The noble northern pike does not get the respect it deserves, but I will die on this hill, violently swinging a red and white spoon like a medieval flail as I face the charging hordes of  walleye purists, wielding whatever lure of the day they carry designed to catch more fishermen than fish. Whether that pike be fried, baked, broiled, skewered in kabobs, pickled and canned, poached as if lobster, or even the eggs salted for a poor man’s caviar, I will put it up against anything (and ...