• Harry and Susan Jones own Bridge Avenue Berries, a blueberry farm in Allenwood, Pennsylvania.
• The farm became USDA organic certified in 2021, boosting customer traffic and interest.
• If they had bought the farm 30 years ago, they would have likely grown a more diverse set of crops.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Harry Jones, 63, who owns and runs Bridge Avenue Berries with his wife, Susan, in Allenwood, Pennsylvania. It has been edited for length and clarity.

Since I was a kid, I'd always wanted to run my own business, but it never quite came together. I tried starting a small tree nursery business, but we couldn't compete with the big nurseries and had to close it.

Then, a blueberry farm that my wife and I had been picking berries at for years went up for sale. When I first mentioned buying it, she said, "Absolutely not."

A few months later, we were there picking blueberries, and the farm still hadn't sold. We started talking with the owner and purchased it in March 2018.

We didn't have much time to figure it out. Blueberry season starts in early July, and we had about four months to get ready.

That first summer, it felt like we were drinking from a fire hose. We were learning everything at once — pests, soil, customers — mostly the hard way.

I wasn't starting from scratch, but owning a farm still surprised me

My background is in horticulture. I have an associate degree in nursery management, and I spent years designing landscapes. So, I've been around plants most of my life.

Still, running a blueberry farm is a different kind of challenge.

We have about 7 acres of blueberries — roughly 3,800 plants — and we harvest around 18,000 pounds a year.

The catch is that it all happens in about a 30-day window in July. That month is intense, but the work doesn't end with the season. The rest of the year is spent on preparing for the next one.

I've kept my full-time job in the lumber industry through all of this. We tend to call the farm my self-supporting hobby, but the truth is, even a small farm like ours struggles to make a dollar.

By the time you pay for inputs, repairs, improvements, and all the other costs that come with a small business, there's not much left.

If I were younger, I'd do it differently

At this stage of life, I think differently about what the farm should be. If I were 25 or 30 years younger, I wouldn't run it the way I do now.

Right now, we're heavily focused on one crop. If I were starting earlier, I'd cut the number of blueberry bushes down — maybe from 3,800 to about 2,000 — and use the rest of the land for other crops. Strawberries, raspberries, pumpkins — something to stretch income across more of the year.

That's the biggest challenge with what we do. When you rely on a single crop and a short season, it's hard to build a stable living.

We've found ways to spread out the income a bit. We freeze blueberries — about 1,900 pounds a year — and sell them through the winter at local markets and to restaurants.

Becoming USDA-certified organic was a game changer

We started farming organically from day one in 2018, but it took time to make it official. To become USDA certified organic, we had to go through a required three-year transition period — documenting everything we did, from fertilizers to pest control, and proving we were following the standards.

We finally got certified in spring 2021, and once we could call our berries "USDA organic," we saw more customers, more traffic, and even people driving an hour or more to pick our fruit.

But over time, the downsides started to add up. The certification cost us about $1,400 a year — a big expense for a small farm — and required inspections and paperwork during our busiest season. More importantly, I grew frustrated with what I saw as inconsistencies in the system.

In early 2024, we gave up our USDA certification and switched to Certified Naturally Grown, a smaller, farmer-led program. It costs about $350 a year and still holds us accountable to the National Organic Program Standards, but in a way that is more transparent and aligned with how we actually farm.

We know we won't do this forever

Realistically, we'll probably run the farm for another three to five years and then look to sell it, so that we can have more freedom to travel and visit our three kids and nine grandchildren.

I think about what a younger person could do with this place. It's a productive farm with a lot of potential. Someone with more time and energy could take it further than we have.

Even knowing what I know now, I'd still buy the farm.

We're happy with what we've built. It gave me a chance to finally run my own business and to work with something I've always loved — plants. And it's been meaningful to us to see people come here, enjoy the farm, and tell us how much they like it.

• Pink Himalayan salt is sourced from Pakistan, not the Himalayas, despite its name.
• The world's largest deposit of pink salt, the Khewra mine, produces 400,000 tons of pink salt a year.
• Pakistanis are expanding salt processing to capture more value in the global market.

Marketed as a premium, natural alternative to table salt, pink Himalayan salt can sell for up to 30 times the price. However, this salt doesn't actually come from the Himalayas.

Instead, the world's largest deposit of pink salt — the Khewra salt mine — sits about 155 miles west of the Himalayas in Pakistan's Punjab province, in a region known as the Potohar Plateau.

Most of the salt mined in Khewra is exported to markets like the US and Europe. There, it's often branded as "Himalayan" pink salt, named for the broader region than its exact origin.

