Attenti al Gatto

The plaque on my porch reads, "Attenti al Gatto," or beware the cat. Purchased in San Gimignano as a gift for me by my oldest brother in 2000, the plaque is a reminder of Florence, where the family celebrated the false millennium. I will always remember

• the heavy pungency of hot bean soup, dry flakiness of pecorino romano, tearing crackle of crusted bread
  
• the biting slap of wind
  
• the smell of leather and glue inside Giulio Giannini e Figlio bookbinders and marblers across from the Pitti Palace
• the lingering buttery film of hot chocolate
• heavy wedges of pan forte, nutty and spicy and hard, the leftovers of which my sister-in-law and I fought to take home
• thundering fireworks spewing from the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio and from all up and down the Firenze valley
• the dignified avenue of cypress at the Villa i Tatti
• glorious art, everywhere glorious art, but especially on the plain walls at San Marco, where Fra Angelico's frescoes present theatrical silence forcing visitors to whisper and where my brother gave us a fascinating lecture (he's written a book about these frescoes) in the courtyard
  
• the laughter of a family in love with Italy and each other