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Lundberg Family Farms is one of those rare American health-food companies whose “origin story” isn’t a branding invention—it’s the literal experience of watching land collapse, then deciding to farm in a way that would never let that happen again.
In 1937, Albert and Frances Lundberg left Nebraska in the wake of the Dust Bowl and drove west with their four young sons—Eldon, Wendell, Harlan, and Homer—carrying what they could on a flatbed truck and a tractor, plus a guiding idea that became the family’s north star: leave the land better than you found it. They eventually settled in Richvale, in the Sacramento Valley. It wasn’t the obvious place to start a dream. The soil was heavy clay, and plenty of neighbors doubted it could really become good farmland. But clay holds water—and that turned out to be exactly what rice needed.
That early Dust Bowl memory matters because it explains why Lundberg’s later reputation for environmental stewardship isn’t a trend-chasing posture. The family had seen what “extractive farming” looked like up close: soil stripped and blowing away, a landscape turned into dust, and families forced to abandon their lives. So when they began building a rice farm in California, they weren’t just trying to grow a crop. They were trying to prove a different relationship with land could work.
As the decades went on, the four sons took over the work of expanding and refining the farm. Their shared project became more than growing rice; it became an experiment in how to do rice farming with restraint, observation, and constant tinkering. Over time they built the infrastructure that would turn a farm into a recognizable name—drying, milling, packaging, and eventually a full product line. (In the natural foods world, that vertical integration is a big reason the company could protect quality and uphold its standards rather than being pulled by outside processors.)
But the pivotal turn—the one that planted Lundberg firmly inside health food history—came in the late 1960s.
In 1969, a rice buyer asked farmers in the region if anyone would grow organic rice. Most said no. The Lundberg brothers said yes.
That one decision is easy to gloss over today, because “organic rice” is now normal. But in 1969, organic was not a safe business bet. Yields were uncertain, weed pressure could be brutal, and there wasn’t a tidy roadmap for how to do it reliably at scale. The brothers planted a relatively small organic acreage at first, and the yield was modest. Still, the significance wasn’t the first harvest—it was the commitment. They treated organic not as a side hustle but as a direction of travel. And that direction shaped everything that followed: how they managed soil, water, weeds, and wildlife; how they talked to customers; and how they invested in farming innovation.
You can think of Lundberg’s place in health food history as a “staple-food breakthrough.” Health food in America has had plenty of eras focused on supplements, cleanses, and specialized products. Lundberg’s impact was different: they helped move the movement into the pantry—into everyday meals—by making a simple staple (rice) feel trustworthy, clean, and ethically grown.
Rice is a crop that forces you to confront stewardship in physical terms. It’s water-intensive. It creates habitat (intentionally or unintentionally). It can either build soils or wear them down. It can be managed with heavy chemical inputs—or with a more ecological approach that requires patience and skill.
Over the years, Lundberg became known for several practical, on-the-ground practices that align with their “leave it better” philosophy:
1) Wetland habitat through winter flooding.
Each winter, after harvest, Lundberg floods portions of its rice fields to mimic natural wetlands that once covered much more of the region. This isn’t a cute side story—it’s land management. Those shallow flooded fields create seasonal habitat for waterfowl on the Pacific Flyway. It’s a deliberate choice to make the farm function as part of a living ecosystem, not as a sealed industrial zone.
2) Cover crops for soil health and wildlife.
They plant cover crops during the off-season, which helps protect and rebuild soil, and also provides nesting habitat for birds. Cover crops are one of those “quiet” practices that can look like extra work (because it is), but it’s a direct investment in long-term fertility and resilience—especially important in organic systems.
3) The duck rescue program.
Lundberg’s fields sometimes become nesting sites for ducks, and farm work in spring can threaten nests. Rather than shrugging and treating it as collateral damage, the farm works with conservation partners on an egg-salvage effort—collecting eggs from at-risk areas, getting ducklings safely hatched, banded, and released into protected habitats. Over the years, the company has said this effort has helped save tens of thousands of ducks. What’s striking about this isn’t the number; it’s the mindset: the farm is willing to slow down and get its hands dirty for wildlife.
4) Using water and timing—rather than defaulting to chemicals—to manage weeds.
One of Lundberg’s more telling practices is a weed strategy often described as “drying up” at specific moments to disrupt weeds, instead of simply reaching for chemical herbicides as the first answer. In rice, water management isn’t only irrigation; it’s a tool for ecological balance. The point isn’t that this is easy—it’s that it reflects a consistent pattern: solve problems with systems and skill before inputs.
5) Returning water to support downstream ecosystems.
Lundberg also points to how water leaving rice fields can re-enter rivers and streams in ways that support aquatic food webs—zooplankton, for example, that can nourish fish like salmon. That’s a very “rice-farm-specific” stewardship idea: water isn’t just used and discarded; it’s managed as part of a larger living cycle.
A less famous but important Lundberg thread is how seriously they’ve treated rice itself—not just as a commodity, but as something worth improving through genetics and flavor.
Over time, the family invested in developing and selecting rice varieties that perform well under organic conditions and also taste great. That matters more than it might sound. Organic farming can’t rely on the same chemical “crutches” as conventional systems, so crop varieties have to be better adapted to real field pressures. Building a breeding and nursery program is a long game: it’s slow, expensive, and it only pays off if you plan to farm for generations.
This is one of the reasons Lundberg feels “built from the ground up.” Many food companies innovate in marketing cycles. A farm innovates in growing cycles. Lundberg has repeatedly chosen the slower form of innovation.
In the last couple of years, Lundberg has pushed its stewardship story into a more formal, auditable framework by expanding into Regenerative Organic Certified® rice and rolling that rice across a wide range of products—over 70 items in their portfolio, by their own announcements.
This shift is meaningful because it’s not just a new label; it’s an escalation of what they were already doing. The basic Lundberg practices—cover crops, soil-building, careful water management, reduced reliance on synthetic chemistry, habitat-minded farming—fit naturally into regenerative thinking. What changed is that Lundberg began presenting it as a company-wide future, not a niche experiment. In plain English, the message is: this isn’t a boutique line; it’s where we’re taking the whole ship.
And importantly, they’ve been unusually explicit that they want regenerative to be practical at scale. They’ve framed their work as proof that a large, familiar pantry brand can move into regenerative practices without becoming inaccessible or purely symbolic.
Lundberg also talks about stewardship in the “less romantic” parts of the business—processing facilities, energy use, and waste. Publicly, they’ve described a set of facility-related accomplishments that reinforce the idea that they’re not only focusing on the farm:
That matters because it closes a common gap in the natural foods world: some brands farm well but process wastefully; others talk sustainably but don’t control much of their supply chain. Lundberg has tried to do both—work the farm and clean up the factory side of the equation.
Lundberg is still family-owned, and family leadership remains active—especially on the farming side. At the same time, the company made a notable governance move for longevity: it appointed its first non-family CEO.
Today, the CEO is Craig Stevenson. The change happened after the long tenure of Grant Lundberg, a third-generation family member who served as CEO for decades and then retired. In addition, fourth-generation family members continue to play visible roles in the company’s direction—particularly in agriculture and stewardship work (for example, Bryce Lundberg has served as Vice President of Agriculture and has been publicly involved in water and sustainability leadership).
In the end, Lundberg’s story is simple in the best way: a family that fled broken land chose to build a farm that heals rather than exhausts, and then proved—year after year—that those values can feed real people at real scale. Their rice isn’t just a product; it’s a living record of stewardship, patience, and the belief that the future of food has to begin with respect for the ground beneath it.
