchases the fish, she stores it on the back porch so as not to contaminate the "good food" in the refrigerator. She has also moved away from cooking it in the oven in favor of a quick shot in the relatively aroma proof microwave.

When my brother brought his new bride to her first Christmas at the Dybvig home, she laughed at the idea of us actually eating what most people see as a Norwegian joke. There is little wonder that she joined my other sister-in-law in choosing not to take the Dybvig surname.

Despite the horrible smells that come from the cooking of the fish and the relative lack of taste, tradition has kept this fish as a yuletide staple. To enforce survival of the custom, our parents required digestion of a forkful of the gelatinous fish like substance before any presents could be opened.

My brothers and I would plug our noses, smother it in melted butter, pour on the salt and generally protest, but each year the rule remained. No lutefisk, no presents.

Family lore states that one year my oldest brother made it three weeks before finally buckling to the pressure. The lesson this taught us is that if there is one thing worse than freshly cooked lutefisk, it would have to be three-week-old cold lutefisk.

While my brothers and I protested, and our mother never took a solid stance, the amount of leftover lutefisk each year had a chilling side effect. My father actually seems to enjoy the fish more and more each year. With little competition, he has access to a seemingly unlimited bounty of the gelatinous heap of cod, and without fail, the plate is empty by the time the meal is complete.

When he first started putting away world class sized portions of the fish I assumed he was working to trick his children. When we were kids, he would eat crab apples by the handful in just such a trick. All the neighborhood kids would see him eating the tart fruit and think that they couldn't be too bad. Even as he was fighting back the tears caused by the acerbic fruit, we would be scrambling up the crab apple tree in the front yard.

Yep, the father of the year van never spent too long driving through our neighborhood, but in hindsight, I realize the lengths he would go to get us to try something different.

Which brings me back to lutefisk.

I may never know for sure if my father actually likes the fish or if he is just trying too hard to trick his children again, but whatever the cause, this year it worked. I ate a piece larger than a forkful, and I have to admit that it was not the most detestable thing I had ever eaten. How's that for a ringing endorsement? I bet the nonexistent lutefisk advertising council will be banging down my door to get more publicity like this.

I can see it all now.

Standing behind a steaming heap of the gelatinous fish substance, I muster a grin like my dad after a fistful of crabapples and tell everyone to give lutefisk a try.