I hold up mountains, yet my top is flat, a table for giants, where clouds come to chat. High above valleys, wide open and grand, a fortress of stone carved out by the hand.

I have no doors, yet I keep you inside. I'm built from the cold, a temporary hide. What am I, where arctic winds cannot chide?

I am a fruit, often pickled and green, Or cured to a dark, oily sheen. From ancient groves, my bitter taste I glean.

Sounds like a car brand, A type of inlet, The most famous ones are in Norway What am I?

The name for these plants and trees sounds like something they might want to say to you after you prune them. What's the name?