I hang from a branch, dressed in red or green. Doctors step back when I am seen. Crunch me once, and you will know. What am I that trees bestow?

Average everyday. Terrific mail. Terrible frisbee.

When at sea I’m on the left, when at dock it’s where I’m at. In a glass I’m sweet and dense, apocryphally I’m the start of posh. I’ve carried this riddle far enough, what am I?

In Russia, I hide in my mother, and she hides in her mother and she hides in her mother and she hides in her mother and she hides in her mother. In a fictional pink land, I can be a president, weird, writer, physicist, doctor, lawyer, judge, diplomat, or beach.

No matter how hard you try to get rid of me, I always come back.