I am brown, often round, and I was born underground. Irish and hobbits are known to eat me. You can mash me or stick me in a stew. I could even power a lightbulb.

I exist as a moment, but I am not forgotten easily. You might find me in your kitchen, your love, and even in your blankets.

I am whole with a hole. A sweet treat known to go straight to your seat.

The word I’m named will make you feel seen. When the sun hits me, I always gleam. Around your wrist, I’m secured. You’ll never be late, that I assure. What am I?

If you’re innocent but found guilty. Or if a photographer finds you awfully pretty. A carpenter will make me stand. And you’ll use me as you explain an idea or plan. What am I?