Answer:
The sun bakes them, The hand breaks them, The foot treads them, The mouth tastes them.
Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, reason in its season but no rhyme.
What food has no beginning, end, or middle?
What can break when we touch it
Strip the skin under my skin, and my flesh you'll reveal. It tastes sweet and tart, now throw out the peel. What is it?
Long and slinky like a trout, never sings till it's guts come out.