08/22/2026
What I Wish People Understood About the Price of Farm-Fresh Food
Recently, I received a comment from a local woman in a Facebook group where I had posted an ad for our sweet corn:
“Thank you for selling your corn at a reasonable price. You've earned my ‘Good People of the Day’ badge.”
And while I genuinely appreciated the kindness behind her comment, it also made me a little sad—because I knew exactly what she meant.
We had dropped the price of our corn from $10 a dozen to $8. But it wasn't because we had a huge profit margin and could easily afford to knock a couple of dollars off. That particular planting was coming to an end, and we needed to sell the remaining corn before it became too mature and we lost it altogether.
I get it. I really do.
Money is tight these days. Prices are outrageous, and it seems like everything gets more expensive by the day. There was a time when you could buy a dozen ears of corn for $5—but there was also a time when you could buy fuel for 55 cents a litre.
Things have changed.
And sometimes I think farmers—especially small farmers and those of us trying to grow food without pesticides and herbicides—get a bad rap because of it.
When someone sees raspberries for $7 a pint, eggs for $6 a dozen, or sweet corn for $10 a dozen, I understand why their first reaction might be, That's expensive.
Before we started farming, I probably would have thought the same thing.
We've only been doing this for about five years, and I still feel like we're barely scratching the surface of everything there is to learn. But one thing I understand now that I didn't understand before is just how much goes into producing that pint of berries, carton of eggs, or dozen ears of corn.
And there's another side to this that bothers me too: Why is healthy, locally grown food so expensive while heavily processed food can be so cheap?
It doesn't seem fair that families have to weigh the cost of putting fresh, healthy food on the table against everything else they need to pay for. For some families, fresh local produce simply doesn't fit into the grocery budget.
I understand that.
But I also wish more people understood what happens on the other side of that price tag.
So, what are you actually paying for?
Let's start with something pretty basic: land.
There's a house not far down the road from us right now. It sits on about two acres, has three bedrooms, and is listed for around $750,000.
Two acres.
Now imagine buying enough land to actually farm.
Then there are property taxes. Yes, farmers can qualify for a reduced farm property tax rate, but there are requirements that have to be met, including farm income requirements and maintaining the appropriate farm organization membership.
And that's before we've grown a single thing.
Then we have to plant it.
Growing sweet corn doesn't start with throwing a handful of seeds in the dirt and waiting for August.
You need equipment.
For us, that means tractors and equipment to work and prepare the soil—discs, cultivators, planters, and everything else involved in getting that seed into the ground.
You can spend hundreds of thousands of dollars buying newer farm equipment.
Or, like many smaller farmers, you can buy older second- or third-hand equipment because that's what fits the budget.
Which sounds great—until something breaks.
And something ALWAYS breaks!
Then you're looking at parts, repairs, and hours of labour spent fixing equipment instead of working in the field. Sometimes you're fixing the machine just so you can get back to the job you were supposed to be doing in the first place.
Then there's fuel.
Every trip across that field costs money, and we have all seen the prices at the pumps lately.
And once the corn is planted, the work certainly isn't finished.
Because we choose to grow our sweet corn without herbicides or pesticides, the weeds don't magically disappear. They have to be managed another way, and that takes time and labour.
We also spend hours walking the rows, removing smaller or less-developed cobs so the plants can put more of their energy into producing the larger, sweeter ears we want to sell.
And all of that happens before we pick a single cob.
Then we pray for it to rain—and then we pray for it to stop raining.
In a perfect world, we'd get exactly the amount of rain we need, exactly when we need it.
And when does that happen?
Never!
What happens if we don't get enough rain?
The plants can become stunted. The cobs can be smaller. Kernels may not develop properly, pollination can suffer, and our overall yield can drop.
In a severe drought, we can lose a significant portion of the crop altogether.
And here's the important part: the money has already been spent.
The seed was purchased. The equipment ran. The fuel was burned. The hours were worked.
We don't get any of that back because it didn't rain.
What happens if we get too much rain?
That's not much better.
If the soil stays saturated for too long, the roots can become waterlogged. Roots need oxygen to survive and thrive, and overly wet conditions can result in poor root development. That can become an even bigger problem later in the season if the weather suddenly turns hot and dry.
Then there's disease. Constant moisture can create ideal conditions for certain fungal and bacterial diseases.
Too much rain can also delay our work. If the fields are too wet to access with equipment, we can't properly control the weeds.
And let me tell you—weeds LOVE rain.
Unfortunately, those weeds are also competing with our corn for the nutrients in the soil.
Whether it's too much rain or not enough, the result can be the same: lower yields and poorer-quality crops.
So even when we've done everything right on our end, we're still placing a pretty big bet on Mother Nature doing her part.
And any bet is a gamble.
Then it's finally time to harvest.
Well, friends, this is when the fun really begins.
There are hours spent walking the fields and hand-picking cobs.
Then we sort them.
Because realistically, we're not running an assembly line where everything comes out perfectly uniform and identically assembled.
This is nature.
There are cobs that are too small. Cobs that are too skinny. Cobs that didn't pollinate properly. Cobs with kernels that never fully developed.
You get the picture.
After all of our investment, hard work, praying, and attempts at reasoning with God and Mother Nature, the last thing we want to do is sell you corn that we're not proud of.
So the cobs that don't make the cut?
We paid to grow those too.
And then, after all of that, we still have to actually sell the corn.
We find local retailers who are willing to carry our product. But we're still taking the risk. If the corn doesn't sell while it's fresh, we take the loss and replace their stock with freshly picked produce.
Or we load up the truck, put out a Fresh Corn for Sale sign, and sit on the side of the road or in a parking lot hoping people stop.
In fact, as I write this article, that's exactly what I'm doing.
I'm sitting in a parking lot with a load of freshly picked corn, watching cars drive by.
I've been here for six hours.
And the clock is ticking, because unlike something manufactured in a factory, fresh corn doesn't have an indefinite shelf life. Tomorrow, we'll pick more.
So why do we do it?
Because despite everything I just told you, there's something incredibly satisfying about growing food.
There's something special about looking across a field that started as bare dirt and knowing that what is growing there will eventually become someone's supper.
We get to feed our neighbours. We get to supply local stores. We get to hand someone a dozen ears of corn that were standing in our field only hours earlier.
And we're proud of that.
So when you see a farmer selling sweet corn for $10 a dozen, raspberries for $7 a pint, or eggs for $6 a dozen, I'm not asking you to think it's cheap.
I'm not even asking you to buy it if it doesn't fit your family's budget.
I just hope that maybe you'll look at that price a little differently.
Because you're not only paying for twelve ears of corn.
You're paying for the land they grew on. The seed that went into the ground. The tractor that planted it. The fuel that powered the tractor. The equipment that broke. The parts that fixed it. The weeds we fought. The rain that didn't come—or wouldn't stop coming. The cobs that never made it into the bag. The hours spent picking and sorting. And yes, even the six hours spent sitting in a parking lot hoping someone pulls in.
You're paying for everything it took to get those twelve ears of corn from our field to your table.
And the next time you stop at a roadside stand, a farmers' market, or a little local store and bring home something grown by a farmer in your own community, I hope you know just how much went into growing it.
That's the part of the price tag you can't see.
