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CNBC
15 hours ago
- Business
- CNBC
In college, he spent $3,500 to launch a popsicle business—now it brings in $63 million a year
Daniel Goetz spent many late nights as a college senior cutting and blending fresh fruits, and freezing them into popsicles to sell to parched customers near the University of Texas at Austin. The advertising major fell in love with Mexican ice pops, called paletas, while visiting Mexico City with his college girlfriend. Inspired, Goetz started mocking up potential brand names and doodling logos during a class in 2009. He landed on the name "GoodPop." Today, the Austin-based organic popsicle and ice cream bar company's frozen desserts are sold in more than 10,000 locations across the U.S., including Costco, Walmart and Whole Foods Market. GoodPop brought in more than $63 million in gross sales in 2024, according to documents reviewed by CNBC Make It. It's never taken external funding, says Goetz. GoodPop has been profitable nearly every year since its launch, with 2024 as an exception. It likely won't be profitable in 2025 either, following the winding down of an unpopular product line, but is projected to return to profitability in 2026, says a company still the company's CEO, built GoodPop with extremely little experience or industry expertise. He "knew nothing" about supply chains or the consumer packaged goods market, he says, and spent years "driving a lot ... running around all over Texas, making deliveries." He spent his first four years after graduation sleeping "rent-free" on friends' couches around Austin so he could save money while trying to build GoodPop, he says. He cut fruit and froze 80 popsicles per hour, by hand, in a local paleteria that let him use its kitchen after hours. "I just knew that we had this delicious pop with lower sugar, real fruit, and there was nothing like it on the market," says Goetz, 38, adding: "Any opportunity that I could to put these products in front of Austinites, to introduce them and to see if we were on to something, I did." Goetz's family has a history of entrepreneurship: His great-grandfather immigrated to the U.S. from Russia over a century ago and "sold consigned ice out of a pushcart," he says. That great-grandfather then founded a grocery supply business in Houston in 1923, which grew into an operation with multibillion-dollar annual revenue by the time Goetz's family sold their interest in 2014. "I'm so fortunate to grow up in a family of entrepreneurs. But, at the same time, I knew that I needed to make my own mark on this world and do it on my own," says Goetz. With GoodPop, he spent $3,500 — money he'd saved from a lawn-mowing business he started in middle school — on signage, a pushcart of his own and produce to make and sell his first popsicles. He sold them for $2 apiece at local music festivals and farmer's markets, bought more ingredients with his proceeds, and spent three weeks making 18,000 popsicles to sell at the annual Austin City Limits music festival in October 2009, he says. Then, rain turned the festival into a "mud fest," he says. "It [was] a cold, sloppy mess ... and out of those 18,000 pops, we sold four. I thought that this was going to kickstart [the business] and change everything, and we were left with 17,996 pops that I had to figure out what to do with and [almost] no money." Goetz rushed the popsicles to a cold storage facility, paid $50 per month to store them and returned to school "dejected," he says. A few months later, he cut his losses and handed them out for free at Austin's annual SXSW festival. After graduating college, Goetz couldn't shake the GoodPop idea, he says. But the only remaining piece of the company was its website — so Goetz put his marketing skills to work, maximizing the site's search engine optimization (SEO). Soon, "when you searched for organic frozen pops or organic popsicles, because none existed at that time, GoodPop was actually the No. 1 result," he says. A week later, a marketing agency called Manifold asked GoodPop for a price quote for 50,000 organic popsicles with custom packaging. Goetz put in a bid and won it: Manifold paid him $80,000 for the job, giving him half the money up front to cover his production costs. "I hand-stamped every single pop stick," says Goetz. The second half of the payment was pure profit for Goetz, putting GoodPop back in business. Luck similarly gave GoodPop its first major retail partner: Goetz's roommate played recreational soccer with a Whole Foods employee, who put him in touch with a representative from the grocery chain's Southwest regional office. Goetz brought some samples and got the representative's approval to pitch buyers at individual Whole Foods stores. As he won buyers over — building relationships and shaking hands, he says — he spent four years sleeping on friends' couches, staying up late to make popsicles and getting up early to deliver them to Whole Foods locations and other, smaller grocery stores by 6 a.m. "I put 212,000 miles on my Toyota, running around all over Texas, making deliveries for years," says Goetz, adding that the hands-on dedication often left him "completely exhausted." By 2014, GoodPop's products sold well enough for Whole Foods to take over distribution for the Southwest and Rocky Mountain regions, meaning Goetz no longer had to make the deliveries himself. That year, GoodPop brought in $1.3 million in gross sales, the company says. In 2017, Whole Foods expanded GoodPop to national distribution. The brand got into Walmart and Costco the following year. The U.S. popsicle market was worth more than $1.3 billion in 2024, according to an estimate from Cognitive Market Research. That makes GoodPop a small player in a market dominated by packaged goods giants: Unilever, the world's largest ice cream producer, brought in more than $9.5 billion in 2024 revenue from frozen dessert brands like Magnum, Ben & Jerry's and the original Popsicle. Even among plant-based, real-fruit frozen desserts, GoodPop competes with brands like Outshine, owned by a joint venture between Nestlé and French private equity firm PAI Partners, and New York-based Chloe's, which sells low-sugar fruit pops in more than 10,000 stores nationwide, including Walmart and Wegman's. They all face a tough road convincing more Americans to buy lower-sugar desserts. In January, GoodPop wound down a line of low-sugar beverages — which mixed fruit juice with sparkling water — after customers said their kids didn't think the drinks were sweet enough. "We were not willing to compromise on any added sugar or any additional sweeteners," says Goetz, adding: "We have some tough times ahead, as far as continuing to reset those taste buds. But it's a worthwhile cause." Ultimately, Goetz's goal from college remains roughly the same: get GoodPop's desserts into as many new hands as possible. In February, the company landed a licensing deal with The Walt Disney Company, adding "Star Wars" and Mickey Mouse-themed products to GoodPop's offerings — a new strategy for the company to catch shoppers' attention. "The future looks like doubling down on what makes our products great," Goetz says.
