Sometime this winter, when my wife is in the mood for walleye, I will slip fillets from the fridge, dip them in egg, dredge them in special seasoning, and plop them in a pan of spitting-hot melted butter and oil.<BR><BR>Then I’ll stand guard, spatula at the ready, as they brown on the outside, turn flaky white on the inside, and proffer an aroma that could only smell sweeter if it rose from a pan atop a campfire on some distant shore.<BR><BR>Next, I’ll pour two glasses of wine. Ferry the remaining fare to the table. And as we dine, the world will be fine. It always is when the fish on your fork comes from a hole in the ice rather than a freezer at the supermarket.<BR><BR>As we savor our meal, I will relish the fishing trip too. This will be especially true if our repast begat from a journey to Joe’s. Joe is my ice-fishing buddy. He lives on the north shore of Mille Lacs Lake. We have fished together for years.