I am a sparkling silver glaze that coats winter lawns at sunrise, but spread me over a layered birthday cake and I turn sweet and delicious. What am I?

I am born in the ocean, white as snow, but when I return to water, I completely disappear. What am I?

I am a fruit that wears my seeds on the outside instead of the inside. What am I?

My opening syllables sound like an unhatched breakfast, my ending syllable was once an old English wooden drinking mug, and together we create the creamy, nutmeg-dusted beverage poured for winter toasts. What holiday drink am I?

I can shock you without a bolt of lightning, pull swimmers far into the deep ocean, yet I am forever existing in the present. What am I?

I describe an expression that is dreadfully serious and without mirth, yet I am also the quiet resting place where a skeleton waits underground. What am I?

I make a sound like a greedy eater at the dinner table, yet I wear feathers and strut around the autumn farmyard. What am I?