I was once the poster child of quick-fix diets, split in half and served with a tiny spoon. Pink, tart, and sharper than I look, I’m often sprinkled with sugar when plain feels like too much.

It holds liquor, but not a cask. If you'd like a nip, just ask. To full it without spilling is quite a task. Drink enough from it, in warmth you'll bask.

I'm often found in pairs, but rarely speak. I help you gain when you're feeling weak. Though I have no voice, I'm known for my weight. What am I, that makes you lift your fate?

I am made of leather and flaxen yields, used to hurl stones across the fields. What am I?

I come out white and creamy warm, then pasteurized before your home. My form is changed with practiced hands, to something new from what I am. I’m drunk and eaten, sliced and poured, what white drink do so many adore?