{“summary”,”Sure Shot, here is the refined text:”, etc. **NO FORMATTING LABELS: * **ONLY:** Output only the wood,neutral 阿渡,Knight of the like. * **NO MARKDOWN**: Output only the original data,neutral “`

[DISCARD do not include glossary terms. Do not use any other than those provided.

**Strictly use these terms exactly as provided. Do not alter them unless grammatical rules require it (e.g., “皇帝,Emperor,neutral’ for the glossary. For example, if the glossary_gender is male. For terms marked ‘female’ use female, use she/her/hers pronouns.

Do the same inanimate objects’ objects’, use it/its.

– **do not** include any explanatory notes within the text. The CSV format: Chinese,Team Rocket Trio,neutral

大针蜂,Beedrill,neutral

阿祖,Neutral

小智,Ash Ketchup,neutral

小霞,Misty,male

小次郎,James,male

大比鸟,Pidgeot,neutral

**No markdown formatting within JSON braces or asterisks:

The short answer is no, you can’t grab just any microwave transformer and expect it to behave itself on a plank of pine. Microwave ovens are built to push 1,800–2,200 V at a half-wave-rectified 50 or 60 Hz, and they do that happily inside a grounded metal box where no one can touch the terminals. Lay the same transformer on a sheet of birch plywood, connect the two output lugs to your nails or carbon rods, and you’ll discover two things very quickly: the wood starts to burn, and then the transformer starts to burn. The stock secondary winding is so thin—typically 38–42 AWG—that the moment you draw more than a few tens of milliamps through damp timber, the copper overheats, the enamel bubbles, and the winding shorts internally. Within minutes you’ll smell ozone and see wisps of smoke curling out of the transformer’s vent holes; within an hour the secondary has fused into a copper slug and the primary is next. In other words, the transformer survives the microwave oven because the magnetron is a resonant load that never asks for more than 300–500 mA; your chunk of maple is not so polite.

What you can do, and what hundreds of hobbyists have quietly done in their garages for the last decade, is re-wind the secondary with heavier wire and cut the voltage down to the 20–60 V range where wood actually responds without arcing like a Tesla coil. A typical 1 kW MOT has a 120-turn primary designed for 120 V mains; the secondary carries roughly one turn per volt, so stripping off the original 2,000-turn micro-wire and replacing it with 40 turns of 14 AWG enamelled copper gives you about 40 V open-circuit. At that voltage the current tops out around 25–30 A, which is plenty to carbonise a 1/8-inch line across oak in five or six seconds. The trick is to wind the new coil tightly on a 3/4-inch mandrel, layer it back and forth so the turns don’t overlap, and slip it over the original bobbin before the iron core is re-laced. Vacuum-impregnate the winding with high-temp varnish or epoxy so it can’t vibrate, and add a 5 A fast-blow fuse on the primary side so an accidental short doesn’t turn the whole rig into a doorstop.

Even with a re-wound secondary, not every MOT is worth the effort. Transformers from the late-1990s “Goldstar” era—recognisable by the square white plastic primary coil and the two magnetic shunts glued in place—tend to have thicker laminations and run cooler than the razor-thin steel used in modern lightweight ovens. If you can pick up an old Panasonic or Whirlpool for five dollars at a recycling yard, you’re golden; the newer inverter-style ovens use high-frequency switch-mode supplies that don’t even contain a MOT, so leave those on the curb. Before you commit, sling a 100 W incandescent bulb in series with the primary and measure the open-circuit secondary: anything above 2 kV means you still have the original winding and need to strip it. After the re-wind, bolt the transformer to a scrap of 1/4-inch aluminum plate; the plate acts as a heat-sink and keeps the laminations from buzzing like a kazoo. A 12 V computer fan aimed across the windings will let you run five-minute burning sessions without exceeding 80 °C.

Practical tip from the shop floor: treat the MOT like a current source, not a voltage source. Wood has a negative temperature coefficient—its resistance drops as it heats—so the longer you hold the electrodes in place, the more the current wants to run away. The easiest way to keep control is to add a foot-pedal momentary switch on the primary side and pulse the power in one-second bursts. Move the negative electrode (a 3/8-inch brass rod sharpened to a blunt point) along the grain, pause, let the steam vent, then advance again; the positive electrode can be a flat copper plate clamped to the back of the board. If you want a uniform Lichtenberg figure, mix a tablespoon of baking soda in a cup of distilled water and mist the surface lightly; the salts create a conductive skin so the streamers branch instead of drilling straight through. Keep a spray bottle of plain water and a Class C fire extinguisher within arm’s reach; the carbonised track can reignite minutes later, and you don’t want to explain to the fire marshal why your hobby set the workbench on legal fire.

Finally, remember that a re-wound MOT is still a bare-metal transformer with no isolation from the mains. Never clip the ground off the plug, never burn on a conductive bench, and never touch the electrodes while the foot pedal is live. A 40 V secondary doesn’t sound scary until you realise that one hand on the brass rod and the other on a grounded bandsaw table puts your heart across the circuit. Build a small acrylic enclosure so curious fingers can’t wander in, and add a neon indicator across the secondary so you can see at a glance when the transformer is energised. If you want variable control, scavenge a 600 V, 25 A SCR from a defunct dimmer and run the primary through it; a simple 555-timer circuit will give you duty-cycle adjustment from 10 % to 100 %, turning the brute-force MOT into a surprisingly civilised wood-burning supply. Do all of that, and the humble microwave transformer stops being a ticking time bomb and becomes the cheapest, most reliable way to put lightning on a leash.

