Saralee Rosenberg author | speaker | humorist

Saralee Rosenberg

author | speaker | humorist

Work in Progress

Project Overview

Like any middle school girl, Eden Sterling must power through the ABCs– angst, bewilderment and catastrophe. But in A LOT ON HER PLATE, she also faces “D” for dejection. All the 12-year-old chef wants is for her mother to love her as she is. Not suggest that Eden Photoshop herself so she looks as “healthy” as her friends on Instagram. “D” also stands for destiny and one girl’s struggle to choose her own path while starved for approval.


There is no easy recipe for happiness in a home where the mother can’t eat, and the daughter can’t stop. Until the tables turn. When Lori Sterling is diagnosed with anorexia, her daughter, Eden, is hopeful she can cure her with home cooking. She even sneaks into a culinary school to improve her skills, only to meet a fat-phobic classmate who torments her. But when the two girls enter a cooking competition, Eden is accused of  sabotage and fears her dream of being a famous chef could go up in flames. It’s DIETLAND meets DUMPLIN’ in this timely novel about food and love and the quest to have both.


Some days my life felt like a YouTube channel without subscribers. I had friends, but nobody who was bored enough to follow me. Even I didn’t want to follow me. Every Sunday, Mom gave out the new family calendar and it looked identical to the one from the week before.

Until the weekend something crazy happened. Something unimaginable.

It was the Saturday of Labor Day and everyone was doing their “thing.” Mom was stretching before her run through Central Park. Dad was mapping his bike ride to Brooklyn. And my fifteen-year-old brother, Jayden, who never looked at the calendar, was dribbling a soccer ball because he thought he had practice. Wrong again, bro.

But other than binge-watching the Food Network and collecting yummy recipes, I didn’t have a “thing.” Or at least one that gave my family bragging rights. So, when Mom asked me to pick up a package in our apartment lobby, I said sure. Maybe I would run into my building besties or catch up with our doorman, Alonzo. I missed everyone after spending the summer at camp in Pennsylvania.

“Thank you, Eden,” Mom said. “By the way, it’s a back-to-school gift for you.”

“Sweet. Is it a new phone because mine keeps dying?”

“It keeps dying because you’re always on it.”

“I’m always on it because that’s what influencers do.”

Mom blinked. If through some unexplained miracle I had become an internet sensation at twelve, it would call for a congratulatory hug. Instead she checked the time. “Please hurry back. It’s our special day with Glamma.”

Define special, I thought. We were going bra shopping with my grandmother at the store she brought my mother to when she was my age. “Do we have to go today?”

“Yes. It’s on the calendar.”

Asking for a friend. What girl was okay with trying on bras in front of her mother and grandmother? Plus, I would give it a minute in the dressing room before Mom made a wish. Let Eden thin out. She’ll be so much happier.

She meant she would be so much happier because on the upper east side of Manhattan, skinny daughters were like penthouse apartments. If you had one you were the envy of those who didn’t.

I tore out the door and made it to the elevator before she could lecture me on her two favorite topics. Healthy snacking (“Read labels!”) and good hydration (“Drink more water!”) Or, as I called it, The Lori Sterling Method of Tortured Living.

If only jabbing the down button made the elevator arrive faster. But at least alone in the hall, I could stand in front of the shimmery gold mirror and pretend to be a YouTube star. Hand on hip. Lips puckered. “Introducing Eden Sterling, Greystone Academy’s newest influencer. I used to be a classic underachiever, but now I…”

Cut, cut, cut, the director would have yelled if my cooking videos went viral.

The truth? My snacks had more followers than me. In the mood for Twizzlers? Find Eden. Thirsty? Eden has coconut water. Hopefully this wasn’t the reason Henry Goodstein told my best friend, Faith, he liked me.

I scanned my phone for her text.

FAITH: Doesn’t matter why Henry likes you. Don’t you want your first GOOD kiss?

EDEN: With Corey Boxer!!!

FAITH: Doink. Practice on Henry and then you’ll be good at it with Corey

EDEN: Or I could get a tutor

FAITH: They have those???

If only there was an emoji for people who didn’t get jokes.

Finally, the elevator opened.

“Welcome back, Mademoiselle,” Alonzo bowed as I walked past his gleaming desk and plopped into my favorite red leather chair. I had forgotten how much I loved the glass sculptures and tall vases filled with rose-colored bouquets. And though our lobby looked like other doorman buildings, ours served tea and scones every day at four.

“Alonzo! What is up?”

