Tiny kernels, loud ambitions, destined for movie time traditions.

I'm often found at the back, a place for food and fun, I can lower down with a clack, when the party's just begun. I might hold a cooler or a grill, ready for a feast, But I have no mouth, though I'm often filled. What am I?

Picked by hand to begin, then Whitney created the gin. Woven and sewn for daily attire, wash me cold, or else I will shrink entire.

How can you accuse me, Of what it is, that you do best? It makes me boil with anger, Causing bellows from my chest. My toll of weight is held, in goals and fingers nonetheless. Either way you’ll want a spot. My handle held to pour or sweat.

Hammers, wrenches, screws, and more, travel with me from door to door. Though I repair no thing alone, without me, many jobs are postponed.