Chickens

Typically around the penultimate week-end in January, we have an avian theme to the Dead Good Blog, to chime in with the RSPB's 'Big Garden Birdwatch' event. But given all the little garden birds have been blown away by thirty-six hours of Storm Éowyn, that only leaves me chickens to write about, and eggs. Let's crack on.

Of course, it's also Burns Night, so the first thing I did before sitting down to write this was to Choogle the Internet so see if there was any connection between the celebrated Scottish poet and these latter-day descendants of the dinosaurs, a poem perhaps, or an interesting fact such as "Robert Burns owned a pet chicken called McNugget to whom he would recite verse each morning in return for a wee egg." Sadly and surprisingly not. The closest I came was to stumble upon his 'Sonnet Upon Sonnets,' a play on the number fourteen. I won't reproduce the whole thing here, just these two salient lines:

              Your hen hath fourteen eggs beneath her wings

              That fourteen chickens to the roost may fly

That made me wonder if Burns knew anything very much about chickens at all, as a clutch of fourteen eggs seems highly improbable. I suppose he must have been more of a haggis man.  I decided to investigate egg laying statistics a bit further on your behalf.

free-rangers in the snow

It would appear that a chicken (or more correctly a hen) can start laying eggs from about eighteen weeks old, depending on the breed. Some start as late as twenty-eight weeks. Peak laying capacity normally occurs around the seventh or eighth month, and a layer's first year is its most productive. The world record for the number of eggs laid by one hen is 371 eggs in 364 days (with time off for Christmas).

After the first prolific year, a hen's productivity gradually tails off by on average 15% per year, so that by the time a hen is six years old, she is unlikely to be laying many eggs. Again, this depends upon breed. Some types can continue producing at eight or nine years old, but they are very much the exception.

Temperature and time of year also influence laying rates. A chicken needs about fifteen hours of daylight to give her enough vitamin D to help metabolise calcium in the body (without which there is no shell). And hens lay best when the temperature is in the range of 12 to 23 degrees. So summer months tend to result in higher yields, though many commercial poultry farms use artificial light and heaters to boost production in winter.

There are hundreds of different breeds of chicken worldwide, and though white and light brown are the main colours for egg shells, there is considerable variety, including cream, dark brown, pale blue, green and speckled, as the box below illustrates. Then inside, yolks can vary from almost white up to a rich orange tone, though shades of yellow are by far the most common. And what nutritious little packages they are, for those not averse to eating them boiled, coddled, poached, scrambled or in an omelette - such as I will be enjoying as soon as I've dispatched this Saturday blog.

the many colours of chickens' eggs

Of course not all chickens are bred for their egg-laying capabilities. (Vegans and vegetarians look away now.) Of the 33 billion chickens in the world, the majority are bred as meat, white meat being healthier than red meat. Chicken is the UK's favourite meat. And in the USA (bizarrely) some restaurants even list chicken as a vegetarian option! I'm happy to eat it, but will always opt for free-range produce if possible. By the way, as of today the world's human population is just over 8 billion (8,201,490,228), so chickens outnumber us by a ratio of 4:1.

Coming back to that throwaway reference I made earlier about chickens being the descendants of dinosaurs, I believe this to be true, in as much as all birds share a common ancestry going back to the theropods of the late Triassic period, saurischian dinosaurs characterised by hollow bones and three claws or toes on each foot. Scientists have even experimented with attaching long tails to chickens in order to model how tyrannosauroids might have moved. It is thought that theropods were carnivorous but appear to have become largely herbivorous and insectivorous through the aeons, and maybe that is how they managed to survive the great extinction, by down-sizing and living off scraps.

All of the hundreds of modern day breeds of chicken can trace their most recent origins back to the bankiva, or red jungle fowl of south east Asia (a close relative of the pheasant). The red jungle fowl became domesticated as recently as about 8,000 years ago and regional varieties have been carefully bred and farmed for millennia to accentuate desired characteristics. Chickens are generally sociable, inquisitive and intelligent birds and often make great pets, which is something I try not to think about at mealtimes.. 

coming home to roost

I decided to Choogle the Internet one last time to verify the provenance of the phrase about chickens coming home to roost, which I've always assumed is a metaphor for karma, in the sense of bad deeds rebounding. There's a strong case to be made for its literary debut being in Chaucer's 'Pardoner's Tale' (printed in 1390):

              And ofte tyme swich cursynge wrongfully retorneth agayn to hym that curseth, 

              as a bryd that retorneth agayn to his owene nest.

though it could well have been in use as a colloquial phrase much earlier than that. Anyway, it's the stepping-off point for my latest poem. Its working title was It's Murder When Santa Ana Blows, but I thought I'd call it something more in keeping with the vocabulary of the young boy.