Still, demand for this premium product continues to grow. The global market for Himalayan salt was $523 million in 2025 and is projected to reach nearly $700 million by 2030, according to Grand View Research.

Its popularity is driven in part by marketing. Influencers and wellness companies have promoted claims that pink salt can regulate blood sugar, improve sleep, and detoxify the body. However, scientists say there is no solid evidence to support this.

Regardless, pink salt's supply isn't expected to go away anytime soon. The Khewra mine alone produces close to 400,000 tons of salt each year, and the reserves are large enough to last for centuries at current extraction rates.

Business Insider visited the mine late last year to see how this salt is extracted, processed, and shipped to more than 80 countries worldwide for use in a wide range of goods, from edible salt to bath products and decorative lamps.

The Khewra mine has been a source of salt for generations

Industrial-scale mining began in the 1870s during British colonial rule. After Pakistan gained independence in 1947, the government took ownership of the mine and continues to lease sections to private companies.

Today, miners do not remove all of the salt; large portions are left behind to support the tunnels and prevent collapse.

Inside, workers rely on a mix of modern geological surveys and techniques passed down through generations to identify high-quality deposits. Once they find one, workers drill holes about 4 feet deep into the rock and pack them with explosives by hand to blast the salt rock loose.

It's a risky process and workers must wait about 30 minutes after each blast before reentering tunnels to check for misfires or unstable rock.

After drilling and blasting, the large blocks are transported out through an extensive network of tunnels that spans about 25 miles across 17 levels. Some of the raw salt blocks that come out can weigh over 1,700 pounds, making them too heavy to lift without machinery.

The risks don't end in the mine

Workers involved in processing the salt are also exposed to fine particles released during cutting and shaping.

At one factory, drilling and cutting salt blocks can produce what workers describe as "salt fumes." Over time, those particles can collect in the lungs and make it harder to breathe.

Workers use protective measures like water sprays, masks, and goggles to reduce exposure.

Some of these blocks can still weigh up to 220 pounds, requiring careful handling to avoid injury. Workers use diamond-tipped blades to slice through the salt.

Factories have begun automating parts of this workflow to increase output. The Ittefaq salt facility can process nearly 350 metric tons of salt per day.

Pakistan's fight for its share of the market

For years, Pakistan exported much of its pink salt in its raw form, limiting the value it captured in the global market.

Large volumes of unprocessed salt were shipped to India at low prices. There, it was refined, packaged, and sold to Western markets as a premium product — sometimes even labeled as "Made in India."

That meant much of the profit was generated later in the supply chain, outside of Pakistan, once the salt had been processed and branded.

This dynamic began to shift in 2019, when political tensions between India and Pakistan escalated over the Kashmir region. Pakistan suspended bilateral trade, cutting off a key export route for raw salt.

In response, local companies expanded their own processing capabilities.

Instead of exporting raw blocks, more businesses began investing in equipment to grind, refine, and package the salt domestically. That allowed them to produce finished goods that could be sold directly to international buyers.

It's a gradual transition. Earlier processing facilities were less modern and, in some cases, lacked basic safety measures.

Still, the shift marks a broader effort to retain more of the industry's profits within Pakistan — moving from a supplier of raw materials to a producer of higher-value products in a growing global market.

• The US Army's Bavaria base hosts over 16,000 troops ready for instant deployment.
• Its origins date back to pre-World War I. Later, it became a major training hub for the German Wehrmacht.
• Today, US troops train in trenches — rain or shine — honing skills for potential conflicts with Russia.

Just a couple of hours north of Munich, the US Army runs its largest training site outside the United States. Once a Nazi artillery training ground, the sprawling base is now home to more than 16,000 troops kept ready to fight at a moment's notice.

Soldiers train in trenches and with armored Stryker combat vehicles to maintain constant combat readiness "so they can answer America's call in an instant," said Hermes Acevedo, who was the command sergeant major and senior enlisted advisor to the garrison commander at US Army Garrison Bavaria when Business Insider's Graham Flanagan visited last April.

That readiness serves as deterrence. From Bavaria, troops can reach the Czech Republic within about an hour and Ukraine's capital, Kyiv, in roughly 18 hours by road. "By us being ready, by us being here in this location, [it] kind of sends a signal," Acevedo said.

He didn't name a specific adversary, but soldiers in the trenches know who they're preparing for.

As Russia's war in Ukraine continues, the US Army's presence in Germany is crucial. These soldiers could be the first ones in the fight, defending NATO's eastern flank.

From Nazi training ground to NATO backbone

US Army Garrison Bavaria's origins date back to pre-World War I, when the Royal Bavarian Army developed a training area for its own artillery forces.

