Upbeet
He's the country's only academic expert on beets — an enthusiastic horticulturist who can't say enough about this thoroughly unappreciated vegetable.
By Michael Penn MA'97
Tom Robbins once wrote that stories about beets lead inevitably to the devil. These days it's probably more true that stories about beets lead inevitably to Irwin Goldman.
Goldman PhD'91, an affable, fortyish associate professor of horticulture with peppery brown hair and wire-rim glasses, is no Prince of Darkness, not even a close surrogate. But he does know a lot about beets. As part of his faculty research, he grows beets, breeds beets, and studies beets. Heck, he even eats beets. In fact, you won't find anyone in this country who can tell you more about the fleshy roots than Goldman.
No, really — you won't. Don't even bother trying. Goldman is not merely the nation's pre-eminent expert on beets, he's the only expert.
By Michael Penn MA'97
Tom Robbins once wrote that stories about beets lead inevitably to the devil. These days it's probably more true that stories about beets lead inevitably to Irwin Goldman.
Goldman PhD'91, an affable, fortyish associate professor of horticulture with peppery brown hair and wire-rim glasses, is no Prince of Darkness, not even a close surrogate. But he does know a lot about beets. As part of his faculty research, he grows beets, breeds beets, and studies beets. Heck, he even eats beets. In fact, you won't find anyone in this country who can tell you more about the fleshy roots than Goldman.
No, really — you won't. Don't even bother trying. Goldman is not merely the nation's pre-eminent expert on beets, he's the only expert.
As far as anyone can tell, no other professor in the United States is currently working with the much-maligned vegetable (at least not the humanly edible version of it). "There are a few people in private industry," Goldman says. "But," he adds somewhat sheepishly, "I do have the only publicly supported table beet research program in the country."
In academia, where professors are often like wolves, traveling in packs and working collaboratively, that's pretty remarkable. Most food crops — everything from alfalfa to zucchini — draw a fair amount of research buzz. There are usually hybrids to test, genes to splice, and markets to explore. If you took all the people who research a crop such as corn, for instance, you could probably fill up a fleet of buses. But the nation's beet braintrust can't even use the carpool lane.
"There is very little interest out there," Goldman concedes. "It's a very underappreciated crop."
In academia, where professors are often like wolves, traveling in packs and working collaboratively, that's pretty remarkable. Most food crops — everything from alfalfa to zucchini — draw a fair amount of research buzz. There are usually hybrids to test, genes to splice, and markets to explore. If you took all the people who research a crop such as corn, for instance, you could probably fill up a fleet of buses. But the nation's beet braintrust can't even use the carpool lane.
"There is very little interest out there," Goldman concedes. "It's a very underappreciated crop."
Few vegetables have been as picked at and picked over, as picked on and ruthlessly pickled, as the beet. Beets give liver and Brussels sprouts a run for their money as the food most reviled by kids, and not many adults like them, either.
As a food crop, beets don't even make the list of 133 commodities tracked by the National Agricultural Statistics Service. Goldman estimates that table beets — the variety grown for human consumption, as opposed to those grown for animal fodder or sugar processing — are grown on only about eight thousand acres of land in all of the United States, an area that could fit inside the boundaries of Lake Mendota. Figs (14,000 acres), turnips (11,500), radishes (14,600), and macadamia nuts (17,800) are all more widely cultivated. Even the lowly lima bean lays as much claim to American soil.
About two-thirds of that paltry beet crop ends up processed, ultimately to appear in cans and jars. These are your grandmother's beets — the mushy stuff that wrinkles the noses of many a child — and the market for them, never huge to begin with, is steadily shrinking. In 1977, American farmers processed about two pounds of beets for every American, but now that figure is down to below seven-tenths of a pound.
As a food crop, beets don't even make the list of 133 commodities tracked by the National Agricultural Statistics Service. Goldman estimates that table beets — the variety grown for human consumption, as opposed to those grown for animal fodder or sugar processing — are grown on only about eight thousand acres of land in all of the United States, an area that could fit inside the boundaries of Lake Mendota. Figs (14,000 acres), turnips (11,500), radishes (14,600), and macadamia nuts (17,800) are all more widely cultivated. Even the lowly lima bean lays as much claim to American soil.