Farmer's Chickens
A hot-throated wind had been screaming all day,

bending trees low making telegraph wires to ring

and the sky a darkish threat, so I weren't let to go

to school or play out neither, just fret those hours

through afternoon. Farmer arrives home, so soon

we hear shouts from next door over the whine of

the wind then crashes like something's getting all

bust up in there and pa says it's Farmer's chickens

coming home to roost and ma says Farmer's wife

got every right and I think of that party game: the

farmer wants a wife, we all pat the wife, the wife

wants a dog...I always wanted a dog, not allowed.

Then those shots and just like that the wind drops

and there's only that awful sobbing that don't stop

even after them cops pull up and I ask did Farmer

done killed his chickens because I never knew he

even had any, then ma hugs me up so tight it hurt

and says one day I'd understand. Well that night I

dreamed of blood and feathers everywhere and it

was so quiet when I woke up in a hot sweat. I felt

all alone in the world and the bad stuff was right

close by in the shadows, like the men I sometime

saw visiting at night next door but if Farmer had

chickens, they were maybe just buying his eggs?  

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Chickens and Eggs: White vs Brown

Growing up in the US, white eggs were all I knew and they demanded mandatory refrigeration. At Easter, I loved colouring them. It was a bit challenging at times making holes in the shell and blowing out the innards, however it was worth the effort as there was great satisfaction dipping these small blank canvases into pots of different coloured food dyes and seeing the surprising creative results.

When I moved to the UK in the latter half of the 1990s there was not one white egg to be found. Also, to my initial horror, I discovered that eggs were not refrigerated. I learnt to accept this and thus far, touch wood, have never been stricken with salmonella.

So why white eggs and refrigeration in the States, and brown eggs stacked on open supermarket shelves in the UK? It all comes down to the types of chickens and processing.

Of the estimated thirty-three billion chickens in the world, there are hundreds of different breeds.

In the US, the most popular chickens for meat are a cross breed between Cornish hens and Plymouth Rocks. Hybrid White Leghorns are the most popular breed for egg laying, producing the bright white eggs that I was so familiar with in my early life.

In the UK, chickens raised for meat in factory farm sheds are typically Cobb 500, Ross 308 and the Hubbard Flex – sadly dubbed the ‘Frankenchickens’ because of so many abnormalities like being so fat their legs can’t support their bodies.

Popular UK breeds producing brown eggs include Bovans Brown, ISA Brown, Lohmann Brown and the Novogen.

Until the 1970s, white eggs were popular in the UK, then fell out of fashion. Preferences are attributed to numerous factors including cultural perceptions, marketing and branding, consumer preferences and production practices to name a few.

As the brown egg has been the norm for decades, consumers were again reintroduced to the whites during the pandemic due to stock shortages. Since then, they have been on the rise with many major British retailers supplying them due to changes in poultry management requirements (i.e. beak treatment) and consideration to sustainability (carbon footprint impact). Some of the white egg producing breeds are now more suitable to raise under new legislation. As in the States, the Leghorn is a popular breed.

Production methods are different between the two countries affecting storage requirements. In the States, eggs are washed stripping them of their natural protective coating, the ‘bloom’ or ‘cuticle’. The eggs become porous and thus, it is important to refrigerate them so bacteria can’t grow and penetrate the vulnerable shell.

Also, the current federal rules do not require vaccination of hens against Salmonella (they do require testing). Major retailers have implemented their own mandates on their suppliers in regards to vaccination, however they do vary.

In the UK and most other countries, the washing of eggs is prohibited. Therefore, the coating remains on the shells and eggs are seen as protected from bacteria.

In addition, since 1998 the British Lion Quality mark (shown above) guarantees that eggs have been laid by British hens vaccinated against Salmonella Enteritidis and Salmonella Typhimurium.

Over 90% of eggs sold in the UK carry this mark. Although refrigerating eggs in this part of the world is not critical, storing in a cool place is recommended.

And now to throw in something completely different and a bit of fun regarding chickens. Several years ago I visited the Rubber Chicken Museum in Seattle. Fun fact: It has the world’s largest and smallest rubber chicken.

The Rubber Chicken Museum

at Archee McPhee

will put a smile on your face
a must see and it’s free

rubber chickens galore
in all shapes and sizes

some smartly dressed
in familiar disguises

like Santa Claus suits
although most of them be

naked as jaybirds
with no modesty

some of them squeak
some are printed on towels

they all tell the tale
of this funny old fowl

yes the Rubber Chicken Museum
at Archee McPhee

will put a smile on your face
a must see and it’s free

Thanks for reading.
Kate J

Sources

Archie McPhee, 2025. Rubber Chicken Museum. https://archiemcpheeseattle.com/rubber-chicken-museum/ Accessed 16 January. 