“The sky is up. The stock market is up and…”

“The ratings are up.” I finished his sentence because it made him happy to talk about his son, a TV actor.

Alonzo high-fived me as if I was still playing junior doorman, giving neighbors their food deliveries and dry cleaning. Did I have to wear lip gloss so he realized I had grown up?

“You must be here to pick up your package,” Alonzo said.

“And to hang so my people know I’m home.”

As if on cue, the elevator opened and out walked our retired neighbor, Mrs. Adler, with her miniature poodle. “Millie!” I said. “Give me kisses.” I nuzzled her nose and hoped she didn’t think I needed a tutor. “Did you behave for the groomer?”

“She did,” Mrs. Adler said. “And I’m so glad you’re back because I’m baking apple pies tomorrow. Care to join me?”

Hmm. Organize school supplies or spend the day turning yummy dough into a mouth-watering dessert? Hopefully Mom wouldn’t turn the invitation into a teaching moment. Studies show that butter is a leading cause of coronary heart disease.

“Can’t wait,” I said. I was obsessed with Mrs. Adler’s gourmet kitchen and cookware. Plus, she let me use her lucky measuring spoons which felt magical in my hands.

“Come after lunch and bring your new recipes.”

“They look really hard.”

“If anyone can figure them out it’s you,” she said. “You’re the next Rachel Ray.”

I smiled so she wouldn’t guess my crazy thought. Kids should be allowed to get traded to parents they liked better than their own.

She hugged me goodbye as Alonzo returned with my package. The box was big and therefore promising. I had begged for white jeweled sneakers Faith thought would be perfect for my first-day outfit. Or maybe Mom was surprising me with the puffy purple bag I added to her Amazon cart. Shhh. It had all these secret pockets to hide snacks.

Could they both be inside?

My excitement shifted into high gear as I juggled the box while opening our front door. Then, dread returned. The same dread I felt when I returned from camp two days earlier. My parents had mentioned they were making some improvements. They said nothing about demolishing half my childhood and donating the other half to Goodwill.

Buh-bye front closet where I played hide and seek. Adios dining room table, my homework headquarters. See ya comfy couches where we played Trivia.

Instead I came home to find a powder room with lighting bright enough for night games, stiff black leather seating and a granite table that looked like it had been ripped from the side of a mountain. Fortunately, the wooden bar stools in our cozy kitchen were spared the dumpster.

I placed the box on the counter as Mom walked in. “What took so long?”

“Alonzo asked me to save the planet, and I couldn’t find my cape. Can I open my gift?”

“Eden, we’re late. And please go change. Those shorts are…”

“My favorite?”

“Tight,” she said. “Put on that cute romper Glamma bought you.”

Noooo. Not the romper. Bright floral prints were not my style and what if it was also snug?  Mom, the lawyer, would use it as Exhibit A. The defendant is not drinking enough water. But if I did cooperate, maybe she would agree to my terms. “If I change can we stop for bagels?”

“Let’s have yogurt instead.”

“Yum. Yogurt. Says no one ever.”

“Fine,” she said. “Open the box.”

I wasn’t sure what my dream sneakers had to do with starvation, but I punched a hole through the center of the carton. Then I ripped open a flap and the anticipation made my pulse quicken. How many likes would I get when I posted a picture of my fashionable feet? But when I peeked inside, my eyes stung. No sneakers. No bag. Just rows of squishy containers with names like Very Vanilla and Strawberry Sundae.

“Mommm? Do you remember seventh grade?”

“Of course.”

“Then you remember wanting adorable high tops and getting protein shakes instead?”

She folded her arms. “Must you always overreact?”

“I’m asking what these have to do with school. Do they taste like science experiments?”

“Studies show that students who start the day boosting their metabolism perform better on tests.”

Again, with the studies. Were there any showing what daughters of carb-deprived mothers knew? Boosting metabolism was code for losing weight and mine thought I was fat. I ran to my room and slammed the door so hard my dresser mirror shook.

But when I gazed into it, I didn’t see a girl who needed to be renovated like our apartment. I saw one who had big dreams and was perfectly fine with the way she looked.

Mom, I wish you could love me for who I am, not who you need me to be.

“Eden!” she yelled. “Glamma is waiting and you need bras.”

“Yeah, Eden,” Jayden mimicked from his room. “You need bras.”

“Knock it off,” Dad called from the kitchen. Then he lowered his voice. But when you are in the next room in an old building, the heating vents tell all. “Go easy on her, Lori. She doesn’t even know yet.”