About two-thirds of that paltry beet crop ends up processed, ultimately to appear in cans and jars. These are your grandmother's beets — the mushy stuff that wrinkles the noses of many a child — and the market for them, never huge to begin with, is steadily shrinking. In 1977, American farmers processed about two pounds of beets for every American, but now that figure is down to below seven-tenths of a pound.
Beets haven't always had such a sorry lot. They've been around for more than two millennia, and for most of that time, they've been considered a valuable food source, critical to the survival of many cultures through the ages. It's believed that ancient Greeks first cultivated wild beets, which grow throughout the Mediterranean region, for their green, leafy tops. Some historians relate anecdotes about Greeks offering beet greens to the god Apollo on a silver platter at the temple of Delphi, which must mean they didn't think beets were all that bad. Neither did the Romans, who collected beet greens for food and medicine.
For centuries, beets gave sustenance to both farm animals and farmers as they spread throughout Europe, especially in the northern and eastern parts of the continent, where the stored roots kept families fed during long winter freezes. In parts of Russia, Hungary, and Poland, beets were more than food — they were survival, the linchpin of existence. They became part of the culture. Some Russian women even used beet pigment to rouge their cheeks.
For centuries, beets gave sustenance to both farm animals and farmers as they spread throughout Europe, especially in the northern and eastern parts of the continent, where the stored roots kept families fed during long winter freezes. In parts of Russia, Hungary, and Poland, beets were more than food — they were survival, the linchpin of existence. They became part of the culture. Some Russian women even used beet pigment to rouge their cheeks.
During Napoleonic times, beets took a significant detour. In 1812, France, while locked in war with England, was shut off from overseas sugar imports, and the whole country sunk into sugar withdrawal. Napoleon issued a challenge to French scientists to come up with a new way to produce the sweet stuff, and, because nothing galvanizes the French more than a threat to cuisine, they did. They turned to the forgotten work of a French botanist, who two hundred years earlier had derived a sticky, sweet syrup from beets. Now, all but a very few beets grown in the United States are destined to become sugar, not entrées.
It was a little more than a century later that a UW-Madison professor named Warren Gabelman turned his academic attention to the vegetable, forming UW's beet lab in 1949.
Gabelman, now an emeritus professor of horticulture, had been working on hybrid crops, which in post-World War II America were just starting to make their way onto the farm. Corn hybrids were doing wonders, increasing yields and profits for farmers, and Gabelman imagined that they would have the same advantages for other crops, too. Hardly anybody was breeding hybrid vegetables back then, and he had his choice of foods to work with. He selected three crops that he thought might be valuable to Wisconsin farmers — carrots, onions, and beets.
It was a little more than a century later that a UW-Madison professor named Warren Gabelman turned his academic attention to the vegetable, forming UW's beet lab in 1949.
Gabelman, now an emeritus professor of horticulture, had been working on hybrid crops, which in post-World War II America were just starting to make their way onto the farm. Corn hybrids were doing wonders, increasing yields and profits for farmers, and Gabelman imagined that they would have the same advantages for other crops, too. Hardly anybody was breeding hybrid vegetables back then, and he had his choice of foods to work with. He selected three crops that he thought might be valuable to Wisconsin farmers — carrots, onions, and beets.
Influencing Gabelman's choice was the fact that Wisconsin already had a large canning industry, and beets were grown by many farmers who fed those factories with fresh produce. It's still true today that no state cans more beets than Wisconsin, and of those eight thousand acres of beet-growing land, about four thousand are in the square formed by Madison, Milwaukee, Lake Michigan, and the Illinois border.
The lab thrived, and Gabelman succeeded in releasing a series of commercially viable hybrids. One of the varieties — named, appropriately enough, Big Red — gave rise to the type of beet most widely grown around the world today.
