A barista, a chef and a laundromat would all prefer me over a yacht! What am I?

From Shirley Temple to Bing, I’ve been picked for fame. I appear in many forms though I answer one name. I can be fresh, preserved, or dried in a row, yet copies of me are what many folks know. I’m often on top, but I’m rarely the focus, a finishing touch, a flourish, a bonus. I’m pitted by nature, though blameless and sweet, a small red addition that makes things complete.

From cobblers' hands I'm born anew, I cradle feet both young and old, In pairs I dance, through rain and dew, Oh my stars, I have tales untold.

Beside the road but made for feet, I’m smoother ground for calm retreat. Paved or tiled, I edge the way A safer stretch for your next day. What am I?

I’m taken, not grown, once a year from one who grazes. Warm without weight, soft without silk. I shield you from cold long after I leave my source. What am I?