I help you lift, I help you shift, a little push can give a big lift. I turn a wheel, I open a gate, I change your course or move your weight, but pull me wrong, and all you’ll see, Is Yzma falling through a trapdoor, what a comedy!

I have wings, but I can't fly. I have ribs, but I can't breathe. When the sky is on fire, I can always be found.

I am often small, unless you are planning a grand scheme. And I am often silly unless you find me in a sophisticated cuisine.

I am at the base of what bakers do, but mobsters love me too. What am I?

What always gets caught in the middle of a fight, but always stays silent in a pasta dish delight?