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The clatter of pots invades my sleep, and I resist, rolling away from the frigid tile wall, burrowing further beneath my cocoon of wool blankets. I have no desire to leave my haven and brave a house where the temperature is hovering at 40 F. But I know Naima will be waiting. Two days ago, my fiancé and I had come to this Moroccan riad in the heart of Marrakech, hoping to explore life inside the high red walls of the medina, the old city. This gentle family of mostly women speaks almost no English – but this morning I have been invited to help cook breakfast. I creep into the kitchen, a tiny room with a vaulted ceiling and wooden shutters near the top to let in the early morning light. I spy Naima, hair up in a kerchief, faded t-shirt hugging the curve of her middle. She nods a greeting, motions me to sit. I pull a stool up to a large clay platter, perched atop a plastic crate. She sits across from me, rolls dough into a ball, and with swift, sure strokes, flattens it into a paper-thin circle, glancing at me to be sure I am watching. She lifts two edges and folds them a third of the way across, sprinkling the dough with semolina, then repeats. The remaining column, she folds again, pulling each edge to the center. She lifts the square, nine layers thick, onto a plastic tray and reaches for another ball. Three times she repeats the process, and I am mesmerized by her deft fingers, the practiced ease with which she manipulates the dough. The kitchen has shrunk to just the two of us. The dough is all that matters. When my turn comes, the dough is fragile as I flatten it, but eventually Naima nods her approval, then motions me to begin folding. Gingerly, I give it a tug, afraid it will tear, but it comes easily off the clay, and I successfully fold my first square of msemen. This traditional pancake is, I later learn, the Moroccan equivalent of comfort food. Naima clucks approvingly, lifts it from the pan, and rewards me with another ball of dough. Bit by bit, the tray fills. Naima hums at the sink, and the others appear, lighting a gas burner by the wall, heating porridge, dragging out the colorful tajins in every size for serving bowls. The few words spoken are in Arabic, going past me. But I am content to be at the center – of life, of this kitchen. It is something, I think to myself as I fold the final cake, and Naima prepares to fry them. It is something indeed to be among women, hands in the dough, helping.