An old book about citrus would contain much of me.

As a puzzle I’m fun, unless I’m missing one piece. Or a tool, if used poorly will rattle your teeth.

I’m creamy and smooth, sometimes fruity and sweet, you find me in cups, and I’m a healthy treat.

Though I'm made to grab and carry, I would make an awful porter. Like a klutz, I just keep dropping things even though you keep tipping quarters.

I am born from labor that never sleeps, Spun without hands, yet finely keeps. Once soft as air, yet strong in weave, I dress the rich and catch deceived. Named for smoothness, prized for sheen, What am I that slips between?