I’m cut into slices, yet I start as a whole. I’m round like a wheel, but I’m meant to be shared. Cheese is my blanket, sauce is my voice, and toppings are choices, some loved, some dared. What am I?

Don't let that orange thing from the fire get into your eye! Oh, and before I forget, what is that?

I cradle eggs in a woven throne, High above ground, safe and alone. No door or lock, yet feathered kin rest What am I, where fledglings are blessed?

Carts roll along the aisles, gathering treasures with smiles. A list guides the journey, step by step, through the market as we schlep.

Once part of dinner, set aside, to face tomorrow’s microwave ride. Forgotten deep where cold winds roam, often abandoned in my plastic home.