Every pot passes through fire twice. The first time is the bisque firing, a gentle climb to around nine hundred degrees, hot enough to drive out the chemical water and harden the clay into a biscuit that can be handled, glazed, and loved without fear. Noah Park stacks the bisque shelves with the care of a librarian: foot rings checked for warping, handles cleared of the shelf edge, wadding placed where the glaze will later run. A pot that survives bisque has earned the right to a second chance. The kiln door is bricked up, the damper set, and then the waiting begins. Bisque is the unglamorous firing — no reduction, no flame licking the spy, just a steady, unremarkable climb. Yet the biscuit firing teaches the lesson the glaze firing will repeat: that clay asks for heat slowly, that patience is a form of respect, and that the second passage through fire is only possible because the first one went quietly.