My house is a mess.

After installing heat pumps this summer, we’re now removing the old insulation and injecting more modern, effective material to keep more of the energy we’re using from leaking out of the house. A giant vacuum tube runs outside through a second-floor window, sucking out insulation clumps like liposuction. Dust is everywhere. At the same time, we’re repairing pipes from our old radiator system that burst in six places during the cold snap over the holidays. The subfloor beneath our living room has been knocked out in great kathunks that sent our cat into hiding in the ceiling (again).

At 8:30am on Wednesday, all these processes stack together. The doorbell rings; it’s the plumber here to finish the repair. Caleb and I stop the recording of my next post we were attempting. I scramble to set up mats for our FaceTime workout with our trainer, Ashley. The insulation team arrives, rolling out protective paper through our dining room, which is also our workout space. “Maybe this isn’t a good time?” Ashley asks kindly. “I guess not,” I admit. We rush upstairs to pack belongings before our bedroom is sealed in plastic. Caleb is leaving for a business trip, our son Leo and I will stay with a neighbor (the same amazing neighbor who noticed our burst pipes and called the plumber when we were away), and somehow I’ll get the cat out of the ceiling.

These are all good things, messy processes that will leave us and our home in a better, warmer, drier place. But the mess, the noise, the dust everywhere is getting to me. Resistance is futile. Breakfast tacos, I think.

When Caleb leaves, I go into the kitchen. I listen to the thrumming of the machinery all around me, and open the refrigerator. Leftover scrambled eggs, potatoes, spinach. Scallions, cilantro, roasted jalapeños and poblanos from the freezer. Everything into a cast iron pan. When the veggies and eggs are sizzling, I push them to the side and slide in the tortillas, flip them, put pre-sliced cheese on top. Everything melting, the pan full of energy. I take a shallow bowl, transfer the tortillas with a spatula, and pile everything else on top.

I go outside to the 60-degree January day and stare at my breakfast taco lunch. The tacos are in no way traditional. They’ll win no awards for presentation. But they’re the exact medicine I need right now. As I eat them, the oil from the eggs and juice from the spinach drip down the back of my hands, pooling in the bowl. The sounds around me ease, the team taking their own lunch break. I’m alone with the mess I’ve created, enjoying every bite.