Oh my stars, this little contraption from the old country gives bread a warm hug until it wears a golden crown. A cozy morning ritual, where crunch meets comfort in a jiffy.

I bear this name, Not heated through, The feeling of facing a new wound. Plain, and without protection, The unfiltered truth.

I have a bow but no arrows, I keep you up! I have arms but no hands, I go where you row.

I hold your things and match your style, and follow you each passing mile.

It belongs to you, but your friends use it more. What is it