Your Friends Farm

Your Friends Farm We work to be good stewards here, of our land, our animals and of our bodies. On the farm that mean You can shop for eggs here

We always say that a farm only works in harmony when all of its pieces are cared for together. The land, the animals, th...
06/02/2026

We always say that a farm only works in harmony when all of its pieces are cared for together. The land, the animals, the people it feeds, and the farmer all have to somehow nourish one another.

But today I keep thinking about the people it feeds.

We simply couldn’t value this harmony the way we do without you.

Without the commitment and loyalty.

Without the choice to include us at your tables and in your freezers.

In your work days and phone calls and well wishes.

In the ways you care about what this farm gains and loses along the way.

Without that, we would be lost and without.

On Saturday, the farm filled with smiles and laughter and stories and dancing. There were conversations shared across tables and people lingering in the grass long after they meant to leave.

There was celebrating and remembering and the kind of joy that only happens when people feel connected to a place and to one another.

The farm was full of people who have loved her, championed her, and helped carry her along the way.

And this farmer left the day overwhelmed with gratitude
Thank you for loving this place alongside us.

This is why we have always called our customers friends.

Also, never growing tired of these beautiful photos from

This year’s Hoedown felt like something more than a gathering. More than music drifting across the field, more than laug...
06/01/2026

This year’s Hoedown felt like something more than a gathering. More than music drifting across the field, more than laughter carried into the dark, more than tables stretched long under string lights and open sky.

It felt like a remembering.

Much of what try to do here at Your Friends Farm is wrapped in the remembering that food is never just food.

It is story, written slowly in weather and seed, in frost and heat, in the long patience of waiting and the sudden urgency of harvest.

It is stewardship, the kind that doesn’t announce itself, but shows up in daily chores, in watching closely, in choosing again and again what it means to tend well.

It is labor, quiet, faithful, often invisible decisions made in service to land, to animals, and to the people who will be fed.

It is memory, of meals that shaped us, of hands that taught us, of the way nourishment carries more than calories.

It is relationship, between soil and steward, animal and caretaker, table and community, all of us bound up in one another more than we realize.

Behind every beautiful meal is a thousand quiet choices. Not grand gestures, but small acts of attention. The kind that rarely get named, but are always there holding everything together.

On Saturday night we got to taste what that kind of care feels like when it is shared. To stand in it. To dance in it. To let it feed us in more ways than one.

And I keep thinking: this is what we are actually making here.
Not just food.

Not just another event.

But a life of welcoming attention.

A life of belonging to the land and to each other.

Grateful for the dust on our boots, the sound of music in the trees, and the table that keeps making room for more of us.

Thanks to everyone who joined us.
Thanks to everyone who worked to feed us.

Cheers to this next growing season.

Photos by

Whelp, today we castrated our last batch of piglets for the spring. How’s that for a speed bump accompanying these sweet...
05/28/2026

Whelp, today we castrated our last batch of piglets for the spring. How’s that for a speed bump accompanying these sweet headshots of this precious little piggie?!

It’s one of those realities of farming that doesn’t make it into the romantic version of raising animals, but it matters.

We castrate our piglets because it helps prevent aggression as they grow, keeps the boys from breeding indiscriminately, and improves the quality of the meat we raise for families.

It’s not glamorous work, and it’s certainly not fun, but good animal husbandry rarely is.

There’s a tenderness required in farming that people don’t always understand. Not softness exactly, but care.

The kind of care that means stepping into uncomfortable tasks because stewardship asks it of you. We hold these little creatures with gentleness, do what needs to be done quickly and cleanly, and then set them back down to root around beside their siblings like nothing happened.

Farm life is often both beautiful and practical at the very same time. Baby pig snoots and hard decisions. That’s the work.

What I Learned in FranceI’ve been thinking a lot about how you don’t realize the weight of something until you finally s...
05/15/2026

What I Learned in France

I’ve been thinking a lot about how you don’t realize the weight of something until you finally set it down.

Two weeks away from the farm showed me just how much I’ve been carrying.

Not because the farm is bad,I love this life deeply. But because I’ve been holding it like I alone am responsible for all of it; sort of because I am.

My hours will likely always be long. I will probably always be “on call.” Thats just the reality.
And I don’t resent that.

The problem is how I’ve been holding it, and how I speak to myself about it.

I didn’t realize how depleted I was until I sat at a table and cried over a meal someone made simply to care for me.

I didn’t have to work for it. I didn’t have to produce it first. I didn’t have to justify rest to sit for two hours and enjoy it.

And I realized how long I’ve been treating care like something I have to earn.

I think farming and our culture, can glorify overworking. We call burnout dedication. We treat exhaustion like proof that what we do matters. We point out how many hours we are working and what others do so that we can work even more.

And I’ve lived in that.

There’s pride in being the one who carries it all. The one who never stops.

But I don’t think that’s sustainable. And if I believe sustainability matters for the land, it has to matter for the farmer too.

Right now I’m carrying sales, marketing, planting, purchasing, inventory, land planning, animal care, lambing, vetting, farming… and most of the things in between, alongside our household etc.

And it’s not a badge of honor I carry anymore, it’s eye bags, stress, and missed moments with myself. No one else is suffering for it, just me. And before last week, I would have insisted I was fine.

But as we know Fine is a four letter work that starts with F and not one I want to describe myself with.

