Forty seven percent of a winning hand. A brain surgeon with an unclear plan. I'm trustworthy, I always bear my heart. Unlike my brothers, the three upstarts.

I dig for shelter or dig for answers, one with claws, one with relentless banter.

An emergency staple, one you can't do without, especially if the power goes out.

Mixed and kneaded, left to rest, I grow with air inside my chest. Then baked until my crust is made, a golden staple that won’t soon fade.

I have skin but no bones, a mouth but no teeth, and I swallow your secrets while hanging from your arm. I sometimes have a hand in me, I also have a hand in my name. What am I?