The pizza was burning.

Not a wisp. Not a curl. A full-on billow of dark smoke forced its way out of the oven and into the living room like an angry guest.

It was 1975, Los Angeles. I was 20, newly settled in Santa Barbara, and down in L.A. to visit my younger brother, Tim. He was hosting a party at his rental house. Like a lot of young-adult spaces, it was held together with folding chairs, takeout menus, and optimism. It was the kind of place where the furniture came from different garage sales, and nothing matched except the enthusiasm.

Music blasted from a boombox—probably Chicago or Bachman-Turner Overdrive—and the air was thick with cologne and chatter. My brother ran with a different crowd than I did. Louder. Looser. Hungrier, maybe—in every sense.

He'd invited a big crowd, and more than once I heard him say, "My brother's a chef." That line carried weight. I was flattered, of course. But also a little nervous. Now I had to live up to something. His pride became my pressure.

So I offered to cook. Naturally. Pizza. Easy, reliable, crowd-pleasing. I preheated the oven to 500°, slid the pizza in, and then started working the room. I was feeling confident, even a little inflated. People were laughing, and I felt like a minor celebrity. I was leaning into the story of myself—so much so that I forgot about the pizza entirely.

Until the smoke.

"Hey—what's burning?" someone called.

I rushed to the kitchen and opened the oven. There it was: the charred remains of my moment of glory, a blackened disc fused to the rack like a reminder from the humility gods.

We laughed—kind of. I played it off. But inside, I felt something cold. Shame, mostly. And a deep sense that I'd stopped doing what I was supposed to do. Pay attention.

That was the first time I remember learning the real difference between knowing how to cook and actually cooking.

If I could go back and give my 20-year-old self one piece of advice about attention and presence, I'd keep it simple: Don't leave the kitchen while something is in it at 500°F.

Sometimes the most profound lessons are that straightforward.

When Planning Meets Reality

I'm not happy with failure. Ever. However, it does happen, less and less as I get older. Most of the time, on reflection, I see that it was my fault. Always. Either I didn't plan, I didn't pay attention, or I assumed something. We do something called an After Action Review: What went well, what went wrong, and what needs work—and we do it immediately after any coordinated action. I wish I'd known about that in my 20s.

That lesson has followed me for decades. I think about it every time I talk about my problem-solving method: See What You Think. It's a simple idea, but deceptively powerful:

* Don't just follow a plan—observe what's really happening.

* Don't just act—respond to what you see.

I didn't have those words back then. But I was already learning to live them.

My relationship with failure has evolved significantly over my career. These days, I'm more tolerant of failure because I've reframed it as "everything is an experiment." In improv, we have this saying: "You can't make a mistake—everything you say becomes the truth of the scene," and you just go with it.

That's a hidden superpower. It doesn't mean you avoid failure or negate it. Just the opposite. You acknowledge, learn from, and fold it into your next iteration.

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The Pressure Cooker

Years later, I helped design an open-kitchen restaurant called 1129 in downtown Santa Barbara. The concept was beautiful—a space where chefs would cook in full view of the dining room, with the bar slightly elevated so guests could watch every move. You couldn't hide, you couldn't coast, you had to be present.

But plans rarely survive contact with reality, as I'd already learned. The restaurant opening was delayed, and I ended up having to cook downtown at an all-night diner instead, managing the shift after the bars closed. So while I helped design the kitchen at 1129 to be open and interactive, I never got to work in it. Instead, I was getting shouted at by drunks at the counter and yelled at by waitresses wondering where their orders were.

It was a different kind of pressure cooker—less elegant than what I'd planned, but no less demanding of my attention. In fact, it required even more focus to stay calm and precise amid the chaos of post-bar rush orders and impatient staff.

This experience taught me something crucial: if you're not paying attention, you will be caught. And if you are paying attention, you can shift, adapt, and learn in real time.

The Three Core Steps

Over time, these experiences coalesced into a simple framework that I now use for everything:

* See: Observe reality as it actually is, not as you wish it would be.

* Think: Interpret what's actually happening, not what should be happening.

* Act: Adjust accordingly, with minimal fuss or ego.

This framework is what I've come to call "See What You Think"—a phrase that later became the title of my TEDxFargo talk and now forms the backbone of this podcast series.

