I'm formed by forceful stirring. Creamed by silent hand or machine whirring. Yellow, slippery, yet sticky, I hug many foods - I'm not picky. Unlike snowmen, many prefer me to melt, But too much of me might break your belt.

You'll find me on the sweetest rose, biding my time to make you bleed.

In mirrors I reflect, in windows I frame, In cups I take shape, though always the same. Through me, the light will bend or pass, but handle me wrong, and I will not last.

What's black and white and red all over?

If you're really good with numbers, Then the answer should be clear. Can you tell me how many seconds There are in a year?