Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew!

I rest on shoulders, light and wide, A flowing form you cannot hide. I billow, drift, and catch the air, A hero’s robe, a piece of flair.

I’m small and round with a heart of stone. On tables I gather, in groves I’m grown. Squish me to gather my liquid gold. A sign of peace from scripts of old.

I have a soft heart but no pulse, and I wear a tailored suit that I must be stripped of before I am consumed. I am often born in a dozen, yet I am always a single serving. Some people say, cake is cake even if it's me.

Two metal jaws grip tight, bending, twisting with might. In the toolbox they do reside, helping hands with a wide-open stride.