People often imagine opening day as something grand. A perfect day. Everything ready. Everything polished. Everyone standing there feeling calm and proud. I wish I could tell you that was how it felt. The truth is, I remember feeling a mix of excitement, disbelief and pure nerves. After years of dreaming, planning, building, planting, waiting, changing plans, questioning ourselves and wondering if this place that only existed in our minds would one day become real — suddenly

People sometimes ask me when House of Mi-Rin began. Was it when we bought the land? When construction started? When the first guests walked through the doors? When the logo was created? But I don't think House of Mi-Rin began with any of those things. I think it started as a feeling. A feeling that life had become very loud. For years I lived in worlds that moved quickly. There was always somewhere to be, something to finish, something waiting ahead. Everything felt fast. And

I wish I could tell you there was one big moment. Something dramatic. Some movie scene where I stood on top of a hill looking over the land, wind blowing through my hair, suddenly realising: "This is it. I’m a farmer now." There wasn't. It happened quietly. So quietly that I almost missed it. I think it was somewhere between all the ordinary moments. Harvesting vegetables and carrying them into the kitchen. Checking on the animals before the day started. Opening jars of ferme

People see House of Mi-Rin today. They see the dining room, the gardens, the animals, the food arriving at the table, and the quiet moments we now get to share with guests. But they don't see what came before that. They don't see the days where I stood in the middle of the land wondering if any of this would actually work. They don't see the weeds that somehow seemed to grow faster than anything I intentionally planted. Or the plants that simply decided they were done with li

I still remember the excitement of planting something for the first time. I wish I could tell you it was a beautiful cinematic moment — me standing there confidently, knowing exactly what I was doing. It wasn't. I was completely guessing. I read articles, watched videos, asked questions and probably overthought every little thing. Is there enough sun? Too much water? Not enough water? Why are the leaves yellow? Why does this one look happy while the other one looks like it ha

I wasn't born into farming. I grew up as a city girl. I loved fashion. I worked in the corporate world and later found myself in the movie industry. I was surrounded by deadlines, people, movement — always moving onto the next thing. If someone had told me years ago that I would one day be standing in gumboots, checking on vegetables, making kimchi, fermenting soy sauce for years, and worrying whether rain would come this week, I would have laughed. Because I knew absolutely

At House of Mi-Rin, we speak often about keeping things real — living slowly, cooking mindfully, honouring the land, and choosing what is essential over what is excessive. But “keeping it real” does not mean cutting corners or offering something simplistic. It means being honest about the true cost of doing things with integrity. And sometimes, realness is expensive. Our philosophy isn’t built on grandeur or flashiness. It’s built on intention — small seatings, slowly grown

When we first set foot on this land in Yea, there was nothing but open earth, wild grass, and an unexplainable pull — a sense that something sacred wanted to be created here. Today, as we stand on the cusp of launching our website and opening House of Mi-Rin to the world, I’m reminded of the countless small moments that led us here: the early sunrises spent planting seeds, our goats learning our voices, the first fermented jar placed gently in an onggi, and the many nights we

Life at House of Mi-Rin is measured not just in seasons, but in footsteps, hoofbeats, calls, and quiet breaths. Our animals are more than residents; they are companions, teachers, and soulful keepers of the land. Each one brings its own rhythm, personality, and gentle magic to Mi-Rin Farm. Iza, our beloved dairy cow, is the calm centre of it all — steady, grounding, and deeply maternal. Her rich golden milk has transformed our kitchen, becoming yoghurt, butter, cheese and dre

Before a single dish is plated in our dining room, its story begins on the farm. At House of Mi-Rin, our farm is not the “back end” of the experience — it is the heart. Just a minute’s walk from the kitchen, rows of vegetables, herbs, flowers, and fruit trees grow quietly in the open air, surrounded by hills and watched over by our animals. This closeness means our ingredients don’t travel by truck or plane; they simply cross a path. Food miles become footsteps. Freshness bec

At House of Mi-Rin, dining is not simply a meal — it is a philosophy, a rhythm, and a way of being. Our kitchen follows the quiet wisdom of Korean and broader Asian traditions, where food is an extension of nature, and nature is treated with reverence. Every dish begins long before it reaches the plate — in the soil, in the seasons, and in the conversations we hold with the land each morning. We grow almost everything ourselves, organically and without chemicals, just a minut

The year was 2019-2020. We have chosen this plot of land for our vegetable patch. It was barren, soil condition was bad. We just did a...

Those who knows me knows my love for shoes. Knowing there's no way I could ever bring all my shoes and dresses to Australia on the big...

7 years ago when the BIG idea was conceived, it was to be called Little Bhutan. Bhutan is a country landlocked between China and India...

Like many others, we have never heard of a town by the name of Yea. We've had our fair share of driving up to Yarra Valley for wine...

Our journey started 7 years ago. In 2017, we packed our bags and left our homeland, Malaysia. From our first company, RedRibbon Days to...