That role expanded under Adolf Hitler, when the Third Reich used the same grounds as a major training hub for the German Wehrmacht — Nazi's unified armed forces.

At the end of World War II, US forces took control of the area. Today, it anchors US and NATO operations in Europe.

The installation spans four main areas, including Tower Barracks and Rose Barracks. It houses the 7th Army Training Command — which sets standards for US Army Europe and Africa — and the 2nd Cavalry Regiment, a forward-positioned ground force.

"We're not going to deploy to an incident in Europe," Acevedo said. "We are already here."

Training for a potential war with Russia

Troops can leave their barracks and reach live training ranges in less than two minutes, Acevedo said. Once there, they train in all conditions — snow, rain, heat, and cold — to build what he described as instinctive responses.

"It's all about readiness," Acevedo said.

The base also runs an opposing force, or OPFOR, that mimics enemy tactics. "We're basically supposed to act like Russians," Spc. Aaron Jude said, noting they study the war in Ukraine sometimes through open-source material like social media.

OPFOR units use AK-style rifles and train in trench warfare, reflecting the realities of the conflict.

"That's what's so awesome about this unit," said Staff Sgt. Daniel Johnson, an OPFOR soldier. "Not only are we being able to train to our standards, but we're also training to Russia's standards. Honestly, to me, that's like a really good way to understand our adversaries."

Sensors across the training area collect data, allowing commanders to analyze performance and refine strategy. That constant feedback loop is central to the base's role, allowing it to test equipment and decision-making under pressure.

A self-contained military ecosystem

The installation is designed to support both troops and their families. It includes more than 3,400 housing units, K—12 schools, childcare centers, and recreational facilities. Many families live both on and off base, integrated into nearby communities.

Acevedo said that these support systems help ease one of the biggest challenges for troops arriving from the US: uncertainty.

That environment is part of what keeps the base functioning at scale. Soldiers can focus on training and missions, while families have access to services designed to mirror life in the US.

The result is a well-oiled rapid-response war machine that turns a historically significant site into a modern military hub, readying troops for a hard fight.

• Jatee Kearsley's bakery, Je T'aime Patisserie, gained fame after a viral feature on Righteous Eats.
• Going viral changed the trajectory of her business but took a toll on her mental health.
• Kearsley says she wouldn't want to go viral again, even though that may sound ungrateful.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jatee Kearsley, the owner and pastry chef of Je T'aime Patisserie, which offers a "Black girl twist" on French pastries in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. It has been edited for length and clarity.

In April 2024, I sat in my bakery with my Bible study group and told them I had $2,000 in my bank account and no idea how I was going to pay my employees the next day.

When I opened my bakery a year prior, I knew it would be hard. I had taken out loans. I had put in my own savings. I understood that small businesses require money for everything: rent, ingredients, payroll, insurance, and taxes.

Still, nothing prepares you for sitting in your own store and realizing you might not be able to cover payroll. Then, the day after meeting with my Bible study group, everything changed.

We were featured on Righteous Eats, a social media feed run by Jaeki Cho and Brian Lee that features New York City restaurants. The video went viral, and by the following weekend, my bank account looked completely different.

Going viral was a blessing. I will never pretend it wasn't. It changed the trajectory of my business. However, I don't think people talk enough about what going viral does to your mental health.

For me mentally, I don't want to go viral again. That might sound ungrateful, but it's honest.

Going viral didn't make the work easier

On a normal day before going viral, my team and I of about four, were making, on average, 200 croissants a week. After we went viral, demand shot up to about 200 croissants every other day.

I specifically remember selling four chocolate croissants the day before going viral and then 30 the day of. We make all types of croissants from scratch: chocolate, almond, ham and cheese, blueberry cheesecake, and more.

We laminate the dough, hand-roll each one, proof them, bake them, and fill them. Going viral didn't make our team any bigger, and I had to loop in friends, family, and volunteers to help fill orders and deliveries.

There were weekends when it was just me and one other person in the bakery at 6 a.m., trying to keep up.

Other days, I was filling 160 mini croissants for catering orders on top of regular production. I've even hand-rolled croissants on my day off because there was no one else to do it.

Going viral brought more customers, but it also brought higher expectations

People would leave reviews saying they waited hours, only to find we were sold out. I didn't want to disappoint anyone. So I slept on a bench in the bakery for a week straight after going viral to make sure I was keeping up with the demand that was needed during that time.

There's also the emotional weight that comes with virality. When we went viral the first time, it was exciting. It also meant strangers had opinions about everything: my prices, my neighborhood, the fact that I accept Electronic Benefits Transfer.