And something has to change. I don’t have all the answers yet, but I do know I can’t keep going like this.

I’m learning how to navigate what needs to shift without abandoning what I love. To continue to farm while valuing self, as part of it all.

I want to build a farm that can last.
And a life that can too.

The animals have taught me that motherhood is far less polished than the world likes to pretend. It is instinct and exha...
05/09/2026

The animals have taught me that motherhood is far less polished than the world likes to pretend. It is instinct and exhaustion and tenderness all braided together. It is standing watch in the dark. It is learning when to intervene and when to stay quiet and trust what has already been written into a body.

I have watched ewes call softly to lambs still learning their legs. Watched mother hens puff themselves twice their size to protect their chicks. Watched cows lick their calves clean with a patience that feels almost holy. On the farm motherhood is not performative. It is repetitive and physical and often unseen. It smells like milk and dirt and hay and sweat, blood and tears.

It asks for your body over and over again.

The animals have also taught me that motherhood comes in all shapes and sizes. Mothers adopt babies. They keep watch over one another’s young. They grieve together in loss and celebrate together too. Care has never belonged only to biology. It belongs to love, to presence, to the willingness to nurture and protect what is vulnerable.

The longer I farm, the more I realize that mothering is less about control and more about courage. The courage to love something enough to let it become itself. The courage to remain soft in a world that rewards rigidity. The courage to keep showing up every single day whether anyone notices or not.

To my children, you make me brave.

There has never been a day in my life that I did not want to be a mother. Before I knew your faces, before I knew your names, my heart was already making room for you. And now every risk I take, every hard thing I do, every way I’ve learned to trust myself more deeply has come because of you.

You have made my life wider, more vulnerable, more beautiful, and infinitely more alive.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Two days ago we visited the Cadre Noir in Saumur.No photos were allowed, otherwise I would have filled this post with th...
05/07/2026

Two days ago we visited the Cadre Noir in Saumur.

No photos were allowed, otherwise I would have filled this post with the horses. Truly some of the most beautiful animals I’ve ever seen.

But what stayed with me most wasn’t the performance.

It was the familiar things.
The smell of straw and manure.
Hay on warm breath.
The sound of animals eating in their stalls.

It felt like home to me.

As we walked through the barns, I found myself less interested in the spectacle and more interested in the care.

I wanted to know who fed the horses. Who cleaned the stalls. Whether the riders worked with the same horses every day and knew their personalities and moods.

I wanted to know what happened behind the scenes that allowed all of this beauty to exist in the first place.

The horsemanship was incredible. But what moved me most was sensing that the animals were known there.

Not just trained.

Not just used for performance.

Known.

They let me rub a few soft noses and suddenly I was homesick for my own animals. For the cows at home. For carrying a milk bucket across wet grass. For a barn cat finding a warm spot nearby while chores get done.

I think when you spend enough time around animals, your heart starts looking for that connection everywhere you go.

You can tell when creatures are being cared for by people who know them well.

What a gift it is to witness beauty and to recognize the quiet work and relationship that make it possible.

All of these photos were taken by and the beautiful little cherubs pictured are hers as well

It’s been four days.Four days away from the farm,and I’m still learning how to hold the distance.I know this might sound...
05/04/2026

It’s been four days.

Four days away from the farm,
and I’m still learning how to hold the distance.

I know this might sound dramatic,
it’s just a trip. I’ll go home.

But distance has a way of revealing
what’s been quietly forming all along.

There are certain places that settle into you,
become part of your core.

This farm is one of them.

These photos,
small glimpses of home sent to me,
feel like reminders of what is still possible.

Nine hours ahead now,
as the sun rises here, it has set on the farm.

Somewhere in that rhythm,
he’s still walking it, tending it.

A kind of hope I don’t have to understand.
A kind of love that arrives like a first breath,
felt long before it’s chosen.

Brian has always cared for me
by sending me out.

When our kids were little,
he’d come home from long days
and tell me goodbye,
doing everything short of placing my shoes in my hands.

I loved being home so much
I didn’t always remember
that leaving could be a kind of care too.

The farm is like that.

It holds me so well
I forget I might need to step away.

When my kids were little, I used to tell them:
mamas always come home,
even if it’s only in the heart of the one who knows her as home.

Maybe that’s what this is,
learning that home isn’t undone by distance.

Because the farm seems to continue to hold me,
reminding me the order of things is still good.

It’s taught me how to loosen the pressure to be at the center and remember we are all just moving around the sun.

Maybe that’s why this feels different,
to be away, and still feel held.

You might see a farm.
I see the place that taught me how to come home
to the land, and to myself.

And even from here,
I can feel it…
steady, waiting, unchanged.

Things that I saw while gardening this week. 1- Cows on pasture for the first time this year. I could hear them munching...
04/26/2026

Things that I saw while gardening this week.

1- Cows on pasture for the first time this year. I could hear them munching while I cleaned up the food forest and the sound and sight together brought so much hope for the season to come.

2- worms, worms, and more 🪱s

3-This is my garden chicken, Maisel, she comes running anytime she sees me with a shovel or the tiller. This is our second season farming together.

4- She’s the best

5-My guy came to visit me on his lunch break and took a minute to give Callie some attention.

6-A broody chicken with at least 20 eggs underneath her.

7- The herd through the trees.

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10312 N. Ritchey Road
Spokane, WA
99224

Telephone

+13603930466

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