This was laid for Jerry, With a cheese to entice, and SNAP! He's caught! Or so Tom hoped

The good stuff can be hard to find, Soft, yet strong by design. I vanish with sorrow, sickness, or glee, Pulled from a box, used urgently. I crumble under pressure, yet serve my role - Please wash your hands when you're done.

Nibbling on knots of narrow, nourishing nectar, these nimble networks nestle neatly in navy-blue bowls. Notoriously nightly, the nomad negotiates numerous nearly-endless knots.

I am born of emptiness, yet I bind things together. I travel through layers but remain fixed in place. I speak only when pushed, open paths without tearing, and guide a thread I never become.

My name means 'fresh' in Italian, but I am often centuries old. I am not painted on the wall; I become the wall itself as the plaster dries. What am I?