I’m taken by force on the open sea, A pirate’s prize of victory. In chests I rest, in maps I’m shown, a stolen wealth that’s not your own.

I stand in the field and wear old clothes, but I am not a person. Birds avoid me because I look like someone watching them

In general, I never expire, but on the table, I’m made less stable, with iodine and chloride. A former staple, a traded commodity, once tied to soldiers’ wages. Too much can hurt you, not enough leaves things bland; have you figured out, just what I am?

I whip things fast within a bowl, turning parts into a whole. With loops of wire, I spin and twist, what tool am I within the mix?

What has a grid of squares but isn’t a pancake?