Answer:
I'm a flat circular spongy roll made from yeast dough and eaten toasted and buttered
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.
Before crust hardens.
A wonderful elixir, It is your fluid fixer. Gulp it down and turn like a concrete mixer. Dark as night and sweet as sin, It's like liquid heroin.
This baked dish consists of an open-topped pastry case with a savory or sweet filling.
I repeat only the last word you say. The more I repeat, the softer I got. I cannot be seen but can be heard. What am I?