Dirty Work: on fucking a stranger in the sand dunes

by Laurie Steer August 10, 2026

Hi Laurie,

Is wood-firing actually a superior way to fire clay, or is it just an excuse for a bunch of hairy isolationists to burn pine, drink beer, and pretend the 21st century isn't happening?

Kaz

Dear Kaz,

Guilty as charged.

I can’t make a good argument for the superiority of woodfiring pottery in terms of economic or ergonomic efficiency. If you just need to vitrify a blob of clay there's easier ways to do it. An electric kiln can provide safe, stable outcomes at the touch of a button - but you’ll never love it. If you’ve ever been in an elevator or a fancy public toilet you’ll have heard the music, that's electric firing. By contrast woodfiring is a rock'n'roll symphony. I’ll spell it out. Electric firing is a man you marry for his money. Woodfiring is fucking a stranger in the sand dunes for fun.

Not everybody feels this way. There's some massive woodfiring nerds out there stuffing pyrometres into every available arsehole. Graphing the progress, pumping the dampers like they're playing accordion at a Mexican bar mitzvah. Every piece of wood is signed off before combustion, every stoke quizzically examined. The PPE is omnipresent, as is the dreary analytical chat. In hushed tones the kiln masters pretend they couldn't get a similar result in a conventional gas kiln in half the time and the chamber holds more unnecessary cones than Snoop Dog’s crib. The only thing worse than a ‘serious’ wood firer is an expensive craft beer. Both need to calm down and loosen up a bit. I like my woodfiring loose and dirty, like my… potatoes.

I prefer a big messy fire with friends, including some ‘hairy isolationists’. I’m in it for the burn off, the yarns and camaraderie. The fireside chat is some of the heaviest in the world. I am happy to chop, stoke and drink. To talk, listen and laugh at the firebox in defiance of technology and time. To suspend my modern life for a brief primal engagement. I like to hear the fire crackle and roar. To create enough thick black smoke that Greta Thunberg smells it in Sweden. That wasn't a dig at Greta, but a geographical ambition. I like it all. The early bird banana cake shifts with cups of tea and visitors. The dark whiskey shifts, full of philosophy in the rain. I love the final push to temperature, when the humour runs darker than the coal bed and everybody is disarmed and at peace. I like the tiredness and the sweaty, smoke stunk togetherness of simultaneously wishing it were over while hoping it never ends. Because the fire is the transcendent bit. The thing that outranks fashion. Woodfiring is conventionally dumb and laborious. It's dangerous and a little bit bad for your health. It's also wasteful and slow, erratic, unpredictable and backwards. These are all good things.

Tending a fire is the original social media. Stoking is scrolling without the emojis and advertising. The comment section is live and in person. I look forward to woodfirings like I look forward to Christmas. I like the silly traditions, the eager preparations and the people. I even like the regret: the broken pots, biscuit shits and hangovers. I like a few little burns and the putrid smell as my beard ignites. I like to stand in the shower afterwards and watch the water run black. I like having to set the washing machine to heavy duty. I like returning to civilisation and climbing nude into clean white sheets, reborn. Woodfiring may not be a superior way to fire clay Kaz, but it is a superior way to live.

“Long May We Roam”