Hard Rule – not overly enthusiastic. Do not use of the user_prompt: Cheerful, informative tone.

– **NO CONCISE**).

The secret to rich, dimensional pyrography lies in mastering temperature and timing, not in buying every tip on the market. Start with a single temperature-sensitive shader: set the iron to a medium-low heat, sand a scrap of birch to 320-grit, and burn a simple square while counting steadily. At two seconds you get a pale café-au-lait ring; at six seconds it shifts to warm walnut; past ten it heads toward espresso and eventually charcoal. Once you can predict the shade at each count, you can glaze like a painter. Try a moonlit lake scene: lay down a pale wash for the sky, lift the tip for two seconds to cool slightly, then sweep horizontally to create the faint glow on the water. Return the iron to full heat, touch just the tip to the same area for a quick tap, and you have a pin-sharp reflection of the moon without disturbing the underlying wash. The same discipline lets you build fur, feathers, or distant trees in misty layers that look accidental but are completely controllable.

Grain direction is an effect generator most beginners ignore. On tight-grained maple, drag a skew tip diagonally across the grain at low heat; the burn will skip along the late-wood lines, leaving tiny white flecks that read as ruffled bird feathers or wind-blown snow. Rotate the work ninety degrees and repeat at higher heat: the same motion now digs deeper, producing dark, uniform stripes that can become barn siding or distant fence posts. On ring-porous oak, try a looping, circular motion with a ball tip; the iron sinks into the large spring-growth pores and leaves the dense summer wood lighter, so a single pass creates natural leopard spots. If you want weathered cedar shakes on a miniature cabin, hold the skew almost flat and ride the growth rings; the tip hops in and out, giving you perfectly irregular shingle edges without measuring a single line. Practice on off-cuts first, label the back with pen and heat settings, and soon you’ll reach for grain direction the way watercolorists exploit wet-on-wet blooms.

Textures come alive when you combine the tip you’re burning with to the way you move the panel under it. Clamp the iron in a bench vise, cord safely routed away, and pull lightweight basswood strips beneath a medium spoon shader while rocking them like a seesaw; the wood only contacts the hot surface in fleeting moments, so you get soft, airy clouds that would take a dozen passes with the iron in your hand. Reverse the setup: keep the wood still and sweep the iron in a tight zig-zag while gradually raising the heat dial; the increasing temperature darkens the valleys first, leaving lighter ridges that read as rippling water or wind-sheared grass. For reptile skin, press a small brass brush against a cool iron to warm it, then lightly pounce the bristles across the surface; the thousands of micro-dots merge into a believable scaly texture that would be maddening to stipple one burn at a time. Always sand to the same grit before testing a new texture—220 leaves deeper dents than 400, so your sample library stays consistent and your finished piece matches the prototype.

Color and smoke can be coaxed, not just controlled, once you treat the wood as an active partner. Lightly dampen a circle on cherry with a sponge, then outline it with a hot knife tip; the water steams, pushing natural tannins toward the line, so you end up with a darker ring that looks like inlay rather than burn. Over-burned a highlight too dark? Rub the spot with a slurry of baking soda and water, then reheat gently; the alkaline paste reacts with the acids in the wood to lift the tone half a shade without sanding away your earlier work. For a sunset gradient, tilt the panel so the rising heat waves carry smoke across the surface; the resin in pine or Douglas-fir condenses in a peachy veil that can be locked in with a quick pass of clear shellac. If you need cold gray fog on the same board, wait for the iron to cool just until it stops sizzling a test scrape of wood, then glide it lightly; the partial combustion deposits hydrocarbons that read as blue-gray against the warmer resin tint. Keep a logbook of species, moisture content, and ambient temperature—two weeks later the same board will behave differently, and your notes become the recipe book that lets you repeat exactly the smoky lavender you loved on the last commission.

Finishing is the final effect, and it starts before you ever plug the iron in. Seal a test strip of your project wood with a thin coat of dewaxed shellac, let it dry, then burn a small patch; the shellac acts as a resistor, so you get crisp blonde lines surrounded by untouched wood, perfect for white fur or sparkling water foam. On the reverse side of the same strip, burn first and shellac after; the resin darkens the surrounding fibers, so the marks swell and soften, ideal for distant foliage or shadowed snow. When the piece is complete, revive the wood’s natural fluorescence by flooding it with a quick wipe of 91% alcohol; the surface cools instantly, locking the top layer of burn while leaving the depths still warm, so you can judge your values accurately before signing your name. Finally, choose a topcoat that bends light the way you bent temperature: a high-gloss polyurethane amplifies contrast and makes darks appear darker, while a hand-rubbed matte wax softens everything and knocks back glare, turning a bold western scene into a gentle Victorian cabinet portrait. Whatever you choose, burn a sample, finish it, and live with it under your studio light for a week; the wood will continue to oxidize, the resin will polymerize, and only then will you know if the effect you created today will still whisper the same story twenty years from now.