I don’t know what we are supposed to do anymore as entrepreneurs trying to serve our communities. As a farmer and restaurant owner, I’m caught between skyrocketing costs and consumers who simply can’t bear any more financial pressure—and I know I’m not alone.
Every part of the food system feels squeezed. As a farmer, I see input costs exploding. As a restaurant owner, I see raw ingredients, labor, packaging, and shipping costs rising almost daily. Yet at the end of the chain, customers are struggling, too—living paycheck to paycheck, buried in debt, and already stretched beyond what they can afford.
Over the past 18 months, many of my food costs have risen by 30 to 50 percent, and some even more. For example, a year ago, I was paying around $40 per case for organic russet potatoes. Today, that same case costs upward of $60—and that’s before the organic tallow we fry them in, or the organic garlic and parsley we toss them with. Every detail costs more, but the price point the consumer will tolerate hasn’t risen at the same pace. If I pass the full increase on to my customers, sales fall.
The same is true for our farm events. Costs for food, equipment, and labor are higher across the board. Yet there is a cap to what people are willing—or able—to pay to attend a farm-to-table dinner or community gathering. We push against that ceiling constantly.
Animal feed tells a similar story. Two years ago, I paid about $12 for a 50-pound bag of pig feed. Now, even buying in bulk, I pay $0.63 per pound plus freight—and I have to purchase several thousand pounds at a time just to secure that rate. That works out to more than $31.50 for the same 50 pounds that used to cost $12. Yet there’s a limit to what people will pay for bacon, no matter how lovingly and ethically it was raised.
It’s the same frustration with meat processing. Costco sells grass-fed lamb for $5 and change per pound. Meanwhile, it costs me $125 just to kill and dispose of an animal, before even getting into cutting, packing, labeling, and USDA inspection. I’m $5 a pound into processing costs alone—without factoring in the cost of raising the animal itself. There’s simply no way to compete with industrial-scale pricing when you’re doing it right, on a small regenerative farm.
At the restaurant, when I look at the real numbers, I should be charging $25 for a burrito just to maintain a reasonable food cost margin. But who is going to pay $25 for a burrito? Most people can’t, and I don’t blame them.
Consumers are stretched thin. I see it every day. Even before inflation, most Americans were living paycheck to paycheck. Now, with everything from groceries to utilities costing more, it’s even harder. The supply chain shocks during the pandemic only made things worse. Basic restaurant supplies like compostable to-go boxes skyrocketed—from $39 to more than $100 a case at the peak. Even now, they’ve settled around $80—still double the pre-pandemic price.
Meanwhile, there are hidden costs people don’t see—like insurance.
My insurance, just to cover activities on my farm—from events to restaurant operations—is almost 20 percent of my total revenue. I called my insurance agent recently, begging for a more economical option, and she apologized, saying there was simply nothing she could offer. Insurance has become cost-prohibitive for so many businesses today. She told me many of her clients are going out of business under the weight of it.
How did we get here? How did we create a world so litigious that the burden of carrying enough insurance to simply exist is becoming too heavy to lift?
It feels like just another layer in a system designed to squeeze out small businesses while rewarding giant corporations that can absorb the blows.
Our fixed costs—mortgages, equipment payments, insurance, compliance costs—keep climbing. Profitability now floats somewhere above a ceiling we can’t realistically break through without losing the very people we’re trying to serve.
I wish I had the answer. I wish this op-ed could tie up neatly with a five-point plan for saving small farms, small restaurants, and small businesses. But the truth is, I’m writing more from the heart—with an open question.
How do we move forward from here?
How do we keep growing real food, nourishing our communities, raising healthy animals, hosting meaningful gatherings—without going broke? How do we sustain the businesses that are doing it right when the math no longer adds up?
Some would say, simply charge more. Others might say, scale up or cut corners. But neither option feels good—or even possible. I don’t want to abandon the values that brought me into this work: feeding people real, nutrient-dense food, building community, and stewarding the land. And I know many others feel the same.
I wish more people understood the real cost of real food. I wish we could collectively decide that a healthy food system—one rooted in soil health, animal welfare, and human dignity—is worth protecting. But I also understand that many consumers are fighting their own battles: rising rents, medical bills, student loans. It’s not simple.
For now, I’m continuing to do what I can: growing the best food possible, being transparent with my community, and holding tight to my mission. But some days, it feels like I’m standing between two crashing waves—rising costs on one side, consumer hardship on the other—wondering how long I can hold my footing.
I don’t have the perfect solution. What I have is a deep love for this work, and a stubborn hope that if we keep telling the truth, if we keep standing tall, we can find a way forward. Maybe not back to what was, but forward to something stronger, smaller, and more resilient.
To the farmers, the ranchers, the independent restaurant owners, the entrepreneurs who feel the squeeze: You are not alone.
And to the consumers who care about where their food comes from: Every choice you make matters more than you know.
