In Victorian times, men used to lay their cloak over me, so women could step down from carriages without ruining their shoes or dress. What am I, that, when stepped in, will make a mess?

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

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.

You can pull me or push me Or slam me or stuff me I hold secrets or clothes Or whatever, who knows? In the kitchen In the bedroom or bath Or In your classroom of math