I have a North and a South, but I am not a globe. I have a field, but I do not grow crops. I can pull, but I cannot push with my invisible hands. What am I?

You can buy chickens there. The answer is not chicken.

I begin as a loose gathering of powders and liquids, yet I end as a single, solid whole. Heat gives me shape, but celebration gives me purpose. I can hide sweetness beneath a plain surface, or display it proudly in colors and tiers. Knives divide me, but no one mourns the loss, each cut is part of the joy. What am I?

This miraculous item of voluminous detail, Can fit chickens, cows, turkeys, pigs, all of course to scale. It’s not a pan, though it shares its namesake with something that keeps you roasted.

Teeth rivaling a centipede’s feet. Jaw dislodges, My hunger:Your heat. Unable to chew, I need your hand to eat. My first three a sound and a tie to keep neat.