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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Shells

I recently went to the beach with my kids and while they played, I decided to put together a collection of the tiniest sea shells I could find. The first few were larger, and the more I looked for them the ones I found became progressively smaller. As I challenged myself to find the smallest one I could see, I remembered a photograph of sand viewed under a microscope. The picture clearly showed tiny specks of sand which were not parts of shells, but complete, and it occurred to me that these tiny shells all once housed a miniscule creature. I was holding a tiny creature cover.

Protection
You cast yourself a fragile shell

To house your soft self

Keeping out perceived agonies


To seem strong and dignified

To keep out the hungry


But when waves cast you abeach

They see through your defence


To your softness.

They smash through anyway.


Lindsay

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Shells - Cockles and Mussels, Alive, Alive Oh

There’s something I’ve always found relaxing about a stroll on a beach and the sound of the sea. Most of the places I visit are coastal or within reasonable striking distance.  It is a strange thing that I live on the Fylde Coast with our wonderful expanse of beaches yet never set foot on them. I can’t remember last time I was on the sands at Blackpool but probably not since my children, now adults, were small.

The beach was my playground when I was a girl. We lived on the front, just the promenade and the tram tracks to cross and I was there, usually with others. After I’d grown out of making sand-pies and digging for water, my interests turned to marine life and I would go looking for creatures. A good place to search was in the rock pools around the outside of the old open-air swimming baths. My mother was not impressed with a collection of starfish I took home in a bucket to our pub and my father was tasked with taking them back ‘before any more climb out on to the stairs’. Starfish getting stuck on the stairs isn’t what you expect to see when you call in the vault for a pint, not even in Blackpool. I was given a lecture on sea-life needing a proper, natural habitat and those poor starfish would have been suffering. I’d done a similar thing with tadpoles in a jam jar a couple of years earlier, before we moved to Blackpool, and I clearly hadn’t learnt, but that’s another story.

These days I look for interesting shells and I’m not harming anything by keeping them. A few times a year my travels take me to the South and South West coasts of Scotland, where I will search for shells and watch our dog having the time of his life in the sea. Storage jars are great for keeping my shells safe and for display purposes. The large mussel shells are a beautiful dark blue in the sunlight and the mother-of-pearl shines on the inside. A couple of trips to the Outer Hebrides gave me the opportunity to find some whiter than white cockle shells. I keep them separate, with a couple of scoops of silver sand I brought home from the Hebridean Atlantic coast.

I’d like to visit the Orkney Islands and bring shells home from there, but maybe I should pay more attention to the coastline right here on my own doorstep, at least for the time being.

 

My own poem,

 

Seashell Keepsake

 

In the corner of a mem’ry box

I found the tiny shell.

It must have meant something to me once,

But now, I cannot tell.

Who wrapped it in some silver paper

Torn from a serviette?

It might be from one of the children

So why would I forget?

I can still recall all thirty names,

That class from ’99.

Those lively, summer-born four year olds

Learning to stand in line.

Just a small, pretty, pale pink spiral

Someone once gave to me,

Now back in the box where I found it

And wrapped up carefully.

 

PMW 2018

 

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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The Beach - South Shore

I was nine years old when my family moved to Blackpool. Dad took a pub on South Promenade and my playground was the stretch of beach from the north side of South Pier to the small, ornamental windmill that used to grace the promenade opposite Waterloo Road. I could easily find ‘home’ between those landmarks, though I didn’t venture out alone at that age. I haven’t been there for a long time, but it’s a place where I always feel spiritually ‘at one’ with my departed loved ones. My father exercised our dog there, at least twice a day, early morning and late at night. When I was older I’d go with him sometimes.  My mother often took me out for a treat when my younger sister was in bed. We would go to feed pennies into the fruit machines in The Beachcomber amusements on the pier, maybe play bingo for a bit, then walk along the beach to Central Pier and back again, if the tide was out. My grandmother spent hours in the bay window of our living room just watching the world go by on the prom and the beach. I’ve only got to stand there to feel the love and the closeness of the family and be thankful for an abundance of happy memories, gathered in a short time.

Throughout those childhood summers my sister and I would be taken to play on the sands by our mum, or Nanna when she was visiting, but more often by Auntie Kathy who looked after us. With buckets and spades, towels and sometimes a picnic in a hold-all, we would spend ages trying to cross four lanes of traffic then the tram tracks. The smell of hot-dogs mingled with candy-floss and fried onions. Our bare feet would be roasting on the hot tarmac and we’d be dodging the assortment of spills that messed the pavements. Auntie Kathy always had her sandals on and only took them off when she gave in to our persistent mithering to go paddling. She kept us away from the donkey ride areas, we laughed at her calling ice-lollies ‘lolly-ices’ whenever we had one and she taught me how to pull the heads and tails of shrimps as I ate a couple of ounces worth from the seafood stall. We loved her. She helped us to make sand-pies and castles then sat back to smoke a Park Drive while she watched us get water for the moat. It was much the same with our mum and Nanna and we survived those long, hot summer days of hours on the beach with no sun lotion. We tanned and didn’t burn. Things were different in the mid-60s.

On the gorgeous Pembrokeshire beaches with my children some thirty or so years later, it was jelly-shoes, tee-shirts, sun hats and lotion for arms and legs.

Wherever I go, I’m drawn to the coast and I’ve strolled on some fabulous beaches at home and abroad, but, so far, nowhere can match the stunning silver sand of the west coast of South Uist. It was my first breath-taking view of the Hebrides. There were many more spectacular coastal views, like my photograph of a beach on the Isle of Eriskay where I collected ‘whiter than white’ shells and a thimble full of shimmering sand.
 

My chosen poem was created by one of my favourite poets, Dr John Cooper Clarke, and members of the public who contributed their thoughts of the coast.

 

Nation's Ode To The Coast

Dr John Cooper Clarke

A big fat sky and a thousand shrieks

The tide arrives and the timber creaks

A world away from the working week

Où est la vie nautique?

That’s where the sea comes in…

Dishevelled shells and shovelled sands,

Architecture all unplanned

A spade ‘n’ bucket wonderland

A golden space, a Frisbee and

The kids and dogs can run and run

And not run in to anyone

Way out! Real gone!

That’s where the sea comes in…

Impervious to human speech, idle time and tidal reach

Some memories you can’t impeach

That’s where the sea comes in

A nice cuppa splosh and a round of toast

A cursory glance at the morning post

A pointless walk along the coast

That’s what floats my boat the most

That’s where the sea comes in…

Now, voyager - once resigned

Go forth to seek and find

The hazy days you left behind

Right there in the back of your mind

Where lucid dreams begin

With rolling dunes and rattling shale

The shoreline then a swollen sail

Picked out by a shimmering halo

That’s where the sea comes in…

 

Could this be luck by chance?

Eternity in a second glance

A universe beyond romance

That’s where the sea comes in…

Yeah, that’s where the sea comes in…

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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