I may pour drinks, throw strikes, or lure a fly, one sits on tables, one aims high. One waits in gardens, green and still, what am I, with more than one will?

I’m born from the dirt, but my fate is gold, A humble root with stories untold I dance in oil where flames run high, Then release an aroma that makes mouths sigh My first name whispers of romance and art, Of cobblestone streets and a cultured heart My second speaks of a fiery fate, A golden transformation I cannot escape Crisp on the outside, soft within, I’m the salty treasure that pulls you in I arrive by the handful, never alone, And somehow vanish before I’m known. What am I?

Used to rise or descend, one measured pace at a time. On Privet Drive, a boy slept beneath them.

I'm good in cookies... please leave out the raisins. I'm a healthy breakfast option especially on cold mornings. Goldilocks would have probably enjoyed me more in US and Canada if the bears topped me with fruits and berries.

Some people spend years running from me. Others spend years wishing they could revisit me. Neither ever catches me.