Things were generally okay at my grandma's house. There were basically four things to eat there at any given time:

1) Sweet tea. Lipton with sugar added to saturation. When I had to walk 18 miles through the mojave to get home one day I found myself desperately eager for my grandmother's sweet tea.

2) White trash cookies. My grandmother liked to make "cookies" by taking a box of yellow or lemon cake mix, replacing all liquids with wesson and baking for 30 minutes. The result doesn't rise at all, is greasy as hell and was a treat whenever we were there. I made them a few times in college but that sausage & politics quote rings true; once you've seen them made you can't really eat them anymore.

3) Pork rinds. That was your choice of snack: pork rinds or saltines. I never find myself voluntarily purchasing pork rinds, but when I see chicharones I wax nostalgic. The Atkins craze was a trip. You'd see all these skinny blonde girls eating pork rinds. f'n bizarre.

4) Bologna, velveeta & white bread sandwiches with miracle whip. That's three things we never had in our house (miracle whip was A-OK for reasons I still don't understand) and put together in concert they were a feast so alien to my normative experience that they can only ever mean one thing.

Note that these are foodstuffs I am nostalgic for, but haven't sought out in decades. When I'm forced to return to New Mexico I seek out stuffed sopapillas, which are such a peculiar mexican food corner case that they bear some explanation.

Sopapillas are a distinctly Navajo Country invention that the rest of the world has largely avoided. You start with bread dough, then deep fry it in fat. Beef tallow, preferably, but I think these days most people use just any frying oil. In NNM/NAZ these are served with honey, at the meal, like some sort of failed beignet. As you travel further afield, your odds of finding them at all are slim... but when you do find them, you find them served with powdered sugar, whipped cream, ice cream, strawberry toppings, etc. It's an idea similar to "dessert pizza" and equally stupid.

The most evident characteristic of a sopapilla is its emptiness (followed closely by its greasiness - they really are disgusting, like a funnel cake made in Uzbekistan). It's basically biscuit dough and when deep-fried, forms a giant, empty hollow. It being navajo country, and navajos having never met any fried starch that shouldn't be smothered in chile and cheese, "stuffed sopapillas" evolved some time in the '70s or '80s. They're still one of the most uncommon standards you'll find in NNM/NAZ and you won't find them at all in Colorado. As most "mexican" food the United States knows is actually California inventions, and as California is thoroughly bereft of Navajos, the presence of a stuffed sopapilla on a menu is generally an indication of a legit New Mexico restaurant. As can be readily seen, the presentation is dreadful. They involve only the cheapest ingredients. They impress no one. Yet when you find one, you are in for a treat.

The best stuffed sopapilla available is at Rancho de Chimayo, probably the best mexican restaurant in Northern New Mexico. Fully 45 minutes outside of the tourist corridor, it is only frequented by people who know or people willing to make the pilgrimage. It's the real deal; The Milagro Beanfield War was written about Chimayo, with Milagro substituting for a real town that predates the existence of the United States by 150 years. The second best I've ever had was in Show Low, AZ, at a place called Sal & Teresa's. Show Low is notable for being the winter home of George Takei, and for having a truly lyrical origin story:

According to the legend, the city's unusual name resulted from a marathon poker game between Corydon E. Cooley and Marion Clark. The two men decided there was not enough room for both of them in their settlement. The two men agreed to let a game of cards decide who was to move. According to the tale, Clark said, "If you can show low, you win." Cooley turned up the deuce of clubs (the lowest possible card) and replied, "Show low it is." The stakes were a 100,000-acre ranch. Show Low's main street is named "Deuce of Clubs" in remembrance.