Politics divides us. Money divides us. Race divides us.

One thing — much beloved by me and mine — can bring us together: food.

I love to eat, and I’ll wager you do, too.

All kinds of folks sit at my table, and generally we hew to a modern version of the old Navy wardroom rule (wherein officers never discussed religion, women or politics). Eating together has a kind of rock-bottom sociability that brings people together.

Not that I cook. I don’t have to. I married a man who loves to cook, so my meal-related chores consist of setting the table and cleaning the kitchen afterward. (When it’s just the two of us, I “set the toy box” — so named because, in our smaller first home, we sometimes ate in a spare bedroom in front of the television, using our baby’s wooden toy box as a table. “The baby” is now pushing 40, and the toy box has been replaced with a coffee table in the den, but the expression lives on.)

I will tell you that at our house, the food is generally very good. But that’s not the point.

The point is this: We gather in a regular, communal way at least once a day. Together.

Because I don’t cook, I don’t really understand the people who say they don’t have time to cook. My husband, among other things, can put a good meal together in record time, with little fuss and no drama. Sure, he has skills in the kitchen, but so do most people.

We eat fresh food and try to not waste much. (Years ago, I learned not to toss anything from the refrigerator because it might be “old.” I quickly came to understand that, for my husband, it’s a matter of pride that we don’t waste food.)

Nor are we the couple who subscribes to any of those food delivery schemes that promise nutritious goodies delivered to your door to free you from the stress of cooking. That’s expensive nonsense. We also don’t shop at trendy, high-dollar grocery stores. Our meat comes from our local meat market. Our “egg lady” stops by my husband’s office once a week to drop off fresh eggs and pick up her empty cartons and her money.

I must admit that it’s amazing how good a really fresh egg tastes. From my husband, I learned that the “fresh” eggs we purchase in grocery stores are about two months old when we buy them.

As a nation, we spend a tiny fraction, percentage-wise, of what generations past had to fork out for food (pun intended). That’s because food became industrialized during and after World War II. Then, in the 1950s, it was aggressively marketed to us. The cereal aisle in your local grocery store has a hundred feet of nothing but sugary bread packed in a cartoon-festooned box. It’s expensive, but we buy it.

And when I was a kid, I don’t think I ever saw a bottle of olive oil in our house. Now, you can’t turn on the television without hearing someone squealing about “E-V-O-O” (extra virgin olive oil, for those of you living under a rock somewhere).

What’s fashionable in food is as changeable, and predictably so, as clothing, cars, hairstyles and home décor. The dishes that are hopelessly passe today may be the next big thing tomorrow. That’s not important.

What matters is who you eat with, and what it really means to serve someone in your home. It’s an act of love. You cook for people because you want to sustain them in a real and literal way, and also because you want to welcome them, make them comfortable and, yes, love them.

The hospitality is the thing. When everything else divides us, food and hospitality can unite us.

Invite friends over to your house for dinner. Cook what you like. (If you hate to cook, then bring home a box of fried chicken or order some pizzas.)

In any event, serving and feeding people will show them that you really care about them. That’s a good thing for them, and an even better thing for you.

Frances Coleman is a former editorial page editor of the Mobile Press-Register. Email her at [email protected] and “like” her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/prfrances.