In fact, since virtually every table beet derives from some kind of hybrid, and since for decades Gabelman's lab was the only one making hybrids, you could say every beet, everywhere, has Wisconsin parentage. Even exotic varieties, such as new golden beets, are Badger red inside.
The lab thrived, and Gabelman succeeded in releasing a series of commercially viable hybrids. One of the varieties — named, appropriately enough, Big Red — gave rise to the type of beet most widely grown around the world today.
In fact, since virtually every table beet derives from some kind of hybrid, and since for decades Gabelman's lab was the only one making hybrids, you could say every beet, everywhere, has Wisconsin parentage. Even exotic varieties, such as new golden beets, are Badger red inside.
After Gabelman retired in 1991, the beet lab might have disappeared without much notice, given how few people paid attention to the crop. But researcher D. Nicholas Breitbach, who has worked with the lab for more than three decades, kept things going until Irwin Goldman arrived two years later. Then a fresh-faced assistant professor just two years past his doctoral studies, Goldman carried on the breeding work and launched new inquiries into the mystery of the beet. He now maintains beet plots at five different farms around the state, and he and his graduate students slice up enough beets in a year to keep a Russian restaurant in business. Every new hybrid they grow gets carted back to the lab, where it is carved apart and analyzed in an ongoing quest to unravel the secrets those scarlet juices conceal.
"It's interesting — here we are with all the tools of modern science," Goldman says, "and we still don't really know what happens when you eat something as basic as a beet."
"It's interesting — here we are with all the tools of modern science," Goldman says, "and we still don't really know what happens when you eat something as basic as a beet."
In 1997, Goldman was the first researcher to quantify folic acid in red beets, demonstrating that breeding and harvesting can increase amounts of the valuable nutrient, which is found in both beet greens and their roots. He has also helped show that the pigment of a red beet, betalain, is rich in the antioxidants that battle the effects of aging.
The lab still runs by Gabelman's tripartite mission, and there's plenty of work being done on carrots and onions, as well. But Goldman doesn't mind playing favorites. "When students come in, they catch on to the fact that I like beets the best," he says. "And it's true. I love onion and carrot, too, but beet — there's something very compelling about working with it."
The lab still runs by Gabelman's tripartite mission, and there's plenty of work being done on carrots and onions, as well. But Goldman doesn't mind playing favorites. "When students come in, they catch on to the fact that I like beets the best," he says. "And it's true. I love onion and carrot, too, but beet — there's something very compelling about working with it."
Goldman didn't set out to become an ambassador of beets. He did his doctoral work on pea breeding, and initially, he was mostly interested in the relationship between vegetables and nutrition. But he was born to the job, if for no other reason than for the simple fact that he liked beets even before he studied them.
Beets, admittedly, are an acquired taste. Their high sucrose content makes them powerfully sweet, but that sweetness comes with an earthy bite — a soil-like flavor caused by concentrations of geosmins, chemicals that leach into beets from the soil. You can find the same chemical influences in spinach (a close relative of beets) or some types of corn. Fans love that flavor, and extol its virtues of solidity and connectedness to the earth. Detractors say beets just taste like dirt.
There's also the bleeding. Red beets (there are gold and even candy-striped beets, as well) contain reservoirs of inky pigment, which is legendary for its ability to spill at the slightest provocation. Many cooks complain that a kitchen where beets have been prepared ends up resembling a crime scene, with red stains on just about every surface. (Goldman hastens to add that the pigment is water soluble and washes off easily.)
Beets, admittedly, are an acquired taste. Their high sucrose content makes them powerfully sweet, but that sweetness comes with an earthy bite — a soil-like flavor caused by concentrations of geosmins, chemicals that leach into beets from the soil. You can find the same chemical influences in spinach (a close relative of beets) or some types of corn. Fans love that flavor, and extol its virtues of solidity and connectedness to the earth. Detractors say beets just taste like dirt.