I accept EBT because I know what underserved, overlooked communities of people are dealing with. And I never wanted there to be a moment where someone walked into Je T'aime Patisserie and wasn't able to afford it.

I specifically wanted Je T'aime Patisserie to be in a neighborhood where people don't have things. Historically, Bed-Stuy is an underserved, overlooked food desert.

So, it was super important for me to make sure that my food impacts the neighborhood by providing high-quality, fresh pastries. People thought that accepting EBT was going to ruin my business, but it actually helped.

Everything I have achieved with my shop is because I accept all types of people in my store, including EBT and SNAP holders.

It's not about the money or going viral

I know this is Business Insider, and we're supposed to talk about numbers. But if I'm being honest, this has never been about the money for me.

If this were just about money, I would make different decisions. I would raise my prices more aggressively. I would stop worrying about whether a single mom can afford a croissant. I would probably choose a different neighborhood.

But I opened in Bed-Stuy on purpose. People told me my bakery "belonged" in Manhattan. I disagreed. I wanted someone who has never tried a fresh croissant or a quiche to walk into my shop and feel like they deserve it.

Financially, EBT makes up a small percentage of my revenue. But the support and gratitude from those customers mean more to me than the dollar amount ever could.

If I could run this business without making money, I would. Unfortunately, that's not realistic in New York City. You need money to survive. But my passion has always been about helping people and impacting my community.

• Michael Greene reflects on his journey running Matthews Cafeteria in Tucker, Georgia.
• Despite not enjoying the work as a kid, Greene now finds joy in operating the family cafeteria.
• Greene's focus is on his kids' freedom, not pressuring them into the family business.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Michael Greene, 53, third-generation owner and operator of the 70-year-old Matthews Cafeteria in Tucker, Georgia. It has been edited for length and clarity.

My family has run Matthews Cafeteria for three generations. A fourth would be rare and special, but I don't expect it.

I have four kids, ages 12, 10, 8, and 4. They're all boys, and people often assume that at least one of them will take over one day, but I'm not going to push them into this business if they don't want it.

I was one of four, and my parents didn't pressure my siblings or me to run the family business. They gave us the chance to be anything we wanted. So when I think about my sons, I want them to have that same freedom.

I don't expect they'll want this type of work. I was the only one in my generation who wanted anything to do with the business, and it's a tough job. It's also extremely rewarding.

I didn't enjoy the cafeteria when I was growing up

At age 12, my parents required me to start working in the cafeteria during the summer. I started out washing dishes. I only spent about three hours a day at the job, but it felt like 12.

Meanwhile, my friends, who didn't have jobs, were at the pool. So, the cafeteria was by no means my favorite place to be as a kid because it felt like I was missing out.

That said, I plan for each of my sons to work the same job I did as a kid. My eldest will start this summer.

I don't expect him to like it, but it's important to see what his Dad does, to see where the money comes from, and what it takes to make a dollar.

I eventually found my way back to the family business

I can't remember exactly when I decided to go into the family business. Looking back, I think it was my destiny to end up here because cooking is my passion.

As a kid, I would watch chefs like Nathalie Dupree and Julia Childs on TV and try to recreate what they made. When I went to college, I majored in communications, but never found it rewarding.

Nothing else turned me on the way cooking did. Cooking was my only passion back then, and I'm lucky to say it still is today. Sometimes, when you have to make a living out of what you love, it takes the fun out of it. I'm grateful that the bottom line hasn't spoiled my joy.

I run the production side of things at Matthews, watching the food transform from raw products into what you see on your plate. That'll never get old.

The work is harder than it looks, though. You're on your feet all day — lifting, moving, cooking, solving problems. It's not a desk job.

Up until recently, I was here at 5 a.m. to open and stayed until about 3:30 in the afternoon. Now we open at 6 a.m., and I don't work quite as much as I used to because life is busy with four kids. I also have an incredible staff who, along with my wife, are really what keep this place running smoothly.

During COVID, my wife took on the business side — handling payroll, taxes, catering, everything — after our managers quit.

So, we really don't get to turn off ever — there's always something that needs to be done. That's why I don't take it lightly when people assume my kids will step into this business.

This business has given me a good life

If one of my boys wants to do this and has a passion for it, then I'll support that. But I don't want them to have it as a crutch. Instead, I want them to study hard, get an education, and forge their own path.

This business has given me a good life. It's supported my family and about 30 employees. It's where I met my wife. We got engaged at the same table where I first laid eyes on her. It means a lot to me now in a way it didn't when I was younger.

If one or more of my kids choose the same path, it will be because they want it — the same way I did.