A creamy block of processed fat, sometimes I’m cultured in a vat. I can be sharp, or made in blends, but don’t you dare cut me ‘round friends.

I am known for cubic shapes, but I do not have to be. You might put me in a drink, or sit and chill with me.

A place am I where many roam, or some may even call me home. This way is done to herbs and more, preparing both to bake and store. When dropped, things are upon me found, for I am known thus as the:

Humbly invented in nineteen sixty five, i was created to keep football players alive. Named after a creature so mean and green. What am I?

You might have lived without me had I not given you so much, I hurt you when we touch, you make, and take life with me; I have no shadow, yet I do.