Surely, I was not alone in this. Does anyone look forward to the first beet of the season with the same rapture that they might the first strawberries of spring? A search on beets in poetry offered me the option "beats in poetry," and no verse more positive that this children's poem, which compares beets to witches' toenails.
I don't like hating foods; my long aversion to sage--except in stuffing--has long since turned to addiction. So it would be with beets. Last winter, at the Tompkins Square farmers' market, I was offered a sample of apple-and beet-salad. I waved away the tiny cup, saying "I hate beets!" and instantly felt about six years old. I took the cup. It was pretty damn good. Not nectarine good, but good.
I still haven't reconciled myself to borscht, which looks far too much like a bowl of Pepto-Bismol, but I'm exploring beet salads , included the neo-classic beet and goat cheese , which can be led in all sorts of directions.
Started with slicing beets (a pound or so), which look exactly as you might think; that is, long and slender and perfect for salads. Other varieties will do, but these are more fun. Wrap them in a double layer of foil, toss them on a baking sheet, into the oven for about at hour at 450 degrees, until tender enough to pierce with a fork.
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When the beets are relatively cool, remove the peel, which should pretty much just fall off. Toss the beets with the vinaigrette, then with the remaining ingredients. Wash all that red off your hands. Serve. Two main course servings, with leftovers for the next day's lunch.