I’ve always had more than enough Christmas cheer by Thanksgiving.

The Apartment, one of the greatest of the great Billy Wilder’s comedy-dramas, is just the antidote I need. A comedy that features a suicide attempt and lots of self-loathing, this five-Oscar-winning film has one particular scene that always cracks me up: on a most depressing Christmas Eve, a drunken blond picks up an equally plastered Jack Lemmon, who has been thrown out of his own apartment so that his married boss can have a place to screw the elevator girl (Shirley MacLaine). The blond, "Mrs. MacDougall," attempts to draw Lemmon’s attention by blowing the tips of straw wrappers at him. When the assault fails – Lemmon is too snockered to notice the little paper torpedos– she staggers over and blurts, "Ya buy me a drink, I’ll buy ya some music." Then she slams her empty glass on the bar and shouts "Rum Collins!"

I’ve seen the movie countless times, but I never had a Rum Collins until this year – the first cocktail hour after Halloween. That’s the day the endless Yuletide began. No sooner were Halloween’s decaying corpse masks off the shelves and party lights and tinsel and rousing carols whirlwinded in, sending me into a borderline psychopath. The Rum Collins helped.

As I looked through various cocktail books for both classic and variety Collins recipes – Dan was still at work – I imitated Mrs. MacDougall’s best lines at least 15 times. Armed with her refreshed Rum Collins, she recites, with a hilariously bored expression, her own adaptation of Clement Clarke Moore’s gag-worthy classic: "‘Twas de night befo’ Chissmiss, ‘n alll trew de house/ not a creatchuh was stirrin’. Nuthin’. No action. Dullsville. Ya married?" If a stranger said that to me at a bar he could have me within the minute.

So what’s in a Rum Collins? The Collins family is all about lemon, seltzer and a touch of simple syrup. A Tom Collins, for instance, features gin; Tom’s cousin John uses bourbon; John’s Mexican husband, José Collins, employs tequila. I did not make up that name. Nor am I making up the Sandy Collins (Scotch), or the Brandy Collins, which although made with brandy, was actually invented in honor of the Looking Glass tune from 1972: "And the sailors say ‘Brandy, you’re a fine girl...." (Okay, I did make that one up.)

The Rum Collins features a variant sour-citrus flavor – lime juice instead of lemon; otherwise it follows the pattern. Don’t limit yourself to so-called expert opinions: vary the proportions as much as you want. You’re drinking it, after all. But I must insist: there is no reason whatsoever to use a mix. This is a simple drink, people. Buy the few ingredients individually. No, don’t bother squeezing fresh limes. Use unsweetened bottled juice instead. And if you don’t have simple syrup, just toss in a little sugar before adding the seltzer. One thing to keep in mind: club soda has salt in it. Use it if you want, but seltzer makes a fresher tasting drink.

The Rum Collins

2 parts light rum

½ part lime juice

¼ tsp simple syrup or sugar to taste

As much or as little seltzer as you like.

Put the first three ingredients into a tall, empty glass. Stir to mix, then add chilled seltzer slowly to avoid wasting the fizz. Finish it off with a couple of ice cubes. Avoid the tacky formaldehyded cherries unless you have a death wish.

The Union Square

You can’t go to the Olive Garden without your server pushing "specialty cocktails," a euphemism for toxic waste. These poisonous catch-alls are enough to make you hurl. "McSewer’s 12-year bourbon, chrysanthemum syrup, birch tea, peppermint drop." Or "Pukey’s small-batch rye, rosemary, Barfington gin, Sambucca, house-made cola." Who drinks these messes? I made the mistake of ordering one last week at an upscale Italian place. The interior was so tasteful that I assumed the cocktails would be too. Wrong! It was billed as "hand-crafted whiskey, mint syrup, lemon juice." Okay, but I didn’t want a lot of either the mint syrup or the lemon. "The drink will be off balance!" the waiter scolded. "That’s the way I want it." "OK," he huffed. "Then you’ll get an unbalanced drink."

I was stunned. What was that ancient dictum about the customer always being right? That’s gone the way of the dodo and civil political discourse. He returned with a syrupy-sweet mess. The whiskey was lost in a wash of minty syrup and lemonade. Why drown a small-batch whiskey in lemon-mint Crystal Lite?

My pal Mike, the ex-priest, told me about a great cocktail he’d had at a restaurant called Print. So I made it at home – my way. Print calls the drink the Bee’s Knees, and Mike used what Print’s bartender told him were the ingredients and proportions. The ingredients were brilliant, the proportions ghastly. I haven’t been to Print, so maybe their Bee’s Knees works. But I wanted it to taste good to me, so I changed the proportions and renamed it.

The result was fabulous. To me. Start by making lavender-infused gin. This is not difficult; you just have to find either loose lavender blossoms or herbal lavender tea bags. Try a health food store. Use good but not hideously expensive gin. It’s foolish to buy a super-premium brand if you’re going to flavor it yourself. Pour as much gin as you want to lavenderize into a clean, odor-free jar with a tight-fitting lid. (If the jar or lid still smells like pickles, use another jar.) Dump in a handful of lavender (or open some lavender tea bags and pour the contents into the jar). Don’t worry about proportions; they don’t matter. Let it stand for two days; shake it whenever you pass by. Then use a tea strainer and a funnel to decant the infusion into an attractive bottle with a tight-fitting lid or unblemished cork. The gin will not have turned purple. Miraculously, it will be honey colored.

Make a small bottle of Really Simple Syrup, but instead of using sugar, use equal parts raw honey and water. Just shake them together until the honey dissolves. Be sure to have a lemon on hand.

You could continue the theme by using honey produced by bees that collect lavender pollen, but I prefer honey made from tough, streetwise New York City bees. Yes, there are honey-producing bees in the city, and I buy as locally as possible – honey made by my neighborhood bees. Hence the drink’s name.

This recipe is simply the way I like it. Make it taste good to you.

 The Union Square

1 part lavender-infused Beefeater gin

Lemon juice to taste

Really Simple Honey Syrup to taste

For a strong drink, pour the ingredients into a shaker filled with ice, shake quickly, strain and serve. For a less potent drink, serve it on ice and let it water down.