Every spring in the Cedar Valley, there’s a quiet frenzy that begins the moment the ground thaws and the lilacs bloom. People disappear into ditches and wooded edges, ducking under branches and scanning the soil. They’re not lost — they’re looking. For mushrooms.
Morel mushrooms are a Midwest obsession. They’re delicious, hard to find, and wildly expensive if you try to buy them. But around here, we don’t usually buy them. We hunt. On public land. With neighbors, kids, cousins. There’s no admission fee, no password, no receipt. Just a deep knowing that the land can still feed us.
It’s one of the last ways regular people gather high-value food for themselves. No middleman. No branding. Just trust in the process and a little local knowledge.
That same spirit lives in the Rooted Carrot Co-op.
We call it grocery democracy: the idea that communities should have a say in what shows up on their shelves, where it comes from, and who benefits from it.
Most of us shop in stores where those decisions are made far away, by people who’ve never stepped foot in the places they serve. The priority isn’t nourishment or fairness. It’s efficiency and profit.
But co-ops flip the script. They ask: What does this place need? What do our farmers grow? What would it look like to build a grocery store that’s accountable to its people — not to shareholders?
It’s not so different from morel season, when food doesn’t come from a supply chain, but from the soil beneath your boots. When feeding your family takes time, attention, and trust.
Rooted Carrot doesn’t have a storefront yet. But it has something rare: over a thousand member-owners, a clear-eyed mission, and a deep belief in local control.
Most grocery stores aren’t built for us. They’re built for scale. They reward whoever can pay for shelf space, not who raised the food or how.
But a co-op? That’s built on us.
On people who want better food and a fairer system. On neighborhoods tired of driving forty minutes for a decent apple. On the idea that local food shouldn’t be a luxury. It should be a given.
Rooted Carrot is a kind of edible commons. A storefront we can share, shape, and steward. Not unlike the public lands where morel hunters find their footing each spring.
But you can’t just show up and expect mushrooms. You have to put in the time. Get your boots muddy. Learn the landscape.
And when you finally spot one, you don’t feel lucky. You feel connected.
That’s what we’re trying to build in the aisles, too.
Mallory DeVries
Board Member & Communications Committee; local producer