There's also the bleeding. Red beets (there are gold and even candy-striped beets, as well) contain reservoirs of inky pigment, which is legendary for its ability to spill at the slightest provocation. Many cooks complain that a kitchen where beets have been prepared ends up resembling a crime scene, with red stains on just about every surface. (Goldman hastens to add that the pigment is water soluble and washes off easily.)
And let's not forget the coolness deficit. The beet is often portrayed as a relic of a bygone era of huddled masses and winter stews. In the modern day of year-round produce markets, where fresh vegetables can be flown in from Chile, no one needs root cellars or their hearty stock. "They're perceived as old-fashioned," Goldman says.
Students who come to work in Goldman's lab are often hesitant to embrace the beet. They may love studying it, but many still won't eat it. Goldman tries to win them over, teaching them how to get past their can-based beet phobia and sample newer and more creative ways of preparing beets. He shows them how to roast beets in the oven, which he says seals in their natural sweetness and nicely complements their earthiness.
"They're just fantastic. The flavors and colors are just intense," he says. "It takes a while to cook — you have to put a little bit of time into it, but it's the best way to do it."
Students who come to work in Goldman's lab are often hesitant to embrace the beet. They may love studying it, but many still won't eat it. Goldman tries to win them over, teaching them how to get past their can-based beet phobia and sample newer and more creative ways of preparing beets. He shows them how to roast beets in the oven, which he says seals in their natural sweetness and nicely complements their earthiness.
"They're just fantastic. The flavors and colors are just intense," he says. "It takes a while to cook — you have to put a little bit of time into it, but it's the best way to do it."
In fact, Goldman may spend more time beating the drum for beets than breeding them. But he doesn't mind. "I have a research role, but I also like to popularize these things as much as I can," he says. "I'd love to see more people grow to appreciate them."
There are signs that beet perceptions are coming around. Farmers'
markets and community-supported agriculture arrangements are beginning to reintroduce consumers to vegetables they may have forgotten, Goldman says. "People are rediscovering them," he says. "Their connections with vegetables are changing."
A staple of ethnic foods and salads for years, beets are making a comeback as a nutritious spike of flavor for many dishes. Saveur magazine has done a full-color spread. NBC's Today Show recently featured a beet bruschetta. And at Madison restaurant L'Etoile — where proprietor Odessa Piper is described as a "beet queen" — the frequently changing menu often features beets prominently.
There are signs that beet perceptions are coming around. Farmers'
markets and community-supported agriculture arrangements are beginning to reintroduce consumers to vegetables they may have forgotten, Goldman says. "People are rediscovering them," he says. "Their connections with vegetables are changing."
A staple of ethnic foods and salads for years, beets are making a comeback as a nutritious spike of flavor for many dishes. Saveur magazine has done a full-color spread. NBC's Today Show recently featured a beet bruschetta. And at Madison restaurant L'Etoile — where proprietor Odessa Piper is described as a "beet queen" — the frequently changing menu often features beets prominently.
"Beets are very hot right now," says John Navazio PhD'94, a beet breeder and manager of Seed Movement, a seed company in Iowa City. "They fly under the radar. The mainstream population doesn't necessarily eat beets. But there is a significant subset of Americans who really embrace them. Anyone who sells beets at a farmers' market can tell you it's a very popular vegetable with that subset of people who are very food-conscious and very health-conscious."
Suddenly, Goldman is hip. His phone is ringing. A few weeks ago, he received a message from a Los Angeles Times reporter, asking to interview the professor about his favorite subject. He responded within five minutes. "I'd love to!" he told her, cheerily. "There aren't enough people who want to talk about beets!"
Later, he explained to me why he appeared so eager. "Beets are a rare treasure," he said, "and nothing makes me happier than being able to tell people about them."
Suddenly, Goldman is hip. His phone is ringing. A few weeks ago, he received a message from a Los Angeles Times reporter, asking to interview the professor about his favorite subject. He responded within five minutes. "I'd love to!" he told her, cheerily. "There aren't enough people who want to talk about beets!"
Later, he explained to me why he appeared so eager. "Beets are a rare treasure," he said, "and nothing makes me happier than being able to tell people about them."
