Mike
Those little wisps are the poor departing souls of massacred chicken wings.
Had a college roommate, good friend, from outback-nowhere-MN. Loved cooking, all hillbilly style - no measuring, crazily substituted ingredients, but to his credit it was often pretty good stuff (which the rest of us benefited from, couldn't complain). A 100# sack of cornmeal from the co-op, a 50# bag of deer bait apples from the gas station, (decorative) squash somebody had thrown out on the curb - anything was fair game with this guy.
One day he comes home all jazzed about some "super" yeast he scored at the co-op and dives into bread making. Did he not beat it down, did he not measure the yeast, or was it just that "super", but he's yelling "Oh, chit!" and reaching into the oven to scoop handful after handful of gloriously, voluminously rising dough. We had no other baking pans, so I handed him coffee mugs, soup bowls, platters, anything oven-safe that could conceivably bake bread. Back in it all went.
The counter-top was covered in bizarrely shaped bread loaves, disks, mushroom-top-muffins, and blobs, but we ate some pretty decent bread for a week straight.