We were trying to do the right thing. This summer my husband and I had a solar hot water heater installed at our house. It was just one of several things on the “to-do” list we were making our way through in an effort to live more lightly on Mother Earth. In my mind, this meant living in a more sustainable way—using less electricity, using less water, using less oil, doing without plastic bags at the store, and eating locally grown foods—especially those from our garden.

But we live in an old 19th-century farmhouse, and have discovered in the 30 years we’ve lived there that often what we set out to do in the way of improvements takes a left turn somewhere and turns what we think is a small project into an ordeal. So it was with the solar water heater.

First, the installers discovered that the type of heating system we had was one they had not encountered before—with a boiler providing steam heat. This required a last-minute change in the planned configuration, which originally had the boiler assisting the solar water heater on stretches of cloudy days when the sun didn’t provide enough heat to keep the water in the tank at the desired temperature. The new configuration included the installation of a small electric hot water heater as a backup to the solar unit. So the bad news was: we’d be using more electricity than before; but the good news was, we’d be using less oil.

Then came the ordeal: the plumbing inspector instructed installers to put a backflow valve in the solar water tank, in the (unlikely, according to the installers) event that the solution that circulated through the pipes, bringing the heat from the roof to the tank, somehow leaked into the water. The valve, the inspector told them, would keep any contaminated water from flowing back out to the street and contaminating our neighbors’ water supply. The installers complied, but sometime within the two hours between when they left the house and my husband arrived home from work, a pressure buildup in the water delivery system, resulting from the presence of the new valve, found relief at a faulty plumbing joint under the sink in the upstairs bathroom. My husband came home to find it raining in the kitchen, with an especially heavy flow of water coming from the overhead light fixture in the center of the room, right under the bathroom.

Responding to a frantic call from my husband, the plumber returned and fixed the pipe, and removed the backflow valve, saying he intended to discuss with the inspector the potential consequences of using one. My husband got out the Shop-Vac and cleaned up all the standing water. Naively, I thought that was the end of it. Then, the next day I discovered water on the kitchen counter. Alarmed, I started looking further and discovered that most of the cookbooks on the three shelves of them in the kitchen were soaked. I took them all down and spread them out to dry in the dining room and the den. Then I called the insurance company and spoke to someone in claims, who told me to get in touch with Service Master, a company that does water damage remediation.

My husband met the Service Master technicians at the house the next day. They set up several industrial-strength fans and dehumidifiers and told my husband to keep them running continuously throughout the weekend. They took moisture readings, placing red dots wherever the readings were high. When I came home, there were dots all over the kitchen ceiling and on all the walls.

We tried to go on living normal lives that weekend, stepping over the equipment and shouting at each other to be heard above the roar of the fans. Still naïve, or maybe just in denial, I thought the company would remove the fans Monday and we’d just be left with a hole in the kitchen ceiling to fix and some painting to do.

Monday came and the technicians told us the moisture levels in the walls and ceiling were still high, and the kitchen would have to be gutted. They said the floor in the bathroom would have to come up. And the demolition would have to be done as soon as possible, to give the rest of the structure a chance to dry out. They said they would handle the demolition, including packing up everything in the cupboards, but we would have to find someone to do the rebuild.

We quickly started making calls, trying to find contractors. Most never called back. Two did: one was a one-man band who could do most, but not all, of the rebuild work. The other was a general contractor who could handle the whole job. The general contractor impressed us most, but said he wouldn’t have a crew available until about 45 days after we signed a contract. He confirmed we’d be looking at sometime in October.

My husband started to develop an appreciation for the situation when he realized we’d be doing a lot of dining out—one of his favorite pastimes. I was depressed. This year we’d planted the biggest garden we’d ever had, and the harvest was ripening even as the fans and dehumidifiers were drying out the kitchen. How would I make tomato sauce? How would I make zucchini pickles and can jalapeno peppers? How could I get through fall without making butternut squash soup? Then it dawned on me: here was a lesson in sustainability. No one has a God-given right to a gadget-filled kitchen with running water and electricity, I thought. There are people all over the world who live with much less every day of their lives.

I started thinking about how I could cook and can without a “normal” kitchen, and decided I would be creative and make do with what we had. We began making preparations to live without a kitchen for two to three months. We moved our microwave oven, a butcher block cart, and a free-standing cabinet to a shed attached to the house, along with several pans and four-each plates, cups, glasses, and sets of tableware. We went to Wal-Mart and bought inexpensive plastic tubs to use for hand-washing dishes. Our only water source was in a bathroom three rooms and one hallway away from the shed, but I reasoned that shouldn’t be a problem. I had been to Nicaragua once, where I saw a woman carry a bucket of water on her head across a cow pasture, down a gulley, and back up to get to her kitchen. At least I wouldn’t have to do that.

Service Master demolished our kitchen and bathroom in two days, and left us with instructions to keep the dryers and dehumidifiers running continuously for the rest of that week. Finding it difficult to face the destruction and disorder in the house, I allowed that, although I would try to cook meals at home, we would probably be dining out a lot.

Although the ordeal isn’t over as I write this, I’ve resolved to face it with a sense of purpose, and be open to what the situation has to teach me. But despite my lofty ideals, I can’t help but notice: The fans and dehumidifiers have surely run up an enormous electric bill. Our next water bill will certainly be a whopper too, reflecting the gallons upon gallons of water it took to ruin the kitchen. Post-disaster, we’ve burned more gasoline than we did in our pre-solar water-heater life—and it’s likely we’ll continue to do so for quite awhile, with frequent trips to places like Home Depot and to restaurants, which probably aren’t serving much locally grown food.