Egg Info, 2025. British Lion Eggs. https://www.egginfo.co.uk/british-lion-eggs Accessed 12 January. 

Humane League, 2025. How many chickens are in the world and the us. https://thehumaneleague.org/article/how-many-chickens-are-in-the-world Accessed 12 January 

Poultry News, 2025. White turn. https://www.poultrynews.co.uk/production/white-turn.html Accessed 12 January 2025. 

Quora, 2025. Poultry: How did brown eggs become a standard market choice over white ones in the UK? https://www.quora.com/Poultry-How-did-brown-eggs-become-a-standard-market-choice-over-white-ones-in-the-UK Accessed 12 January 2025. 

Statista, 2025. Number of chickens worldwide. https://www.statista.com/statistics/263962/number-of-chickens-worldwide-since-1990/#:~:text=How%20many%20chickens%20are%20in,13.9%20billion%20chickens%20in%202000 Accessed 12 January.

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Recipe Poetry - If I Knew You Were Coming I'd Have Baked A Cake

For the past week, I’ve had Blue Mink’s ‘Melting Pot’ going round in my head. It was a good song back in the day, carrying a message in a poetic recipe form. Unfortunately, the lyrics, seemingly harmless in 1969, are inappropriate for our enlightened PC modern times. I decided not to include them here, but they are easy enough to find on Google.

Instead, I share with you my wonderful birthday cake recipe, made the same way for years and years of family members birthdays, even my own. My sister has made me a cake a couple of times. She’s got a birthday this week, one of those with a ‘0’ on the end and she looks so much younger.

Hands washed, pinny on, oven on 180c, and off we go.

Ingredients:  3 eggs, or 2 eggs and a splash of milk; whipping cream, strawberries and chocolate flake to decorate; 6ozs of self-raising flour, 6ozs of caster sugar, 6ozs of margarine.

Give yourself at least an hour,
Gently sift the finest flour.
Caster sugar is the best
Weighed properly, not just guessed..
Use three fresh eggs, nice free-range
Or two with milk for a change.
Margarine, the best is Stork,
Mashed and softened with a fork.
Beat all in the Kenwood, fast,
‘Til a smooth and shiny cast.
Transfer the mix to cake tins
And bake for twenty-five mins.
Whilst they cool, whip up some cream
And prepare the décor theme.
Strawberry halves, chocolate flake,
For this special birthday cake.

Trust me, it is delicious!

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Yellow - Daffodils

Yellow is the colour of sunshine, something there is so little of in these bleak, January days. Thinking of yellow and sunshine brings back treasured memories of my childhood and Nanna Hetty’s spotless, shiny kitchen in her bungalow at Heald Green. Perhaps the cupboards were yellow, or the Formica topped table, I’ll never remember, but the coffee pot with the pointed handle definitely was. I don’t think for one moment it was a Clarice Cliff, but whenever I see one it reminds me of Nanna’s sunny kitchen, her delicious fruit cake and the perfect scrambled eggs she made for me.

I hope that sunshine isn’t too far away. It’s almost impossible to imagine when it’s so cold, there’s scarce daylight from a dark grey sky and everlasting rain. Dreich. And, there is still the Covid pandemic hanging over us all.

Being surrounded by such doom and gloom at the moment, my recent choice of television viewing, BBC 4’s The Victorian Slum could be considered questionable. To give a brief outline, modern day families have taken up the challenge of living in the slum building exactly as the Victorian slum dwellers did, cramped in one room, two if it could be afforded and with the most basic of facilities. The lucky ones who found daily unskilled work could earn a meagre amount of money, every penny needed for rent and food. In the beginning, it is 1860, moving along a decade with each episode, exploring changes and differences and the hardship each family faces. Social history is very much my thing, so I’m glued to it and at the same time, thankful that I’m living now and not then. The only cheerful looking things were the artificial flowers that the children were making to sell. Within the slum is a doss house, somewhere to sleep, nothing more, for a penny or fourpence a night. The next step down is the workhouse.

One thing leads to another so with my head full of slum life in the 1860s I did some Google research on workhouses in the U.K. at that time. I was instantly transported to Bristol workhouse to be horrified at how people were treated so cruelly yet fascinated at what I was reading. The uniform for unmarried, pregnant women was a red tunic style dress. Prostitutes wore yellow. I smiled eager to share this snippet of information.