Sydney Morning Herald
05-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
Britpop legends Pulp have dropped their first album in 25 years. I have some thoughts
A new Pulp album after 24 years wasn't Jarvis Cocker's idea. 'There's been a groundswell of feeling … a desire for us to play again,' he told me three years ago when plugging his memoir, Good Pop, Bad Pop. 'You know, if people clap for long enough it's a bit churlish if you don't go and give them another bit of music.' Hence, More. Not a lunge for relevance from a legacy act but a thoughtful response to friends in need. The distinction is everything because this long after the pilled-up promise of Disco 2000 we don't need a new high. We need something more real, for less certain times. Pulp were always the smarter, more ironic, less cavalier band of the Britpop pack. Common People was a '90s anthem. True stories of sex and shame, class resentment and crushed romanticism bopped to kitchen-sink disco and velvet melodrama. Even in the literal throes of ecstasy, Cocker was the guy who wasn't quite buying in. 'Is this the way they say the future's meant to feel?/Or just 20,000 people standing in a field?' he wondered in Sorted for E's and Wizz. True to those dry-eyed instincts, More is no grab for lost youth or even nostalgia. It's an embrace of where we've landed, a mirror held to ageing, love and the weight of shared memory. Spike Island lurches in like a boozy contiki bus, a flashback to a mythic Stone Roses show in 1990: a generational touchstone for Brits for which there's no real Australian equivalent, unless you count Nirvana (we were all American back then) at the first Big Day Out. Cocker conjures a vision of near-transcendence coexisting with an immediate comedown, the cosmos moving on in the midst of his tiny epiphany. 'I exist to do this,' he wails, hips a-wiggle, 'shouting and pointing.' A rock star's battle cry in past tense: sad, but strangely noble, too.
The Age
05-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
Britpop legends Pulp have dropped their first album in 25 years. I have some thoughts
A new Pulp album after 24 years wasn't Jarvis Cocker's idea. 'There's been a groundswell of feeling … a desire for us to play again,' he told me three years ago when plugging his memoir, Good Pop, Bad Pop. 'You know, if people clap for long enough it's a bit churlish if you don't go and give them another bit of music.' Hence, More. Not a lunge for relevance from a legacy act but a thoughtful response to friends in need. The distinction is everything because this long after the pilled-up promise of Disco 2000 we don't need a new high. We need something more real, for less certain times. Pulp were always the smarter, more ironic, less cavalier band of the Britpop pack. Common People was a '90s anthem. True stories of sex and shame, class resentment and crushed romanticism bopped to kitchen-sink disco and velvet melodrama. Even in the literal throes of ecstasy, Cocker was the guy who wasn't quite buying in. 'Is this the way they say the future's meant to feel?/Or just 20,000 people standing in a field?' he wondered in Sorted for E's and Wizz. True to those dry-eyed instincts, More is no grab for lost youth or even nostalgia. It's an embrace of where we've landed, a mirror held to ageing, love and the weight of shared memory. Spike Island lurches in like a boozy contiki bus, a flashback to a mythic Stone Roses show in 1990: a generational touchstone for Brits for which there's no real Australian equivalent, unless you count Nirvana (we were all American back then) at the first Big Day Out. Cocker conjures a vision of near-transcendence coexisting with an immediate comedown, the cosmos moving on in the midst of his tiny epiphany. 'I exist to do this,' he wails, hips a-wiggle, 'shouting and pointing.' A rock star's battle cry in past tense: sad, but strangely noble, too.