Finding Calm in Chaos

Staying present in high-pressure situations isn't always easy. I didn't learn how until my mid-20s, and I've only become truly comfortable with it since learning meditation. Seriously. I wish someone had told me about this powerful, calming strategy earlier.

People often ask me, "What specific practices would you recommend for someone who struggles with staying present under pressure?"

I've found that the simplest techniques work best. When I notice myself starting to escalate, I stop for a beat. I feel my feet—that connects me to something solid, like the earth. I briefly close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath. I've practiced this so much over time that it's become second nature.

It's about "observing with interest" rather than judgment. This approach keeps me from getting ratcheted too high or too low emotionally. It also came from learning from Tony Robbins about managing your state, which affects everyone around you. That was a game-changer for me.

Performance Versus Participation

As someone who is used to performing, slipping into performance mode is an occupational hazard. As a host, a producer, or someone who does improv, it's all performative. The trick is more about being present and aware that I've slipped into that role and making sure I am listening and doing all the other things I know will be appreciated by those around me.

That idea—See What You Think—keeps showing up in kitchens, classrooms, podcast interviews, product design, and parenting. It's not about being perfect. It's about being present.

I've watched it play out in countless settings. I've seen teachers change course mid-lesson because the room was falling flat. I've seen engineers debug better by stepping back and asking, "What am I actually seeing?" I've seen improv actors save scenes not with brilliance, but with attention.

Beyond the Recipe

I've even seen it in unexpected places—like walking into a conversation with a client expecting to talk about logistics and realizing, based on their body language or tone, that something else is happening. In those moments, I miss the real conversation if I'm too focused on my agenda. But if I tune in—if I see—I can respond with empathy instead of procedure.

I remember cooking for a client who needed gluten-free meals. I'd been making muffins for her for months—fluffy, light, gluten-free perfection. Then one day, I got a call: "Hey, something was different in the muffins this week."

I paused. Looked around the kitchen. And there it was: a bag of regular flour, still open on the counter.

I'd reached for the wrong bag.

It wasn't a health crisis, thank god. But it was a trust breach. She counted on me to pay attention to that detail. And I hadn't. That wasn't about ingredients—it was about care.

So now I run my kitchen like air traffic control: with multiple timers, Siri commands, labeling systems, double checks, and, above all, presence.

Because the truth is, mistakes don't come from a lack of skill. They come from a lapse in attention. And attention is a muscle. You work it. You grow it. You forget it, and it atrophies.

The Lesson That Sticks

When I talk about problem-solving now—whether it's in a tech strategy session or a storytelling class—I always come back to that pizza. Not because it was a big deal, but because it was a small one that stuck.

The pizza was burning. I wasn't watching. And the moment I realized it, I learned something far more important than how to keep track of an oven timer.

I learned how to return to the moment, how to get my feet back under me, and how to switch from performing to participating.

I also realized that "attention" isn't just about the task—it's about the people you're doing it for, the trust you're carrying, and the unspoken agreements: "I'll handle this so you don't have to worry." Whether that's a dinner, a classroom, a product demo, or a performance, people count on you not just to deliver but to care.

And caring isn't in the checklist. It's in what you notice.

Setting the Table for What's Next

This story—the pizza, the muffins, the open kitchen—isn't just about food. It's about how we operate under pressure. It's about catching ourselves when things are sliding and having the clarity to look up and adjust.

It's about trusting the signals we're getting—the smoke, the subtle shift in a conversation, the gut-check feeling when something's off.

And choosing to act based on what's real and what was planned.

That's where our five-part journey begins.

Not with mastery. Not with certainty. With observation. With attention. With respect for what's unfolding, even if it doesn't match what you had in mind.

In the coming episodes, we'll explore how this method plays out in different contexts—from the kitchen to animation studios, from AI development to community building. But the core insight remains the same: presence is the only real plan we ever get to keep.

Try This Today

For the next three days, I want you to notice the gap between "reality and script" in your daily life. Keep a mini-log of moments when you catch yourself ignoring what's right in front of you because you're trying to follow a plan. Write down:

* What was the plan or expectation?

* What was happening?

* Did you adjust? How?

You don't need a new plan. You just need to see what you think.

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