Don’t bother to tell me that’s how it was in all workhouses, not just Bristol.

Dad’s favourite colour was yellow. His mother was my Nanna Hetty, so maybe the colour yellow had significance. It was at Easter time when he suddenly passed away. Daffodils in full bloom filled each side of the front path that curved from the drive to the door. They became symbolic. Each year, I plant daffodils in remembrance of him, making sure there are some rich yellow ones. Some Tete-a-Tete are already in bud.

My poem,

Bristol Workhouse, 1860

I smoothed the cotton as I sat, and thought
Who wore this dress before me?
What became of her? Good fortune or death?
What happened to set her free?

Others were watching me, nudging, judging,
Nodding and whispering low.
My nervous hands gathered the threadbare skirt
As I glanced along the row.

Young women, not much older than children,
Some were dressed in washed-out red
With swollen bellies straining at the seams.
Those, the sinful un-wedded.

And me, I needed to feed my children
And pay the over-due rent.
There was no other way I could recoup
Money I shouldn’t have spent.

So I stood in the doorway, shoulders bare,
Brassing it out, being bold.
Closing my mind to demands of the men
While I shivered with the cold.

There’s no love lost in the Bristol Workhouse.
Pleading eyes, tear-stained faces
Cut no ice with those in authority
Looking down on the disgraced.

Downfall has brought me to sit here in a
Faded yellow dress of shame.
Of all the men who happily paid me,
No one even knew my name.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading. Stay safe and keep well, Pam x

 

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Games people play - how high are the stakes?

They play a lot of games in politics.  No where in the world are more games played than in the corridors of power. 

They play games with us - the electorate.  They write a comprehensive manifesto - so compelling that we believe in what they promise and we tootle off to the Polling Station at the crack of dawn, on our way to work, to put our cross beside their name. Then when they are elected, they completely ignore reasons for their election, they change the boundaries, to make sure they are re-elected and start jetting off around the world, to promote our wonderful country and our interests, while spending our hard-earned money on luxury hotles, room service and extra-marital affairs.  We used to give them security of tenure for three years and then at least we could kick them out for lying - oops sorry, playing games with us - but the clever buggers changed the law, so now they are in for another five years. 

Meanwhile, our children run up £30k plus student debt trying better themselves; the elderly , who were promised that they could keep more of the savings that they have worked for all their lives are still forced to sell their homes and die virtually penniless in sub-standard, care homes and disabled people are committing suicide  because they are being forced to look for work in a dog- eat-dog world, where the legal requirement to make 'Reasonable Adjustments' is a myth and the reality is that employers will always chose a healthy, young worker over someone with a neck injury who needs an expensive chair, a different mouse and two days a year to rest after spinal injections. Politics is the mother of 'Games People Play.'

They play games with the opposition. We hear them, braying like donkeys across the floor of the house. They don't actually debate the crucial issues affecting our economy, the state of our welfare services, the education and future of our children.  No they mud-sling at each other like kids in the playground, wasting the time we pay them for, on nonsense. 

They play games with other members of their own party too.  It is alleged that these games often take place during 'Conference.'   My poem (slightly changed from the original) was commission by The Imperial Hotel, Blackpool, where many Conservative and Labour Party members have stayed during conference weeks. When I use the inclusive pronoun 'ours' - I speak for the hotel. 

Currie, Egg and Chips
Edwina Currie, friend of Thatcher,
cracked British egg manufacture,

crowing, “ Salmonella’s running rife,”

falling foul of every farmer and his wife.
 

As the Minister for Health,

she caused a plummet in their wealth,
when she was overheard to quip,
'Northerners die of ignorance and chips.'

When winter struck the weak and old,
she said, “Long Johns keep out the cold.”
Soon mass public consternation
forced her into resignation.

A woman scorned is fury’s hell.
Edwina wrote her 'kiss and tell',
revealing shifty shades of Grey:
a no holds barred sex expose.

Affair with married Major John,

Edwina with suspenders on

swept through corridors of power

and may have even crept through ours.

A wily bird, she caught the worm,
she made her former colleagues squirm.
Egg on their face, she licked her lips.
Edwina Currie had her chips!

Now she’s always in the news,
voicing her outspoken views,
She made her game show debut
on 'Have I Got News for You'.

Then she kicked up Strictly heels,
tried sweating over Ramsey's meals. 
Last year she jetted off to be 
a 'Get Me Out of Here’ celebrity.

Edwina just won't go away,
It's just the game she loves to play. 

 

Thanks for reading.  Adele
 

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